Breaking the Cycle: Abuse and Motherhood

I was 26 years old the last time he and I had a physical altercation. I call it a physical altercation because I do not know what exactly you call it when a father hits his adult daughter. I have never told my story in detail, but now that I have said goodbye to my father and his abuse I can.  I remember the end, but I don’t quite remember when it all changed from spankings to beatings, if that is even what it should be called.

My earliest memory of my father’s abusive behavior was in elementary school.  We were eating dinner as we did every night and my parents started to fight.  We were excused and my parents continued to fight as my mother cleared the table.  She angrily threw the plates in the sink, as my father was yelling at her.  In one swift motion, she turned and hurled a steak knife across the room at him.  It hit the wall blade first and stayed there vibrating for at least 15 minutes.  My sister and I scattered.  Later that evening, in my room, I heard the screams. I ran to my sisters room and stopped in the hallway to glance in to my parents room.  My father had his foot on my mother’s head pinning her to the ground. Sadly, these types of arguments were common in our home.  And eventually they would be common for not only my mom, but for me as well.

It was December, close to Christmas break, and I was in junior high.  I was sitting at my desk in my room making Christmas Ornaments to hand out to all the girls I was friends with. Just like every time it happened, my father had had a bad day and was looking for a fight.  He busted in my room complaining about something.  Most of the time it was that I had left my shoes in the living room, my room wasn’t clean enough, or that I had smarted off to my mother.  There was no having a simple conversation with him.  If you tried to explain yourself, it was talking back, if you gave a reason, it was an excuse, and by all means, do not get a tone with him that he did not like.  After what should have been a normal conversation turned in to a heated argument turned in to a few hits, he grabbed me by the back of my neck and pushed me to the front door and threw me out.  I was in gym shorts and a t-shirt, it was December, and I was in junior high. I had no clue what to do.  So I sat on the front porch until he let me back in.  I went to bed that night sad and broken after he had told me that I was going to live with my grandmother because they didn’t want me. 

As I grew up, I figured the abuse would stop.  And for the most part it did.  The fights were more sporadic, it was not a regular thing anymore but when they did happen they were worse. I was a junior in high school when I finally thought it was going to all end.  Once again a normal conversation with my parents turned heated, and my father believed that I had disrespected my mother.  In trying to end the conversation and walk away, it only got worse.  The things we would argue about were so minimal that I can’t even recall the topics.  He chased me down the stairs to the basement where my room was.  On the way, I picked up my color guard pole to defend myself and that was the worst idea ever.  When we finally made it to my room, he gave me the worst beating he had ever given me. The next day at school, a friend saw a bruise on my neck and went to a teacher.  The police came, CPS came, and my body was photographed.  I knew this was not going to end well.  My mother and father told the police that I had beaten up my mother and I had to be restrained.  And my mother had bruises on her body to prove it, except those bruises were not from me.  We had to go to court-ordered therapy, but somehow, like he always did, my father turned it all around and I was a problem child who could not control myself. He was never arrested, never punished and once again went about life like nothing was his fault.

Like most abusers, he abused me – not only physically but emotionally as well.  He made me believe that I could never live without him, that I would always need him, and that I would never be able to get away. And after moving out after college to pursue my career, I went back.  I had been laid off and financially I did not have a choice.  I was 26 and he slammed my head into a concrete wall in their drive way.  Luckily I was able to brace impact with my forearm, or he would have surely broken my face.  The night before, we had had an argument about my sister and he didn’t like the way I spoke to him, so he beat me.  And the next day I tried to move out.  I was trying to get out the front door and I was holding a laundry basket, my mother would not let me leave so I pushed her with the laundry basket to get out the door and he lost his mind.  But this time was different.  My sister and her husband saw it all. And finally I was free.  I moved in with my boyfriend, who is now my husband, the next week. 

The thing about my relationship with my father is that until I became a wife and a mother, I didn’t realize  how much the abuse had affected me.  His abuse shaped me as a person.  It molded my personality.  I have always struggled with friendships, I have a quick temper, and I struggle with my anger.  His emotional abuse always made me feel like I was not good enough, that I deserved every bad thing that had ever happened to me, and I was a failure.  And now as I sit and hold my two precious children I think, how could he have ever hurt me.  How could he break me like that.  I can not imagine being that parent.  I could not imagine sitting back and watching my husband treat my children like that, the way my mother did.  A lot of things shape the type of parents we are.  And for me my childhood has made me a better mom.  It taught me to be my children’s protector.  It taught me to stand up for them.  And it taught me to make sure that they always feel loved and important because for most of my life I didn’t. 

Even though it has been 10 years since my father touched me, I continued to strive for a normal relationship with he and my mother. I wanted a family.  The emotional manipulation and abuse continued for years.  He wouldn’t let me speak to my mother the night I got engaged, he wouldn’t let her come to the birth of my daughter, and he tried to control my sister and I’s relationship. He would go months without speaking to me because of arguments, he would berate me and my husband, criticize our parenting and even went as far to say that Karma was going to be my son being autistic or something being wrong with him. And just a couple of weeks ago, he told me that I deserved everything he ever did to me, and that is the day I decided to break the cycle and say goodbye.  Even though it is hard, I will be better for it in the end and so will my children.