Picture credit: Fe Ilya
One of the first memories I have of the physical abuse is lying on the bed, my father is beating my brother and I with his belt. We are rolling around on the bed, screaming, trying to avoid being hit – and there she is – standing in the doorway – watching – “ok, ok…that’s enough” she says.
This was a common event – my brother and I might have been naughty for whatever reason – I don’t remember the details of our behaviour as we would have been very little – but I do remember the threats – “just wait till your father gets home” – “no no no please don’t tell him…please”.
I remember so many times pleaing with her to just keep our naughtiness to ourselves – and there she would be all smug – happy to have finally broken us – and I would sit there for however long, waiting for that inevitable moment he would come home, the Mother would tell him all about the naughty things we did.
And then he would reach for his belt.
He would take it off his pants, or go to the bedroom cupboard for another one. I would run. He would chase us. He would beat us.
It was only when she thought we had been punished enough, the Mother would make it stop.