Being raised into the air and having your pants pulled down unleashes feelings of helplessness followed by a chronic anticipation of rage which instilled terror.
The detrusor muscle contracts and you try to not wet yourself with fear. The shouting and inevitable onslaught of a spanking comes thick and fast. The pain, as it transfers through you renders you scared and embarrassed, shamed and guilt ridden. What had I done to deserve this?
An extra couple of smacks as my father realizes I have now actually pissed all over the floor and him in my terrified helpless form.
We are on holiday. Father shouts me over. I'm on my tiptoes trying to look down over the wall at the river below. He grabs me and hoists me up. I'm in shock. What have I done now? He lowers me by my arm over the side of the bridge. He leaves me dangling. I'm petrified. Please don't drop me I say internally. I squeeze my eyes shut and panic engulfs me. My breathing becomes rapid and I'm helpless again. The river way below gently meandering its way under the bridge. I hear my mother tell him to bring me back up. He does as he's bid and puts me back on terrafirma. I run away from him. I don't trust him.
I'm sat watching TV. Father lying down with his feet over my lap. We are watching the Para Olympics. A person in a wheelchair falls over after colliding with another athlete. I laugh. Father lifts his heel and smashes it into my thigh twice with force. 'Don't laugh. That's not funny' he shouts. I remove myself and limp out of the room.
Swimming one Friday. I am perched on an inflatable in the deep end. Father breast strokes toward me. He flips the inflatable, I submerge and scramble back onto it. He repeats. I once again scramble. I'm getting breathless. I'm getting scared. He repeats this several times. I'm exhausted. I head for the side. Make the edge. Fight off tears. Get out. I no longer wish to swim. Swimming with him after this looses it's appeal.
The nervous system adapts and becomes wired. It has become accustomed to being in this state. The fight, flight, fawn and freeze mechanism takes over. And so begins the life of battling. Battling with your demons. Battling with yourself. Coping through maladaptive strategies which in the end fail you. Living behind a mask of smiles and confidence which belies the truth. Nervousness, anxiety, perfectionism, anger, fear and shame.
Being comfortable around women was always the social norm for me. Maybe it was because my father was away alot and I was raised by my Mother and Sister. The reality was my father was a bully. An emotionally abusive and dominant figure who controlled everything in the household. His anger couldn't be tempered and we were often scared. At times he was happy. The constant eggshell walking and fear had us all nervous. He could snap at anytime. Nothing was ever good enough for him and his constant critique and misplaced compliments were confusing to us children. This was normal. We knew no different. What did we have to compare it?
Being in a dark room alone and scared. Sobbing. Bottom red raw from another spanking. It stung. I had spilled a drink on the coffee table. My father had grabbed me and spun me round under his arm and wellied me. We could never do anything wrong without undergoing a severe punishment or beating. We couldn't learn normally. I suppose this was where the anxiety began. We had to do things right, first time, everytime. There was no fun. No happiness. Just fear. It was nothing short of terror. The rules were changed often and we never knew who he was going to be from one moment to the next.
I had my first suicidal ideation at 12. I brushed it off. I couldn't relate to this feeling. It was dread and emotion combined. Couldn't shake it. Couldn't decipher it. But the unmistakable urge to end things was there. I was 12. No idea what life was yet or even how to contemplate my own death. Dad was out. I went and sat in the garden and relaxed. I could never let my guard down with him here. I was confused. I felt low. Unworthy. Unheard. Sad.
Primary caregivers are generally your parents. Gods in the eyes of children. You expect them to guide you and nuture, help with emotion and teach you right from wrong. This is the point. In some way we thought this was normal. How could we know any different? What did we have to compare it to? This was normal and we grew and blossomed despite this. But as in nature, flowers wilt, and they perish. This the die was cast and I was heading for a calamitous fullstop in my 40th year.
The detrusor muscle contracts and you try to not wet yourself with fear. The shouting and inevitable onslaught of a spanking comes thick and fast. The pain, as it transfers through you renders you scared and embarrassed, shamed and guilt ridden. What had I done to deserve this?
An extra couple of smacks as my father realizes I have now actually pissed all over the floor and him in my terrified helpless form.
We are on holiday. Father shouts me over. I'm on my tiptoes trying to look down over the wall at the river below. He grabs me and hoists me up. I'm in shock. What have I done now? He lowers me by my arm over the side of the bridge. He leaves me dangling. I'm petrified. Please don't drop me I say internally. I squeeze my eyes shut and panic engulfs me. My breathing becomes rapid and I'm helpless again. The river way below gently meandering its way under the bridge. I hear my mother tell him to bring me back up. He does as he's bid and puts me back on terrafirma. I run away from him. I don't trust him.
I'm sat watching TV. Father lying down with his feet over my lap. We are watching the Para Olympics. A person in a wheelchair falls over after colliding with another athlete. I laugh. Father lifts his heel and smashes it into my thigh twice with force. 'Don't laugh. That's not funny' he shouts. I remove myself and limp out of the room.
Swimming one Friday. I am perched on an inflatable in the deep end. Father breast strokes toward me. He flips the inflatable, I submerge and scramble back onto it. He repeats. I once again scramble. I'm getting breathless. I'm getting scared. He repeats this several times. I'm exhausted. I head for the side. Make the edge. Fight off tears. Get out. I no longer wish to swim. Swimming with him after this looses it's appeal.
The nervous system adapts and becomes wired. It has become accustomed to being in this state. The fight, flight, fawn and freeze mechanism takes over. And so begins the life of battling. Battling with your demons. Battling with yourself. Coping through maladaptive strategies which in the end fail you. Living behind a mask of smiles and confidence which belies the truth. Nervousness, anxiety, perfectionism, anger, fear and shame.
Being comfortable around women was always the social norm for me. Maybe it was because my father was away alot and I was raised by my Mother and Sister. The reality was my father was a bully. An emotionally abusive and dominant figure who controlled everything in the household. His anger couldn't be tempered and we were often scared. At times he was happy. The constant eggshell walking and fear had us all nervous. He could snap at anytime. Nothing was ever good enough for him and his constant critique and misplaced compliments were confusing to us children. This was normal. We knew no different. What did we have to compare it?
Being in a dark room alone and scared. Sobbing. Bottom red raw from another spanking. It stung. I had spilled a drink on the coffee table. My father had grabbed me and spun me round under his arm and wellied me. We could never do anything wrong without undergoing a severe punishment or beating. We couldn't learn normally. I suppose this was where the anxiety began. We had to do things right, first time, everytime. There was no fun. No happiness. Just fear. It was nothing short of terror. The rules were changed often and we never knew who he was going to be from one moment to the next.
I had my first suicidal ideation at 12. I brushed it off. I couldn't relate to this feeling. It was dread and emotion combined. Couldn't shake it. Couldn't decipher it. But the unmistakable urge to end things was there. I was 12. No idea what life was yet or even how to contemplate my own death. Dad was out. I went and sat in the garden and relaxed. I could never let my guard down with him here. I was confused. I felt low. Unworthy. Unheard. Sad.
Primary caregivers are generally your parents. Gods in the eyes of children. You expect them to guide you and nuture, help with emotion and teach you right from wrong. This is the point. In some way we thought this was normal. How could we know any different? What did we have to compare it to? This was normal and we grew and blossomed despite this. But as in nature, flowers wilt, and they perish. This the die was cast and I was heading for a calamitous fullstop in my 40th year.
