Warning, this post is about emotional abuse.
I was reading through a forum on the topic, and going through it I felt validated enough to reply with my own experiences. I wanted you guys to know that this is why Iâm moving, and this is why I badly need support in order to do so.
I donât have a Kickstarter or anything, but if you guys would support me on patreon that would mean a lot. Writing is something that makes me happy, and Iâll never be able to move without support, let alone fine the time to write between all the hours Iâd have to work to survive.
https://www.patreon.com/elizascities?ty=h
Iâve told my friends that I worked the numbers out and that Iâll be fine. In reality⌠Iâm short a couple hundred a month for basic living expenses, and Iâm very worried about whether Iâll survive.
Alright guys, first off Iâd like to say this thread was painful to sit through.
I canât say anything about parenting. Thatâs because I only turned 18 a month ago, and just got done being on the child end of the stick. Iâm moving out in two weeks, which on an almost minimum wage job is almost suicide, but Iâm that willing to take that risk.
â˘I can see micro expressions. For those that donât know, theyâre basically the very subtle changes in facial expression that most donât normally catch. Usually you have to take body language classes and things to truly see them. I do out of instict because I had to adjust whatever I said to his mood.
â˘I jump at loud noises, and the second you raise your voice at me, Iâll cry.
Iâm a cashier in training. The second I got held up, I was too scared to call for help because that meant I failed. When someone else called for me, that meant they thought I was an idiot.
â˘After I dispersed the line I had to sit in the back to cry because I thought I was a terrible cashier. That small mistake that led to a line of 4 people total made me question my worth. I thought I was stupid. I still think Iâm terrible at cashiering.
â˘Whatever good qualities I possess, they donât mean anything because of my bad ones. My good deeds are meaningless due to my bad ones. I deserve the punishment for the bad yet when I do good, the bad cancels that out.
â˘Iâm terrible person who questions my self worth constantly.
â˘Iâm TERRIFIED of any sort of conflict.
â˘Iâm terrified of people getting angry at me. The second someone shows the slightest hint of not being amused with what I said, I hastily add something else on to change my tune and hope for a better reaction.
â˘Iâm people pleaser. My worth comes from what I make others feel.
I never get angry. NEVER. Instead I get depressed, sad, and some days suicidal. â˘If Iâm angry, youâll KNOW that Iâm justified because Iâve already questioned myself 6 ways to Sunday on how I deserve to be treated like that. If Iâm angry that means for once in my life I came up with nothing.
As you can see, a thread riddled with conflict about spanking and people attempting to invalidate abused emotions threw me for a loop. But I read it anyway because for once in my life I had something that validates how I feel.
I had no idea spanking was a controlled and disciplined action. My experience with âspankingsâ has been my father whipping us with a belt whenever he felt angry enough. Youâd know because he would take a deep breath, and very audibly release it. Heâd glare at you with an intensity I could never fully describe, and your options were either to run to accept your fate because he was about to beat you. No amount of begging or âIâm sorry"s could fix it. He could either completely lose his temper and beat you with his bare hands, or heâd continue the charade that it was anything other than rage induced lack of control, and tell you to put your hands on the couch as he takes off his belt.
This is what âspankingsâ meant to me. So imagine my surprise when it could be interpreted as an act of respect or just to startle the child.
This man has grabbed me by my arms, pushed my up against a wall, walking just fast enough to where I couldnât keep up and retain a sense of balance, and spit in my face.
âYou disgust me, get out of my house, I hate you and I swear to God once youâre 18 Iâll ship you out of here faster than you can imagine.â
Heâs left bruises. Deep, purple bruises. Yet for the state of Ohio, that isnât good enough.
Iâve run away more than once. The police know my face. Iâve walked on the shoulders of high ways, barefoot in the middle of snowfall. In just pjs in the rain. I once hid in a small childâs treehouse to have some shelter from the cold. I still walk by that house sometimes, the family none the wiser to what Iâd done. Once a woman found me on her back porch, huddled in her chair cover to try and avoid the rain. She took me inside. It turns out she was my sisterâs school teacher from a previous year. Very kind woman, but made the mistake of convincing my younger self it was a good idea to call the police.
An officer that yelled at me for running away previously showed up. I recognized him immediately. He didnât recognize me. Shows how much I meant to the guy, right? They were actually on my side until we got to my fatherâs house. Then suddenly they switched. They told me bruises donât matter. If it was torture, if the belt had spikes on it is the example they gave me, then it matters.
You donât know how fustrating it is to have a police officer right in front of you, but in your fatherâs presence unable to tell them exactly whatâs wrong with him because your mind goes blank.
