#abuse cw

No matter what task I was set to do, when I believed I had done well and sought his approval, he would either tell me I’d accomplished nothing or give a quick, dismissive look and say, “it’s good start.”

He was absent, both physically and emotionally, and I was glad for that, because when he was around he was often verbally abusive and very loud about it. I remember I once asked him why he needed to yell and call me names instead of simply talking, and his answer was, “nothing else gets through your thick skull.”

Once, I remember I was being dressed down for entering his office, and he said, “I ask so little of you. Do your chores, pull your own weight, stay out of trouble. I give you food, clothes, I let you live under my roof-“ at which point I cut him off to ask, “you ‘let’ me? I thought I was your daughter and I lived here.” His immediate answer? “Well then maybe you should act like it.”

I was a lonely child, and never had many friends, feeling like there was some kind of wall between myself and the rest of the world, and spent the bulk of my time wandering around the woods and reading every book I could get my hands on. I only ever wanted to read, or wander, and when I was being punished in a hands-off capacity his go-to move was usually to forbid me from reading. (This was how I started writing.)

He would make me eat things that made me sick, lock me out of the house while I was away, and constantly go on about how there was something just fundamentally, innately wrong with me. That I was slow, retarded, off, “touched in the head”. (That one was his favourite.)

Years passed like this. Well over a decade. When I turned seventeen I moved out and promised myself I’d never see him again, and on the one occassion I had to return to the house a year later I did so when it was empty to find myself caught off-guard by him swinging by for an unexpected drop-in, at which point I hid in a closet and waited in silence for him to leave. (About forty-five minutes.)

When I had my freedom, I found myself swinging between fear of everyone and hatred of myself and this odd itch under my skin that made me want to fight anyone bigger than me.

Then I started having emotions again. Anger, which was wonderful, because eventually it let me figure out that as odd as I still was, he had been wrong to treat me poorly. That “abuse” was a word I could say out loud.

We didn’t speak for nearly six years, and only because I visited my siblings and he was their ride home.

I had no intentions of speaking with him, but he found me in a moment alone anyways. And when he did, he said, “I’m sorry.”

There was more after that, but I’d heard him apologize for his actions before. It had been years since I’d had any faith in his ability or desire to do better.

But I wasn’t under his thumb anymore, he had no power over me, and I had siblings who loved him. Any revenge I’d once considered was tiring to think of now. So I told him, “I’m not ready to forgive you, and I don’t want to be your kid, but if you want to do right by me, then take this as a learning experience. It’s too late for me, you fucked that up, but don’t fuck it up with them. Don’t do this again.”

He promised he would. I figured it wasn’t in my hands anymore. We kept our distance. And to my surprise, he did somehow, miraculously, change.

We still aren’t close. We never will be. But I visit his house with my siblings and watch movies together, and while I always have to move my plate a seat further from his at the table I’m surprised to say it isn’t terrible.

I don’t say any of this to come off like a wise, grown, benevolent person who has it all figured out. I only changed his name on my phone from “asshole” two years ago, and that was three years after I added and then immediately blocked it. I’m no victim in need of saving, I’m no martyr on a cross, and I got my good share of shots in when I could afford it.

I don’t say this to commend or condemn HIM, either. He was a shit father to me and after thirteen or so years of it finally realized he was the problem and put the effort in to fix himself. He’s raising his existing children very well now, and that’s all that matters.

I don’t say any of this for any grand, moral reason. Not because I intend to pass off my lived experiences as a neat and tidy lesson on forgiveness or growth or healing or whatever.

And these antis are celebrating it and they claim that there aren't abuse apologists.

and okay, fair enough - i've never worked in, say, a young offender's institution, or a secure children's home. i've mostly worked in schools. i haven't seen firsthand how bad it can get. i still don't think punishment actually works, and i also think that even kids who misbehave on purpose (and kids do misbehave on purpose; it'd be naive to claim otherwise) aren't doing it because it's "fun". they're doing it because they want to achieve a certain outcome, and they are using the tools that are available to them.

so they need better tools. and better options. and someone to help them figure out how to achieve that same outcome without resorting to theft, manipulation, or violence. that's not easy to do, especially with older children whose behavioural patterns are more entrenched, but it's infinitely more effective and less traumatising than punishment.

