Continued.
The saddest sound in the world to me, is when I was little, awake in the dark, hearing my mom in the living room crying in silence like a hurt puppy, after getting yet another beating, and there was nothing I could do to help her or comfort her, for fear he would kill me or something like that if I got up. I was trapped in hell. Even in dreams there was no escape.
The abuse was horrible during the frequent moments of violence, and my poor mom took the brunt of it, often sporting black and blue arms from being grabbed. Sitting beside her in the living room, when drunk and/or mad, he’d often grab and slide her rocking chair towards him as we watched, and slapped her thighs over and over again, while she screamed no and you’re hurting, stop etc.
The next worst thing was being criticized by both parents almost constantly. So between the violence and criticism, I became highly self-aware. Now this sounds like an awesome quality to have for many reasons, but in an abusive environment, the brain goes into hyper-vigilance and hyper-arousal mode, not to mention its direct affect on brain development in God knows what ways.
The anxiety from all the bad things, coupled with the frustrations of living with alcoholic, neurotic, unhappy parents with little money, brought the level of anxiety to peaks. And because there was little love and nurturing, we were stuck dealing with the emotional aftermath time after time by ourselves.
I remember being slapped in the face on my 12 birthday because he told me not to get wet in the snow. And I equally remember that when he did, I became conscious of my hate for someone.
At other times, my two older sibblings and I needed or wanted to go in the house, probably to pee or something. But we knew he was drinking and in a foul mood.
When I couldn't hold it in anymore, I entered. And there he was, staring down at me like an enraged bull, sitting on that kitchen chair with beer, and analyzing everything his non-perfect son would do.
We were his trophies, and he was the polisher and winner. We, the losers and worned down alloys.
My eyes could not look him in the eyes, and it took decades for me to make eye contact with adults. I was monitoring how my arms would swing, my breathing, my walking, inch by inch crumbling into nothingness but the fear of what might happen.
On the couch, we'd be forced to watch "his" programs, and he'd criticize us. "Sit up straight! Go comb your hair! etc. We'd all hold our pee in for hours, too afraid to go by his chair. For sometimes when we did, well my bro and I, he'd grab us by our pyjama top, pull us into his face and bark aggressively like some mad pit bull. His biceps were hard. I remember my sis, bro and me grabbing his arm, and he'd lift us all off the floor five or so times.
Next in line was my older bro. He got slapped around once after he and I argued while dad was backing out of the driveway, and I could hear my bro screaming so hard, but could not see him, and I felt horrible because I started the argument. To a little kid who is defenseless, hearing a loved one being beaten and the screams but not see him, it must be something like that for someone hearing another being tortured.
