I grew up being viciously beaten by my father, I watched him beat my mother and my siblings too; many times I thought that he was going to kill one of us. One of my earliest memories was when my little brother was born, I was about 4; my mother didn’t wake-up fast enough to get her crying newborn son; this made my father enraged; I watched as my father beat her all the way to his crib. I cried and screamed for my daddy to stop hurting my mommy; I was smart enough to realize that we were living in an apartment and if I screamed loud enough the neighbors would come. My father raised his fist to hit me into submission but I defiantly screamed louder, because I knew the neighbors would come. I remember him looking at me like he understood how smart his 4 year old daughter was, it was almost comical how I made my father submit to my screaming. He knew that I knew exactly what I was doing.
There was always fear and worry in my life from a very, very young age from as early as I can remeber, I worried about my father killing my mother and then I worried about my mother killing herself, because of him and because of her mental illness.
My father was always saying that all women were sluts and bitches, he always accused my prim and proper mother of having and affiar, because of this he was extremly jealous. It turned out that he was the one having multiple affairs when ever he could.
He had to go through having 3 daughters before getting his son. His son was treated like the heir to the family estate and the keeper of the family jewels ( pardon the pun ) . He was quite protective over his son’s assets, if my brother wanted to get us into some serious trouble he just had to fake a ball ping or knock and we were going to get it; that means a beating. As girls we were taught that we were not important, that we were disposable and that we were to serve men.
I was a tomboy, I loved the outdoors and getting dirty and I liked playing with boys; because you always knew were you stood with boys; girls could sometimes be so mean and unpredictable, not to mention bossy. I loved to ride my bike for miles and go on snake and frog hunts and dig-up moles. We were always digging holes looking for buried treasure. I was outside a lot so that I could just stay out of my fathers’ reach. When I was outside I always felt safe; even as a child I felt God’s presents and felt gaurded by angels.
Then at the tender age of 10 someting horrible happened to my body; I started puberty! My body had betrayed me! No one had talked to me about this, I had no idea! I told my sisters and they thought it was gross; then I didn’t tell anyone for along time, not until they showed the film in school; by that time I was 11 and my parents still had trouble believing me. The worst part about it was that the boys just couldn’t stop starring at my chest; by breast came in fast and everyday the boys would comment on how big they were getting and then of course they couldn’t stop laughing about it.
Then men and boys that were way to old for me started to look at me in that way, in a sexual way tht I just didn’t have the coping skills to handle. I felt dirty and cheap, like my body was on display if I liked it or not; it seemed like I was walking around naked. My father was one of the men that wouldn’t stop looking at me that way; he would say his usual women are all sluts and bitches and then look across the room directly at me. It seemed that all men were enemy number one.
Because of my fear of men, I once again have pushed my husband away from me. He told me I was the reverse of male chauvanisium. I was so horrible to my husband; while he was doing his manly chores I took him for granted; I just thought that is what he should be doing, he is a man he should be doing manly stuff. When I was angry I called him a dumb ass; that was one of my favorite names to call him and then stupid. I called him stupid a lot; it doesn’t matter that he seemed to be going to work and working around the house to get away from me, I mean who could blame him. I started off in our relationship as me just being angry at his gender, than I became angry at him not wanting to be with me and then I basically pushed him right out of the house. When I hit my husband it was as if I was striking back at every man that had ever hurt me and at every gender injustice that had or has been dont to women in general, I was so mad that he could have what seemed to be a midlife crisis and as a woman I was just supposed to let it happen. I was sick and tired of being a nice girl and playing by the rules of society and my poor husband paid for it. That was the first reason, the second was that I had felt my husbands feelings of love and intimacy slipping away for about 2 years, as hard as I tried could not get him to admit it. I knew he didn’t want to fight, but by not facing what it was that was causing the problem we could never fix it; so I hit him to elict a response, it ws a final attempt to open him up. It obviously didn’t work; it was the final reason for him to completley withdraw from me emotionally. With my marriage breaking down; I was opened up to see the way I have been miss lead by my pain, how my ego has caused me to move away from love and peace towards anger and resentment. There is a reason for everything, which that I am certain of now, I must forgive to grow in the direction of a higher good and so I must leave the past behind me.
This is what I wrote about him when I was still very confused and hurt. You will see my perception clarifying in the next part of this chapter.