Theyre right when they say emotional abuse is hard to prove. I tried to tell them. I tried to explain that I never knew what to expect. They asked him what he expects, and he gave the rational response that all he wanted was for me to behave. Do my homework, chores, and I couldnât retort because I didnât do those things. From an early age Iâd be too anxious about deadlines such as his arrival home to actually do anything. My only escape was procrastination through distractions.
You donât know how it feels to have a police officer stare you in the eye and tell you that the man that encouraged your suicide is just, and that you âcanât run away to avoid discipline.â To be looked down on a rebellious kid for wanting to be treated with respect.
When I was in middle school, there was a time I was in tears and told him that I was losing respect for him. This wasnât out of malice, I was legitimately concerned our relationship was deteriorating. He yelled back at me that he didnât respect me either, malice fully intended.
One second weâd be fine, but if I went against him, the second I show confusion for more than a few seconds, or refuse him, heâs snap. Heâd have me abandon whatever I learned in class and do homework the way he taught me. Heaven knows his methods werenât the unit we were learning. Once I had to explain to him 5 times we werenât to solve an equation, but graph it. He had me solve them anyway.
And he wonders why I avoiding doing my homework in front of him at all costs. And due to them being on a deadline, I only had the nerve to do them at the last second.
Thereâs no such thing as walking me through things. If I didnât get it in a timely manner (whatever patience he had for me that day), I was stupid.
From an early age, I learned that it wasnât enough for mistakes to be corrected. You had to atone for them. When I was in 6th grade, I would steal one of my fatherâs belts and literally hit myself for not being able to accomplish my chores. This later evolved into guilt induced cutting and thoughts turned toxic with self hatred.
Surprise surprise, I have diagnosed depression and anxiety. I used to have panic attacks. And for a while, he respected those. He let me have a little space, but eventually he grew impatient for me to âget over themâ. Later on heâd only treat them as an inconvenience, despite being the one that caused them. Heâs accused me of faking on multiple occasions, and once when I was having one right in front of him, he continued to belittle me.
The only words I get could out between my hasty breaths were âshut upâ
âOh, of course you can say THAT.â
This is a man that after I told him about my attempted suicide, yelled that I couldnât even die properly. That it was a shame I couldnât even die right. Later on, he told me the reason he didnât get me help is that âitâd attract the wrong kind of attention.â
Heâs trash talked my mother, calling her mentally ill. She may be, but not the crazy hag he describes. With that image in my head (though knowing full well it isnât true) heâs likened me to that image of her. Called me crazy, told me that I need help. So much so that I now doubt my own perception of reality, and reply more so on others.
It makes it very hard to do that whole âhave confidence no matter what those haters thinkâ or whatever mindset.
Heâs broken down in front of me. Heâs guilted me into feeling sorry for any resistance Iâve given him, because âheâs trying his bestâ and âlife is so hard as a single dadâ and âno one loves him.â
âThatâs not true! I love you!â Younger me would say. In which heâd reply that if thatâs the case then I need to work with him.
Keep in mind this almost always happened after one of the angry fits I mentioned above.
Because thatâs how emotional abuse works. Through victim blaming by the abuser, the abused, and when you try to get the word out? Society itself. My school counselor actually got sick of hearing about my incidents with dad, and told me once that âIâve heard this story beforeâ. When I told him the way he discredits my perception of reality made me feel crazy, his response was: âWellâŚare you? Do you need help?â
Teachers who guilted their students were ultra effective on me. Once I attempted to drop out of a class specifically because of a teacherâs lecture that day. I didnât think I was fit to work with the class. Teachers that assume the worst from students who donât do their work (that their lazy, donât care, etc) led me the believe the same about myself. I still share that hatred for myself, and struggle to find self worth in anything I do.
He taught me that the world is horrible everyone judges you. You donât know how self conscious I am simply because he impressed upon me that everyone is judgemental of you all the time, and will nitpick you harder than he does. He was extremely critical, leading to my perfectionism, then told me that children were ruthless and he âonly nitpicks to help me. That itâs better he tells me than someone else bully me about itâ even though he did so in a way that still made me feel like a disgusting piece of garbage. It got to the point that I literally cut myself for putting the wrong header on a piece of writing for English. Because I was so anxious I forgot MLA format existed. The whole class did it correctly and I felt stupid. Idiotic and worthless.
Iâm sorry to talk for so long, but one thing led to another and now I have this long post.
Just uh, hereâs an account from the abused perspective in massive detail. The worst parts of all of those arenât even the abuse in my opinion. Itâs the fact itâs done in a way in which you blame yourself for it, and when you donât, itâs done in a way in which you canât explain it accurately, making society blame yourself for you. And hey, I already doubting the worth of my emotions beforehand, along with my perception of reality. If society says Iâm wrong, if police officers, the embodiment of Justice, feel Iâm just a rebellious kid, then I must be.
And thatâs where the problem stems.
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