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'Drea's Blog
Betrayal: It's All Too Personal
STRONG CAUTION: Child abuse described
My apologies for blogging so soon; along with my apologies for reposting an excerpt from a previously published story. But as many of you know, PTSD is NOT a linear condition, Much like elements of the 'autistic' spectrum, memories are accessed at random, as if any memory was on the edge of a circle and equidistant to the person.
Something was triggered in me yesterday. There is no blame to be ascribed or regret to be expressed, since, no matter how it was triggered, the 'flashback' recalls a time over sixty+ years ago. Having said this, please read the excerpt below; clarified by the flashback I will describe as it relates to my previous blog?
STRONG CAUTION: Child abuse described
“Jesus fucking Christ!” She turned to see her father standing there with a mean glare on his face.
“What the fuck are you ….you little shit….” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer and ripped the beanie from her head. She turned away, but his hand grabbed her chin, forcing her once again to look into his rageful eyes.
“No…nonononono….please please please.” She began to cry. He pulled her into the bathroom by her arm, wrenching it hard and pushing her up to the sink, forcing her to behold the image in the mirror.
“Look at that…you….” Her father was so angry that his face had turned red and he struggled to speak. She didn’t need to hear a word; his angry glare and clenched fists told her everything she needed to know. She looked in the mirror. Gone was the eight-year-old girl; at least she had been a bit confident and immensely brave. In her place was her brother…her other self. The boy. The boy named after his uncle. The uncle who only weeks before had made him do unspeakable things with his sister.
“Daddy…I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorreeee.” He looked up and expected a slap to the face; his father had never slapped him in the face. Small consolation to know that only his mother and grandmother had done that. His father didn’t say a word but put his hand on his belt and began to remove it.
“No…nononono…please no please no please no.” He cried; sometimes he would cry harder in plea than when he actually got a beating. His body grew warm and he shook a bit as pee streamed down his leg and onto the floor.
“I…” His father still was so out of control that he couldn’t talk. But he retained enough control to pull the belt off his pants and begin doubling it up. He didn’t even bother with the formality of telling the boy to get on his lap and began beating the back of his legs.
“Take that shit off….take it off!” His father gained only enough composure to yell. When the boy didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed him by the back of the collar and literally began to rip the uniform off his back. The buttons in front popped off and the clothes became rags as his father stripped him bare. He didn’t bother to pull down his pants but just kept slapping the boy’s legs with the belt. At one point, the buckle end came loose from the bundle and flung up and hit the boy in the face, chipping a front tooth. All the while the boy cringed, which only angered his father more.
What came back to me were other moments of abuse that afternoon. I only just yesterday remembered. My Father DID slap me. The memory of strike to the face by his belt was 'only' a recollection, but his HAND hitting my face felt as if it was yesterday. I had a classmate whose father slapped her repeatedly. In a trauma workshop, she revealed the horror and...YES...the blush on her face took the shape of a palm print.
Yesterday the left side of my face grew hot with shame from the memory. Other events are best left described in the original story posted at the link below. Until yesterday I had not realized the shame I bore for being that un-named little girl; He even said as much. "You want to be a girl?"
But I only yesterday realized that his taunts were not reserved for that day alone, since his two most frequent comments were. "What are You...Stupid?" AND "What are you? A girl?" The slap that day not only attacked the little boy but devastated the little girl. The girl who repressed for decades the fond memories shared with my sister and the desire to be that little girl.
Every bit of anti-transgender hatred expressed to these kids today is exactly like the slap my father inflicted on me and IS like a slap to the face of us all. Every attempt to remove their freedom to be who they are hurts us all. This is NOT a debate. This is an issue of human rights.
Thank you for reading.
Comments
I too know the feel of my father’s hand…….
His belt, his fists, a switch cut from a bush in the backyard……..
The weapons of my humiliation and pain are numerous. And yes, I can still remember how it felt.
I feel for you, and we have to stand up for those who will follow after us.
D. Eden
Dum Vivimus, Vivamus
Thank you.
Your willingness to share that painful memory is incredibly brave — but also so very important. Especially now, when the hate is rising like floodwaters in a low-lying town.
Your story is also a reminder to me that it is important as an author to be careful and complete in putting trigger warnings on posts. Readers need to be able to make informed choices about what stories they open themselves to reading.
Big hugs,
Emma
Exactly
To reduce what is being done in the red states as normal politics is dishonest.
The legislator from Montana had it right when she told them they all have blood on their hands.
What they're doing is a crime of hatred. The other legislator from Montana exposed the right's criminal intent when she said she would rather her child was suicidal than trans.
We're not talking about whether or not to raise taxes to fix potholes. We're talking about genocide.
Andrea -- I could never be as honest as you!
Jill
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)