Hi, I am here again to share another fond memory of my childhood. However, before doing so, I would like to explain what caused me more pain than even a parent's fist or use of a wooden board to beat the hell out of a child was the fact, Americans tend to become blinded to child abuse, or abuse of any nature, when the people that are committing the crime have money and superficially, “well adjusted.”
Such people always keep their evil doings behind closed doors. If the victim dare entertain thoughts of reporting the crimes that hope for justice and liberty is shot down with, “If you do that, when your father comes home he will take you behind the chicken barn and you're going to REALLY GET IT!”
Which implied triple or quadruple any violence and suffering yet endured by their victims.
Hence, the abuser invalidates your feelings, civil rights and boundaries. Next on the list is the gaslighting. Being told by your abuser, “You weren't 'spanked' enough!”
Since when has “spanking” been defined as being thrown to the ground and kicked while an out of control parent screamed in irrational rage? Or, forced to the ground and a tree limb used to smash you on all four limbs of your body, and eventually smash the heavy limb across your head?
The abuser gaslights you. “You imagined it.” “That never happened.” Minimizing the crime. “You weren't spanked enough!”
When you're surrounded by abusers who gaslight you and people on the outside either will not listen to your cries for help, or worse, enable it.
This kind of environment is a certain recipe for disaster making.
One Sunday morning, perhaps around age 10, I was outside, doing what a kid does, probably watering the farm animals or in the middle of any conceivable farmyard chore.
Out the door comes the Patriarch. I've stated before, he was nearly impossible to read. He might be best described expressionless with a hair trigger, at least in private.
He was exiting the back door of the house, and asks, “What do you want me to spank you with?” His question was unexpected. Stunned, I asked, “What's wrong?!” He responded something about I had left a little honey on my breakfast plate.
He was a beekeeper. He took the leftovers as a personal insult.
Not much else be said, but I was thrown to the ground, kicked around as he unleashed his pent up stress and anxiety, on a human child for a punching bag.
