The first few lines of My Story talk about my father being violent, locking me in rooms, and that I never talk about it. In chat a few days ago I was talking with someone and they told me they had read my story and said nice, kind things to me. I asked if he had any questions, and if he did, he could ask them. Obviously, feeling brave was in danger of becoming a lifestyle choice.
He never mentioned the abuse. He stayed on the topic of my violent father. Asked me questions, which I answered. The conversation progressed and it started to dawn on me that this had never happened before. I have mentioned it in passing, but nobody has ever asked anything. They didn’t think it worthy of mention, so I didn’t. Or maybe the other way around.
The perceived wisdom is that the past was different, that it was normal back then, and things are better now. Recently, talking to a younger friend — 30+ and 60+ at the table — we realised we had both experienced it in the same way. So maybe not. Maybe it still happens.
We talked about how we had never told anybody how violent our fathers were. How out of control. How out of proportion any punishment was. How scared we were of them. So, we told each other that our fathers scared us. It was a silly thing to do, but in a little way it helped. It was that being heard thing, wasn’t it? There might be something in that. People should look into it.
The problem is, the conspiracy of silence stretches from the moment the punch landed until about an hour ago, when something shifted. When I realised that despite my best efforts, it was — and had always been — part of the abuse. It is abuse. Why hadn’t I seen that?
My immediate response is that it always felt like the fabric of my childhood. It wasn’t a different thing, an act, an event — it just was. It had never been any different. It was always thus. The iron fist ruled and there would never be any other way, not under his roof.
Aged seven or eight, I am standing in front of the colour television, being chastised for some misdemeanour. I don’t answer quickly enough or I don’t provide the right answer. Something clearly isn’t right. He is not happy. He reaches forward, grabs a full sealed bottle of wine, and throws it at my head. Two and a half pounds of wine bottle smashed through the TV screen. I was beaten and kicked black and blue because I had rather stupidly ducked my head out of the way. A number of lessons were learnt that day — not least my status in the house, somewhere below the television, clearly.
It wasn’t abuse. It was the norm. What is becoming clear is that my will was broken. My self-worth non-existent. My ability to make good choices eradicated and replaced with compliance and, I imagine, a deep need for love and affection. Might as well have handed me over to an abuser bound and gagged.
In the years of my adulthood, it was never a subject for discussion. In his direct presence, the fear was still very much alive. I never trusted him not to hit me. I never, ever relaxed in his vicinity, and a thousand times I rehearsed the word “why” but never said it out loud.
When I became a man, owned my own house, fostered children, ran my own business — when he was older, old, dead, gone — the fear never left me. It’s still here now. Someone somewhere someday could hurt me like that.
I never understood why nobody stood between him and me. Why nobody took a turn. Why nobody said no. Said stop.
Mother, sisters, aunts and uncles, family friends — all have taken me aside and commented on his treatment of me. All agreed they never liked it. All agreed he went too far. Apparently, I knew what he was like.
An uncle slipped alongside me at a family gathering and casually told me how, when I was five years old, I was struggling with my shoelaces and my father, frustrated — or no, I think it was because I was completely and utterly useless — thumped me. A grown man thumped a five-year-old. I had no idea why he was telling me this story. Was he hoping I would experience a series of flashbacks and confirm his version? I didn’t recall the incident in the slightest. But then, at that age, one violent act probably merges into another.
Family gathering 72b and I make a passing comment about the way my father treated me. My stepmother instantly defended him with the line, “Well, you were a very difficult child.” Well, as long as there was a good reason. As I glanced around the room, there were a few slight nods of agreement, as if this had been agreed long in advance of the meeting. Once more silenced. The myth continues.
My niece is looking at photographs. One is passed around — a dolls house my father, her grandfather, made for her. Basic at best, clearly lacking any finesse or skilled carpentry. I made some kind of sneering, acerbic comment and was met with a sharp rebuke from my niece, who loved her grandad and loved the dolls house. Another generation of family defends him. And I am silenced once more. I just won’t learn my lesson, will I?
He is dead by this time. So the truth could have been whispered. It would have cost nobody anything. Better really that I carry it. After all, I’m used to it. Why burden anyone else?
Back in that chat, answering questions, being told that it was awful and it shouldn’t have happened, a man types into a keyboard — thousands of miles away, across an ocean — and I read the words nobody had ever bothered saying before.
It wasn’t your fault.
Walls start tumbling down.