I was a bad kid... meandering thoughts on growing up in the 80's

 CW: Discussion about: domestic violence against children (perpetrated by parents/care givers) and domestic violence by a teen against an adult (against the parent/caregiver); some mental health discussion, and self-denigration and degradation. 

If you are triggered by these things, read with caution or skip this one.

Hello my beautiful readers, who haven't meandered off with pandemic shock. I'm still alive, and I hope you're all ok. Writing has been hard, and most of the writing I've been doing this past year is journaling. I'm hoping to write more, and am making time for it now.

This one took a long time. If you, or someone you know is being abused, there is help!

The Domestic Violence Hotline: 800.799.SAFE (7233)

RAINN (Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network): 1.800.656.4673

NCADV (National Coalition Against Domestic Violence): They have a huge reference list!

Now to the blog:

I’ve been thinking a lot lately—over the past year or so, about the abuse I went through as a kid. Not just me, but my entire generation did. We’re cusp kids for a reason—born mid-to-late 70’s and growing up in the 80’s and coming of age in the 90’s, we saw some shit! Even before we were old enough to know we’d seen it, we lived it.

I was born in the last quarter of 1977; and so just turned 2 when Ronald Regan was sworn into office as President. I was born during the whole Iran oil embargo, and was very small during the Contra Affair. I grew into elementary school age hearing about HIV/AIDS, and learned several permutations of the disease’s name, including “that gay stomach one, you know, So-and-So caught it, and died” (please read that sentence in the most southern voice you can. Then you’ll know you have it right. To this day I’m surprised that slurs were never used to talk to, or about, LGB people in my hearing, growing up. Trans persons, well, that’s another story altogether ☹ )

I remember Oliver North holding up his hand (being sworn in to testify before Congress) and my mother being sad that he was “being crucified by the libruls”. But I had no idea what that meant. She listened to G. Gordon Liddy on the radio for years after he got out of federal prison, too, and always thought he was unfairly maligned.

One thing I keep coming back to, though, over and over, is the way we were raised back then. Benign neglect interspersed with vicious beatings. If I had to describe by years from about 4 to 11, that’s how I’d describe it. After 11, I’d have to add in religious abuse and more overt neglect and more beatings. It got worse the older I got. But 4 to 11, was mostly running around playing, being a very quiet kid, so I didn’t get in trouble, and avoiding the worst of things.

I was pulled out of public school during Christmas break of 3^rd grade. I was 8 years old, and it was 1985. I remember that she’d asked me prior to that what I thought about home school, and put it to me something like this: “what if you could get your school work done before lunch, and then play the rest of the day?” Well, I was 8, so that sounded great! But I don’t know that I really understood what she meant, because when I realized that I was going to have to do my work at home, and not go to school, I was crushed.

I got a packet of “get better soon” letters from my third grade class. I didn’t see them until the summer, when my mother sent me into her room to get something for my little brother, and I saw my name on the envelope. I can’t remember what I was going in there for, but it was right by the envelope, so I know she did it on purpose. She’s NPD, the toxic kind, and so this was like air and water to her. I cried, asking her why I never got them, why they thought I was sick, and she told me that they never cared, and only wrote those because the teacher forced them to. Gaslighting started early in my family—otherwise how could she control us.

I think the reasons she pulled us were more simple that she claims—even to this day (as far as I know), she says that the school was very bad, gangs, and drugs and all this horrible stuff. That she pulled us, even though it was illegal in Michigan, and insert something here about how risky it was for her, and how they prayed god protect them from the school system. Feel free to roll your eyes, because everyone knows the truant officers in the 80’s had the power to lock up parents…

No, I think she did it for 2 reasons: 1, she hated mornings, and didn’t want to get up early (she considered early to be 9am, except on Sundays, when she got up at like 7 for church); and 2- she didn’t like my 3^rd grade teacher, Ms. Delach. I still remember her, as she was the first “Ms.” Teacher I had. She had long black hair, and was probably my mother’s age, so mid-to-late 20’s at the time. She wasn’t married, and she hadn’t been divorced. She just was a single lady who taught 3^rd grade. And my mother hated her! Hated!

Why? Because Ms. Delach told us that we could come to her if we needed help, or had questions, or whatever. Because that’s what teachers do.

Because this teacher cared about us, and told us she would be there for us.

Also, I think because this teacher was single, and doing her thing, and living her life—and my mother chose to be a stay at home mother, and run a day-care out of the house. I think she felt like my teacher was teaching me to judge her; but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I never felt like my teacher judged any of our parents. But that was over 30 years ago, so maybe she was, and I just didn’t pick up on it.

