The last time my mother raised a hand to me I embarassed her in front of my brother's friend. I told her that if she ever did that again I would knock her on her ***. I felt so bad about it, but at the same time it was like saying "No, you can't do that any more." and it sort of made me feel poewrful. That was shortly before I moved out this year. It's so wierd to deal with this stuff as an adult. Now that I'm physically big enough, I want to do all the things I wished I could do as a child. But my mind grew too, and as much as I may think about doing those things sometimes, I know I can be bigger than that inside. I try so hard to understand, that it is because of the way they were raised. Sometimes people don't think there's anything wrong with it because it's all they knew gowing up.
My dad said that if his dad came home from work and his supper was cold, he would throw the plate of food against the wall and smash it. So it's not surprising that he would break things when he got mad. It's understandable that he would come into my room and break things to scare me into respecting him, or smash things in the kitchen when he was trying to make a point with my mom. We'd huddle together and cry, me and my brother. And we were told that it was none of our business, what was going on. My dad was always big on people not interfering with what he was doing. He hated when I'd try to protect my brother, or when I'd tell him he was being mean to mom. It probably made him feel guilty, to have a little kid standing between him and who ever he wanted to bully. My dad is really smart. He thinks his logic is the only logic. He is easily insulted and constantly thinks he is being disrespected. It's impossible to joke around with him because anything less than a serious exterior is somehow threatening to him. When I was a kid I never looked him in the eye. If I did look in his face, I kept my face tilted to one side and looked at him sideways. I didn't look him full in the face until I was older and more defiant and we were fighting, and I practically dared him to hit me. I learned a lot about the games from living with my X, so I know how to not play them any more. Then he makes me out to be the bad guy. But I'm not afraid of being the bad guy. All the hurts we had were our own faults, accoridng to him. When I was being bullied in school, and finally confessed that I was lonely and had no friends, he told me that I had to think of witty comebacks. He didn't comfort me or say that he was sorry I was lonely, or offer a hug when I cried. In fact, he misinterpereted what I was saying... I tried to broach the subject by saying that I would like a pet or a stuffed animal to keep me company. When I started crying and told him how lonely I was, he yelled at me and said I was having a tantrum over a toy that he wouldn't get me, and I didn't even want the stupid toy I just wanted someone to talk to, but he wouldn't listen and stormed out of the room, slamming the door hard. I just layed there crying. I was six. They never really listened to anything. I never told him again, because I knew there was no point, though the bullying in school went on for ten years until I finally snapped. They never did that sort of comforting thing. He just told me that I needed to learn to interact with them better. I didn't even know how to be around kids, I never really played with other kids until I started school. I could have better conversations with the teachers. I saw the way his father treated his mother, and I understand the way he treats my mom. But that doesn't make it right.
At the same time, I felt safer when he was home, at least when we were little. I had heard of divorce at four, and I wished they would get one so that my dad could take me away from her. Being alone with mother was scary. She was always angry and frightening, always yelling. She could yell all day and it was like she couldn't even hear her self. There is a difference between her and mommy, who takes us for walks and fills up the splash pool in the summer. You stay out of mother's way. If she is in bed crying all day, you don't go and ask her what's wrong. Just go to your room and play alone, and don't make any noise. Sometimes I would sneak into my brother's room, or he into mine, and we'd build a fort of stuffed animals and blankets and sit inide it. We learned to be very quiet. I remember one day like that, when she was in bed and I knew she would be getting up soon. I put on all my pairs of underwear and all my pairs of shorts hoping to trick her so that when she came to spank me it wouldn't hurt. She came in in her polkadot bath robe, eyes red and puffy, and I sat down on the floor on my hands, and she just looked at me and laughed. And I smiled because I knew I made her laugh. I did something good. I don't remember if she spanked me or not. She has not told me much about what her life was like growing up. She told me that she wasn't really allowed out of the house, and she always told me that was why I wasn't allowed out either. She told me that she didn't go and visit friends when she was growing up, so I wasn't allowed to either. I was desperately lonely, and never understood why my brother could and I couldn't. My brother could go and play outside. Sometimes I could, but most of the time she'd give me a chore instead, like scrubbing piles of socks in the basement. I'd stand at the sink and cry and I wouldn't be able to smell anything after all the bleach. But other things happened to him. I was jealous, but at the same time I knew I was somehow better off. I know she didn't like us. I know we were a burden and in the way and... I know she felt trapped out there alone with us all the time. I know it was hard for he to love us. She used to say she hoped that I had a kid just like me one day, so I could be just as miserable as her. Any time I have revelaed weakness seeking comfort, she has used the opening for an attack. I have not trusted her since she treid to teach me to swim by taking me out to the buoy line in the lake, and then swimming away. She used to delight in holding me close to her body and then going under water, again and again. I learned to stay away from her when we were near water. I decided that day at the beach when I was a small child that I would never trust her again. I know very little of my mother's childhood at all. I wonder if my grandmother resented her the way she resented us. I wonder if she... I wonder if she was hurt too. I want to ask her. I want to know, because if her mother did it to her, maybe I can forgive her. If she can own up to what she did maybe I can let it go. But I have to be prepared for never knowing, and never hearing a sincere "I'm sorry."
And then I have to go out into the world and try to be normal.
My brother has always been mean to pets, seeming to enjoy scaring them. He killed my cat when I was twelve. He didn't admit to having done it on purpose for years. But I know, he tortures things because he was tortured. Yet my brother has a genius IQ. We perpetuate the abuse in our own ways.
At the same time, I'm so lucky for so many things about my parents. They never drank or used drugs. My dad never hit me, although he threatened to. And he only hit my brother once, and my mom once, that I know of. He hit my mom because I told on her for beating my brother that day. I felt so guilty that he hit her that I never told on her again. And, according to my dad, he had no idea that it happened more than once. I don't know if I believe him. He didn't seem too concerned when he saw my mother throw me on the floor and hit me. He didn't even try to stop her. I just stayed there until I could move again and they were gone. My mom was not usually physical with me, mostly with my brother, so I'm lucky I didn't get that. Some people have had some really horrible things happen, that I've never had to go through, that I couldn't even imagine. And I'm so lucky for that. I mostly mourn what was missing. What my parents didn't have in them to give. Those are the things that hurt me the most. I could have put up with everything else to just once in a while be able to cry on their shoulder and be hugged and hear them tell me it would be ok, or some other stupid thing. To know that they gave a flying f. Oh my god, I have no idea how long this is. I've got to stop. I'm sorry.
I hate thinking about this stuff but sometimes it's like a plague.