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I wasn’t talking about this to anyone. Never have. Would never. Had no need.
I started talking to The Mentor about it. Well, because that’s what I do now. I think I started to understand it was at the root of some stuff, and keeping it secret wasn’t helping anything. These are some of the typical scenarios I told him about. I thought maybe if I wrote them here, it would feel less like a secret and more like something I needed to deal with.
My father was always tinkering, fixing things, putting up fences, repairing the car. A common thing was him fixing the car — lying underneath, calling for tools. He would ask for the yellow-handled screwdriver. There would be three yellow-handled screwdrivers. I would pass him the one I thought was right. If it was wrong, he would get angry so quickly, call me useless, throw it at me.
Hit my head, hit my body — he didn’t care. Still no clue which one he actually wanted. Looking back, I tell myself he got angry because I was too stupid to ask. But I would never ask. You didn’t question him. Questioning him was a very bad thing to do. I was probably seven or eight. That kind of scenario happened a lot.
One of my chores was to clean and polish shoes — a lot of shoes. I had to do it by the shed door, inside if it rained. If he was inside and I was standing by the door, and he wanted out, he would just hit me around the side of the head to move me. Wouldn’t say excuse me. Wouldn’t warn me. Just hit me. It happened everywhere.
I was supposed to anticipate him, step aside, pass him something, take something — if I didn’t, I was a fool, and he would hit me. Always hard. Usually a punch. I would say I was treated like a dog, except I own dogs, and I don’t treat them that way either. So I don’t even know what I was treated like. Like I never mattered.
At one point his job was testing concrete on motorways. He would drive hundreds of miles. Sometimes he would take me along — supposed to be a treat. It wasn’t. If I said something stupid, didn’t pass him something fast enough, didn’t hear what he said — he would thump me. Arm, leg, side of the head. Always while driving at speed. I used to worry we would crash. Sometimes he would be lecturing me about some crime, and each point would be punctuated with a punch. I hated lists.
For many years, my father managed a big DIY store — smaller than a Home Depot, bigger than a hardware shop. School holidays and weekends, I would work there. Travel into town with him. Get breakfast. Go to the store. Before staff arrived, before the shop opened.
If, during that hour or so, I did anything to anger him, he would grab the back of my collar, haul me off my feet, drag me into the back warehouse, and punch and kick me. Wanted me back there so nothing in the shop would get broken. Just me.
All of it happened just him and me. Nobody ever saw. There was nobody to tell. I lived in constant fear of doing something wrong and deserving to be hit. It was my own fault. I should have done it properly. I should have listened. Paid attention. The pain was real. He hurt me every time. He did it for years. It only stopped when I left home at fifteen. But the fear stayed. Every time I was around him, even years later, I was careful what I said and did.
I was always bruised. Ribs, stomach, backside. Always places that couldn’t be seen. He was always ready with excuses — clumsy boy, fell out of trees, tripped over his own feet. I didn’t. I hadn’t. I wasn’t. I was beaten. That’s what I was.
I have no idea why I never spoke of it. It was just the way my life was. Even when I spoke about sexual abuse, I didn’t see this as abuse. It was always a footnote. I sort of understood that maybe it made me damaged, easier for an abuser to get to. But that wasn’t a thought. More like a vague shadow in the back of my mind.
Now that I’m talking about it, I’m dreaming about it. I wake up thinking about the dreams, and realise they aren’t dreams. They’re memories. Things I know. Things I remember. Things I don’t really remember, but now I do.
It’s a weird thing to talk about. It never really comes up in conversation. Now that I’ve mentioned it here, a couple of people have said they were also… what? Beaten? Hit? Abused violently? I don’t even know the language for it.
What do I say? He punched, slapped, kicked. Hit me with sticks, umbrellas, shoes, rolled-up newspapers, anything to hand. He came from a generation that believed that was how you raised children. That it was his right.
I have nephews, nieces, friends with kids. I have been a foster parent to teen boys. Never once have I even felt the urge to slap them, let alone punch them. I have no idea where that urge comes from in a father.
As a child, I never understood what I had done to deserve it. I still don’t. The crime was always small. The retribution always huge.
I think it destroyed my self-worth. My self-esteem. Probably my ability to trust anyone. I can’t be sure — I have nothing to compare it with. About twenty years ago, when making police statements, I was assessed by some professor who said I had PTSD. Recently I took an online test for CPTSD. Scored very high. I think that’s probably right. I think I could put money on where that started.
In which case, I’ve had it for a very long time. I suppose the next step is figuring out what I do about it. He’s dead and gone. There are no answers there.
I think I’ll walk with it for a while. See what else I remember. Try to understand. Walk around the edges, see how it feels.
Weirdly, I worry that dealing with it is going to hurt as much as living through it did. Which somehow feels a little unfair. It already hurt me. Why should it get another go.
I spoke with a couple of kind people here last night. Tried to explain what I was feeling. I don’t know if they understood. I think they did. But it all feels swirly in my head when I talk about it. I’ve spent so long not speaking about it, it feels wrong when I do.
Maybe I need a different website for this.
Because it isn’t sexual abuse.
Oh, and one for my fear of spiders.
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