My mother was, and is, a deeply selfish person, and that’s where the heart of most of her actions and choices lies: her selfishness. Whatever worked for Barbie is what was going to work for everyone, goddammit, or she’d make sure you couldn’t sit down for a few days without wincing, so you could think about why it hadn’t worked then, but sure as fuck was fine now.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter: the beatings.

How many people do you know, who were born in the 1970’s and early 80’s who were beaten as kids? How many of your aunts and uncles, cousins and probably parents said shit like, “Oh, my parents hit me when I was a kid, and I’m just fine” as a reason for hitting their own kids, or their niblings*?

How many of you had 1 parent who beat the ever-loving shit out of you, while the other was working, or away, or didn’t really know?

How many of you were raised to think it was normal?

In my house, and in my religious sub-culture, the mother was the disciplinarian. That meant she spoke with Dad’s voice, and God’s voice, and if you were bad (whatever that meant at that moment) she was going to make you sorry. Because better that your ass hurt, than you went to hell.

Literally, that’s what she would say to us. Better to be in a little pain now, than in pain eternally…

Threatening your little tiny kids with hell is one way to make them behave, I guess.

I went no contact with my mother several times as an adult before it became permanent. It became officially permanent on Mother’s Day, 2009. Twelve years ago. I was more than ready to say good bye, and haven’t spoken to her since mid-November 2008; the Mother’s Day thing was a stunt on her part, and included several choice nasties like “I’m ashamed that you’re a Smith” and “you’re not my daughter anymore” and “I’ve re-done my Will, and written you out of it. You can’t have my money if you’re going to be so disrespectful.”

I want to break those down, one at a time:

1.       I’m ashamed that you’re a Smith

This was something she always talked about, how proud we should be of our last name. How honoured a name it was, and how we had to live up to it. That my Grandfather had handed down a name that was untarnished and precious, and it was up to us to do the same for our children. At the time she told me this, she had divorced my dad, and so wasn’t a Smith any more… it was never her name—not in the way she taught me that it was mine. It was mine like my blue eyes, like my birthday, like my very self. For her, as it was a “married name” it was borrowed. For me, it is me. But whether I use it or not, it’s mine, and I don’t believe I’ve done anything to tarnish it. It was a hateful thing for her to say, but it didn’t affect me; I didn’t think less of myself for it—more confused that she’d tried to pull that one. WTF!? Rather than “Oh no!”

 2.       You’re not my daughter any more

I don’t know that this one bothered me much, either. She never treated me like a daughter. I was house-keeper, nanny to my brother, counselor (so she could bitch about everyone around us) and all-around punching bag, literally and verbally. My sister got beat worse than I did, because she’s more like my mother in looks and mannerisms, so I would never say I was the “Cinderella kid” or whatever, but, beatings are beatings, and I won’t play the “other people get it worse so I need to get over my own trauma”.

This one should have hurt though—to have your parent tell you that you are nothing to them. It hurt a bit, and still does, especially around Mother’s Day. I’ve written about it before. But at the same time, it hurts like an old injury that catches when it’s rainy, rather than a deep wound. The abuse hurts more, the things I was taught (that I was worthless, that I only had value if I was perfect, stuff like that) hurt so much more than being disowned.

3.       I’ve re-done my Will, and written you out of it. You can’t have my money if you’re going to be so disrespectful.

“Disrespectful in Narcissistic-Evangelical-HypoChristian-speak is: You aren’t doing what I want you to do, so you’re rebelling, and you’re wrong! Your very thoughts disrespect me and everything I have taught you. You are rebelling against God and your parents, and are at risk of hell! You should feel ashamed, as you are shameful.”

 Some people talk about respect as “treating you like a person” while others use it the other way, “treating someone like an authority”. So, stop me if you’ve heard it before, my mother used respect like so: “I’ll treat you like a person, if you treat me always like your authority”.

 Disrespect meant I wasn’t treating her like a little god, and so I wasn’t worth being treated like an actual human being.

 Being called disrespectful means that deep down, you’re evil, wrong, and terrible. It means that you, yourself, the one being disrespectful, are everything wrong with the world, and probably influenced by Satan. It is one of the worst things a Christian of that stripe can say about anyone, and it gives them a blanket cheque to do whatever they feel they have to do, to get the disrespectful person back “right with God”, or basically, back in the Narcissist’s good graces.

It means that I should feel shame, because I am only worthy of shame.

It meant that she felt I could be bought—and she dangled that price (which I dunno what it was) as a way to purchase my loyalty and obedience.

She told me this when I was 31 years old.

Thirty-One Years Old, and she wanted, no, demanded, my instant obedience, as if I was three, and darting into traffic.

I know that I am a genuine person, with, or without, treating her like she’s god.

That’s why it doesn’t hurt much.

 

When I think about childhood, there is a deep sense of shame and guilt. But I know it’s not mine, it’s hers, and so that’s something I’m working through in therapy. I don’t want to carry her shame any more—shit, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be ashamed of! I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel guilty about, either.

