The BS Files #6
Violence begets Violence.
Let’s preface this week’s file with the fact that I love my family. I have distanced myself from many of them to heal and work out my own evils. I can only hope my parents wish they had done some things differently just as I wish I had done some things differently with my kids. We can’t change the past. We can only try to do better; however, our pasts are what mold us into who we are today. I’m not a victim. I’m just telling my stories, from my perspective, as honestly as possible, hoping someone out there feels less alone.
With that said, let’s get this shit rolling. I grew up in a very violent and chaotic home. I was taught to call 911 at age 5. I was also taught to call my aunt if things got out of control, which they often did. My mom and stepdad fought hard. I saw her sling a knife into his leg, and I saw him shoot at her for it. I watched him drag her by her hair and her throw grease at him. I watched many things as a child that probably fucked me up more than I realize.
I hated my stepdad for so long. I was too young to see that my mother often provoked it. They were both equally at fault. They were both hot tempered. They both took it too far. They fought like that until I was about 10.
That rage was often directed at me as well. I was an only child. I lived in fear of the belt or getting slapped or cussed or all the above. It would get out of hand and many times my stepdad had to pull my mom off me. She would black out choking me, and sometimes go a little too hard with the belt. I often went to school with bloody marks on my arms and legs. I don’t have a lot of good memories from my youth. Hindsight, I know every single member of my family needed medication. We were all fucked and still are in many ways. I know now that my parents carried trauma. They were treated the same as they treated me.
Fast forward, to the first fight I got into, I was in the 8th grade. Five girls jumped me and I blacked out for the very first time, meaning more would come. Of course, those bitches didn’t get the best of me. I had been taking punches most of my life, so their little girl swings were never felt. I got expelled even though I didn’t start it, I finished it, so I looked like the bad girl.
Turns out that temper I had developed proved to be rage time and time again. I wasn’t scared to fight; I was numb to it. I didn’t start shit with anyone but if you swung at me, it was going down and so were you. I wasn’t super tough or anything, I was just full of rage, insane, and ready to let it out. I’ve been in too many brawls to count. I’m not proud of it.
All of this had a huge effect on how I wanted to raise my kids. I didn’t want to be mentally or physically abusive. I didn’t want them going to school with stripes on their arms or heartbroken by my brutal words. I spanked them a few times. They will all 3 tell you that they can’t even remember them. I had a couple of reflex slaps with each of my sons. I regret that shit horribly and they know it.
I definitely yelled too much. If I could go back, that’s what I would change. I screamed and that did damage too.
My kids managed to grow up with fairly mild tempers. My oldest has a temper like mine but that’s mainly because I had him at 15 so he grew up with me. (I was 18 with a 3-year-old the last time my mother hit me) He got my scrapper shit. I remember telling him when he was young that he would either learn to fight or stop running his mouth, and well, he still runs that fucking mouth. Let’s just say that it’s not a good idea to start shit with us when we are together.
I’ll still flash and be ready to fight at 51 years old. I think it’s something I will try to fix for the rest of my life. I’ll probably be 80 trying to throw a fucking bingo dabber at someone’s head.
Speaking of throwing, my husband has been a hero through all of my shit. He is probably the first person (other than my kids) who has ever loved me unconditionally. He gets the brunt of my temper at times. I have a tendency to throw shit at him when he pisses me off. I don’t want to hit him because he’s my world, but that remote has been fucking chunked a time or too. Thank goodness he’s a fucking ninja and catches everything that comes his way. He isn’t a saint either, but he gets me. He always has, and he loves me hard.
Some of my brawls and craziest stories will have to be saved for their own files. Some are the favorite stories my kids tell. Their party favors, as you will, when they want to make their friends laugh about their crazy scrapper mom.
The moral of this story is to say that I truly believe violence begets violence. If you want your children to learn to use their words instead of their hands, it starts at home. There are other ways to discipline. There are other ways to solve disagreements. Example: It really makes zero fucking sense to me when I see a parent hit their child for hitting someone. You realize that’s the silliest shit ever right?
So, now you know some of my dark secrets. I wasn’t a perfect mom either. I carried a lot of traumas and took some of that out on my kids by yelling, but I stopped the physical (with them) mostly. Now, hopefully they will end both with their kids. We have an open line of communication and I have voiced my regrets and shame. I also make sure they know that if they need to heal from some shit I did to them that I am always available to listen.
My mother doesn’t want to talk about any of it. She will laugh it off. To this day, she will say that she made me tough. Even though that may be the case, I didn’t need to be tough as a child. I needed to feel safe and loved. I never felt that. Kids don’t need to fear us to respect us. They don’t need “an ass whooping”. They need communication, presence, protection, and nurturing.
You don’t want them turning out like me.
XOXO,
B