"Don't hit me", was something I could never say out loud. It simply didn't matter to my mom or dad. It meant nothing. Hollow, empty words that only served to incite whatever wrath and anger was currently possessing them.
It's been "busy" at therapy. Seems my painful dental experiences, of last week, brought to surface many...unkind memories and flashbacks of being beaten.
If I may clarify.... "Beaten" does not mean a spanking or little swat. Beating means enraged parents using hands, spatulas, brushes, spoons, curtain rods, belts and whatever else they could grab, to wail on me or my siblings, when we were little, under ten years of age.
And yes, it is extremely hard for me to write this post. I've put it off as long as I could...because it hurts soooo much....to remember, recall and write. But it's been really bothering me; all bottled up and ready to explode.
It's been....difficult to acknowledge how very much, deeply and with great passion...admit...how much I vehemently hated my parents. Their neglect, pure cruelty and aggressive violence was truly monumental. They were psychopaths, malicious and obviously full of anger and hatred which they freely and copiously inflicted....Without Any Regret or Remorse, upon their own children. Sick, twisted bastards.
Hitting a child wounds...deeply. It leaves scars that break open and ooze, at times. It quashes self-esteem, among other things. It causes great pain and....sometimes, a lifetime of suffering.
I was not a bad child....if anything I was on the side of being a very good, conscientious, polite and quiet child, who tried everything within her own tiny power, to do right, help others and be good. But my efforts were in total vain.
I either said the wrong thing, didn't answer correctly when spoken to, failed to do a household chore with enough gusto or perfection, or some such similar, grievous, childhood imperfection to cause these parental attacks.
I was just a kid, an autistic kid behaving in childish autistic ways. I did nothing to deserve Any of their "discipline".
I felt they hated me, who I was, how I felt, the way I acted. I really did. I could do nothing right, in their eyes, and I was made to pay a hefty price.
See, the dentist, my good, compassionate, caring dentist....kept apologizing for causing me the littlest of necessary distress. He was apologizing for causing pain. Confusion...great confusion. You see, in my childhood world, no one ever apologized for causing me pain. They freely administered it....my parents wanted...wanted strongly to cause me physical pain. My parents wanted me to hurt.
Even when there was an accident...if I feel off my bike and skinned my knee...they didn't care. There was no compassion or empathy. I would be blamed and ridiculed. I must have fallen because I was going too fast, didn't see the bump on the sidewalk or I was too stupid to stop so fast. Childhood injuries were cause for ridicule and blame, not comfort. No one put on a bandaid or ever, ever said "I'm sorry you get hurt." No, it was always my fault for getting hurt. There were no accidents, just mistakes made by the stupid.
Comfort....what a foreign, warm word...growing up.
After the dentist, I became veryvery sad....and not about the procedure itself. It hit me...on such an emotional level.
All the countless times, my body endured hit after hit, after hit.
The helplessness.
It was like, I was always stuck in a giant compactor, and I knew I was going to get ground up, beaten down.....and then it would stop for a bit, then the motor would start whirling again, and here comes another whipping. I was always stuck in this contraption of evil. I could never get out, just try and recover enough to handle the next one.
Don't hurt me. Ahhh, another phrase that hopelessly reverberated, in my little mind often. Don't hurt me no more, please. But I could never say it. Didn't matter. Strange, starry dreams of small children....
I remember times....where my dad was so actively enraged and lost in the pounding of me that mom would yell and scream for him to stop...he had gone too far, lost too much control. Now That was painful...being beaten with fists by a madman three times your size. Yup, that was my dad.
Mom was no better. She did enough hitting, slapping and ordering my dad to "discipline." She always whined about poor her, how she kept hurting her and or wrist from "spanking" unless she used an object. Seriously, she would try and make the kids feel bad that she hurt herself because she "had" to hit us. What kind of warped fuck says shit like that....and believes it.
For all the times she told dad, "don't hit her in the face" (for fear the neighbors would see evidence if the abuse) she sure did her fair share of face slapping.
And that kinda gets me too.....Mom knew the physical abuse was wrong and should be hidden, but she did it and promoted it, anyway. We were taught to routinely lie about it and hide it. She knew she was doing something shameful and she kept on doing it.
No, I don't love my mother. I hate her. No mother beats or allows the beatings of their own small children.
Yeah, a couple months ago, I wrote and told her she was dead to me and that she is never again to contact me or my children.....go figure. One of the smartest moves I'd ever made. I don't want anything that evil near me or my kids.
Anyway, so yeah, I'm still dealing...remembering, processing, releasing the pain of being beaten. I may be sad for awhile. At least I've finally been able to get it out, written down. And, yeah, my therapist and I will continue to spend as much more time as needed, working it all out. Yup, it's a big issue. I'm working on it. Wish me luck.
Oh, and for all the times I wanted to say, but couldn't:
Please don't hit me
Please don't hit me
Don't hit me
Don't hit me no more
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
Don't hit me
Don't hit me
Don't hit me
Stop hitting me
Stop hitting me
Stop hitting me. Stop hitting me. Stop hitting me
You are hurting. Stop
No more hit
No more hit
Don't hit me no more...I don't deserve this....I don't deserve any of this. Stop
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