I have to admit, that not knowing does make it easier for me to deal with the emotions. I don’t have to try to dig out the bad, shameful, guilt-inducing stuff—because it isn’t there. It’s still hard, and I still have to deal with guilt and stuff, but it’s not because I did it, and so that does help me talk myself through it.

What the impetus was for this meandering, though, was the beatings.

“I was a bad kid,”; “I was difficult”; “I talked back”, you get the idea. I’ve heard these things over and over from people who were abused like I was. We have these reasons that excuse our parents for hurting us, for beating us, because we were bad.

It struck me when I was reading through Down the Rabbit Hole: the world of estranged parents’ forums, (http://www.issendai.com/psychology/estrangement/index.html). This led me to her Randompedia, where there was an article, and someone commented something like, above; I was a bad kid, and so of course my parents beat me, it wasn’t really their fault.

Less than 2 weeks later, I was listening to a podcast (Cognitive Dissonance) where one of the hosts talked about his own childhood, and said, “I was a bad kid” before going on to talk about how his father abused him.

I’ve pondered this for almost two years now. “I was a bad kid” so I deserved to be beaten. I’ve been writing this for months at this point, and again and again, it echoes, “I was a bad kid”.

I was difficult, I had needs, I was thoughtless because I was 8, whatever the reasons… so I deserved to be beaten.

I was too curious, too quiet, too loud, to whatever…so I deserved to be beaten.

I asked questions, because I loved Jesus, and wanted to be good, but they weren’t the right questions… so I deserved every single strike I got.

I tried to be a good girl, but never knew what was allowed, and what would mark me as disobedient—the nuisance of it changed regularly, and so I obviously deserved to be hit over and over for not knowing the simplest thing.

I deserved to be forced to “go get a switch”, or “go get the belt”.

If I did love my mother, and wanted to be good, it couldn’t have been that hard. I must have wanted to be a bad kid, so of course I deserved every welt, bruise, broken blood vessels, strained and sprained muscles—every single one.

But I know, in my heart that I would never beat my kids for those reasons.

There’s not a reason out there that would cause me to beat my kids. Not being too loud or curious, not for being annoying or obnoxious. Hell, I had one physically attack me, and try to bite right through my arm, and I didn’t beat her. I didn’t beat her any of the times she attacked me. I thought about it, sure, because when someone your size hits you, your first thought is to fight back… but she was 16 and my size, and I still chose to restrain over harm. I chose not to hurt her.

I chose every day when I was upset with them to stand them in the corner, or send them to their rooms, instead of hitting them with whatever I would reach. I chose, every day to talk to them, to try to reason with them, rather than taking off my belt and bruising them.

I chose, even when one of them hit me, not to do that in retaliation. I chose to model the better way, and I think my kids are better for it. I know I am. I broke that cycle, and it feels damned good.

But back to the bad kid, the one who “deserved it”.

Did they break into houses and steal things?

Did they threatened or hurt others?

Did they attack their parents, or siblings? Did they stalk their siblings?

Did they lie and cheat?

Did they steal from everyone, everywhere—school, home, friends, the store, anything that wasn’t nailed down?

Did they skip school?

Did they get arrested?

I have a kid who did all these things, and yeah, she was a pretty bad kid.

But she did not deserve to be beaten.

If she’d stolen my car—which she didn’t—she wouldn’t deserve it. Even if she’d put me or her little brother in hospital (she would lay in wait for him, to try to beat him up. She also used to hit him or try to hit me), she still wouldn’t deserve a beating.

And don’t get me wrong, I didn’t sacrifice my son for my daughter. He was encouraged to fight back, and I put protections in place for him, including picking him up after school, so they weren’t alone in the house. But he didn’t get to beat her up, any more than she got to beat him up.

And yes, we worked with the courts, and therapist, with doctors and psychiatrists. Some people just make choices to be mean, to cause trouble, to disregard the thoughts and feelings of others. Sometimes all you can do is wait it out—so that’s what we did. We worked around her actions, and when she was 18, she moved out.

She was our proverbial “bad kid”, but I believe she absolutely did not deserve to be beaten. She didn’t deserve to be bruised and bloodied. She didn’t deserve to be hit. Or harmed. No kid does.

This brings me full circle. If my kid, who drove me absolutely spare for years, did not deserve to be harmed. My kid, who was charged by the county of domestic violence against me and her little brother. Who was violent, among other anti-social behaviours; who actively chose to be cruel and mean when she didn’t get her way, and who chose to attack others when she was bored (yes, really!).

If she didn’t deserve that pain and punishment, then why did I? Why did any of us? We can agree that hurting our kids is wrong, but why wasn’t it wrong that we were hurt?