i want to illustrate this by talking about a former student of mine. i never actively disliked any of the children i worked with, but i do remember finding this one kid very difficult to warm to. i'd been warned before meeting him that he was a Bad Kid, and i soon found out why. he swore, spat, screamed, threw things, stole or destroyed other people's possessions, and was verbally and physically aggressive towards both me and his classmates.

i could deal with all that. what bothered me was how manipulative he was. he was a bully, but it was hard to catch him at it; he had a knack for sussing out when certain children were having a rough time, and then he'd subtly needle and torment them until they exploded - hitting him or themselves, tearing up their work, kicking desks over, having a sobbing meltdown, etc. after which he would come to me and gleefully inform me that so-and-so had "been bad", clearly with the expectation that i would then punish them (which, obviously, i did not).

this behaviour seemed very calculated, which is why i found it unnerving. but the why kept niggling at me. why was he doing this? what did he want the outcome to be?

and as soon as i thought about it, it was obvious. he wanted validation ("well done for telling me, that was very responsible!"). he wanted to feel powerful. he wanted everyone else to be exactly as angry and unhappy as him. he wanted to not be seen as the Bad Kid - or he wanted his peers to know what it was like to be the Bad Kid. it was intentional, but it was also a product of helplessness and desperation.

D&D: There's a purely good aligned spell that only good people can use. It causes an extremely contagious disease that makes people so horny they straight up die.

World of Darkness: Scientists radiate an aura of pure boringness so strong it kills pixies and that's why you don't see pixies anymore.

Chronicles of Darkness: "Actually, the psychic abuse monsters spawned from our nightmares are doing us a favour by beaming our worst fears directly into our brains until we die."

Call of Cthulhu: Fetishes are on the Insanity Table that you randomly roll on when you lose sanity so there's a chance you see Cthulhu and immediately develop a foot fetish so intense you have to be hospitalised.

Powered By The Apocalypse: Mechanically, everyone is pansexual. Everyone has to be pansexual. If you don't want to be pansexual, tough! We're married and you're in love.

Pathfinder: Inexplicable archfiend who specifically embodies the act of luring children into dark alleyways with candy to kidnap them.

Mutants and Mastermind: "So, we need enemies for a silver age superhero comic book game. What we got?" "Well, I've statted up a super-scientist gorilla, and an evil clown, and the vengeful souls of everyone killed in the very real Hiroshima Bombings. How's that?" "Yeah, that all seems tonally consistent."

Warhammer 40k: Hoo boy, how much time you got?

most of his abuse was not physical force, but even when it was, it was more to control my movement than it was to inflict injury (e.g. to grab me so I couldn't leave, to hold me down, things like that).

I remember shortly after getting out, telling another survivor about this problematic desire to be hit. she understood what I meant, but she gave me a reality check. if he had started hitting me, I would have been forced to hide and justify it, just like I had been forced to do with all the other things he did. I knew she was right.

I thought maybe my fantasy was just that someone else would see. the fantasy of having proof. evidence.

but as I talked to more survivors (and read books and encountered cycles of discourses on each public case of abuse that became media fodder for everyone to voice their opinions about "accusers"), I found that there is no degree of evidence that actually translates into being believed.

some survivors have visible bruises. some have audio or visual recordings of the abuse taking place. people will call it faked, or invent hypotheticals where it somehow doesn't count or is being misconstrued.

worse still, I found that all too often the more evidence someone has, the less people believe them. any photos, records, footage, or documentation seems to just give more material for people to dissect the survivor's entire life until they can be constructed as unsympathetic, malicious, or hysterical. the subtext in these situations is always that it would actually be dangerous to believe the survivor. the fact that anyone tries to prove what happened to them is then cast as evidence of their "instability" or "scheming."

I thought maybe my fantasy was just that someone else would know it happened. this fantasy, after all, animates the slogans like "believe survivors."

but, of course, it became increasingly hard to hold onto this fantasy as meaningful either. usually people do not believe anything is abuse until the abuser themself admits to it in those words. this rarely happens, but it does happen. and in those cases, it doesn't actually translate into any safety or compassion or support for the survivor.

instead, the confession is usually helpful in channeling compassion and support to the abuser, and even can be used to further silence and ostracize the survivor. any insistence that the issue be treated seriously, any requests for help, and any discussion of what happened can then be viewed as an attack by the survivor on someone who "already took accountability."

it's hard to survive abuse.

you think if it was "bad enough" then you'd have proof. you think if you had proof then people would believe you. you think if you were believed, then people would care.

but all of it falls through.