That’s the hard part, isn’t it? In order to survive the abuse we were put through, we had to re-write our brains. Instead of “this is bad, and we should get help” we were taught that this was normal, and “if they didn’t love me, they wouldn’t hurt me”. So love became equal to abuse. This leads to all sorts of bad outcomes for us as adults: substance abuse and addiction, abusive relationships, self-harm, and perpetuating that cycle of abuse. This was our normal. It was what it was, and that’s all we knew.

So, now that we know better, why do we still excuse our abusers?

I went back to therapy over a year ago; while 2020 is a dumpster fire that is on fire, 2019 was really shitty for me, personally. A lot of really bad things happened in my personal/home life, and work was not great, so it felt like a cascade of fail, and I was drowning. So, I did the adult thing, took hold of my mental health with both hands, and went back to therapy. And it was haaaaard!

I continued to see my therapist regularly through the pandemic, and I’m going to make an appointment here shortly to check in with her again. The election and siege/attempted coup of the Capital didn’t do much to help my mental state, lemme tell you!

But, part of the work I’ve been doing, the really hard stuff, is to take a good look at the choices the adults made in my life, as I was a kid. Not to excuse them, or even accuse them. But look at them. To take the time and step outside the role of kid in the tableaux, and to relate as an adult to the adults.

It’s not easy, because we tend to be fiercely protective of our parents, grandparents and others who raised us. We tend to let them off easy: they didn’t know, they didn’t know better; they tried; they did the best they could; it was a different time… and on, and on, and on.

It’s also hard not to judge them—the 2021 me, and the 1980’s them. Research was already out that showed the damage “corporal punishment” did, both in kids, and in prisons. We’ve known for a very, very long time how bad hitting people is. But 40 years ago, we excused it, for the same reason people like my sister excuse it now: it’s just the way we’ve always done it, and how else will the kids learn.

You ever train a cat to know when you get home from work? Or train a dog to know what time your breakfast is?

No, of course not! But they know, don’t they?

And you can train a cat or dog with a “clicker” and treats. And they learn tricks!

My cat knows the sound of the keychain part of the laser toy. She can differentiate between it and other keychains, knows what the laser looks like when it’s off the chain, and knows where I keep them. When she wants to play, she will “mew” at me, and walk toward the book shelf. She learned this, I never taught her.

So, if you have to beat your kid so they learn, you’re telling me that your kid is stupider than a Labrador? That your housecat is smarter than your kid (well, in some cases, that’s probably true, as house cats are soooo smart!) I trained my cats with a water bottle—I’ve spritzed them with water maybe once. I just shake the bottle and they stop whatever it was they were doing.

My kids learned to stop yelling for my attention when I’d hold up two fingers. It was the “stop and pause a moment” sign. Not shouting, or yelling, just holding up 2 fingers. They learned this through repetition, and reminding them. I didn’t have to hit them. I worked to teach them by talking, by modeling good behaviour. But I knew I didn’t have to smack my leg with a newspaper to startle them—they weren’t dogs. And I sure as hell didn’t have to hit them with sticks.

That’s where I’ve been, for months now. Circling this idea.

I was beaten à I was bad à I didn’t beat my kids for any of the same behaviour à They were not bad à Then maybe I Wasn’t a bad kid à but I got beaten, so I was a bad kid

Logically I know that I was a quiet, well-mannered, shy, inquisitive, and kind child.

Logically I know that I was not bad.

This tells me that the podcaster was probably not a bad kid, either. It tells me that my peers weren’t bad. That my friends weren’t. That my entire fucking cohort probably wasn’t nearly as bad as we were told that we were.

This tells me that the podcaster, my friends, relatives, my entire generation, and myself, were fed a pack of the same lies that our parents were taught. They didn’t learn how to parent without violence, and so they didn’t know there was another way. So they lived what they learned.

Now, we’re living what we learned.

I don’t know how many months or years will pass before I can look at myself in the mirror and say, “You were not a bad kid” without tearing up. I don’t know how much time will pass before I remember that first, before I stop excusing the beatings my entire generation took because “that’s just how it was”. I don’t know how much time will pass before we, collectively as a species, realise that hurting our kids is wrong. Before we decide to stop wounding entire generations of people by teaching them they are bad.

I’m trying now, and will keep trying. But I want you all to do the same thing.

Remember: You Were NOT a bad kid. No matter how bad you were, you weren’t a bad kid who deserved to be hurt. You never deserved to be beaten, hit, punched, shoved, or harmed. Not ever.

If I tell you, and you tell me, then we can remind each other.

Ok?

* gender neutral word for nieces and nephews, that isn’t making assumptions about the gender of your siblings’ kids, and makes space for non-binary kiddos J I love it, and try to use it always!