Confrontation
Coming to terms - Part 9 - the confrontation
25/09/08 22:09 Filed in: Psychology | Child Abuse
I had steeled and becalmed myself for days or weeks before that night. I was as calm as I could be. My pulse raced and I could feel it beating in my temples. I had worked out the words to say to my father. At first, the words were a little cold and abstract like enquiring about the weather on a wet afternoon. I would simply ask him calm direct questions and let him know my feelings. I knew I had to remain calm. One sign of fear or anxiety and he would jump through that chink in my armour faster than I could deflect him.
It was early autumn. I remember behaving in a way that was out of character. I raided my parent’s drink cabinet and poured myself a glass of scotch strong enough to anaesthetise a skunk. I drew deep breaths.
My mother already knew that something was wrong but she had never imagined hearing what followed. My father talked on and on about himself as he always did. I drew a deep breath and told them both that there was something very important I needed to talk to them about. Silence in the room. Eyes focused on me. Their interpretation was probably that I was about to confess a terrible misdemeanour or say something like I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
I stayed calm to the last. I spoke softly in silence. I talked about what had happened to me at the hands of my father. Something that had really stuck in my gullet was his allegation of how I had committed a sexual assault on my brother, transferring the blame for what he had done to me. I talked of the miserable consequences the abuse had on my personal relationships, a whole series of broken intimate relationships.
He replied, “I thought all I did was to bring you up to be the very successful person you are now.”
I almost bit a chunk out of the whisky tumbler. I still felt anger and I could feel it rising inside me.
“So is that your formula for bringing up children?” I responded. “Beating me senseless until I was unable to function, let alone feel or think. Locking me in rooms, sticking your penis in my face then telling me I had venereal disease. I WAS TEN YEARS OLD! Connecting me to the electricity…I thought I would die. Telling me I was unfit to mix with other children, that I was scum…on and on and on…then going to the doctor and telling him what you did to me, I did to my brother. I was thirty-two when I found out about that. How do you think that felt? So are you going to sit there and lie to me now?”
Those are not the exact words, but a loose paraphrase, but by god was I angry.
He denied it all again. I stayed silent. I remained silent for minutes, seething.
He denied it all again.
I calmed myself and slumped back in the chair.
My mother spoke, “You know Geoffrey is speaking the truth Joe, so do I.”
‘Shit mum!’ I thought. This was support from unexpected quarters.
I watched him carefully, studied his body language, anticipating a violent outburst. I had no need to be afraid. I was very much stronger than him and could restrain him easily.
Begrudgingly and sullenly, he acknowledged that I was telling “my version of the truth” pointing out that he believed that all he had done was for my benefit. After all, “look at him now.”
Once more I went through the consequences of his violence and harming behaviour. This time I didn’t stop there. I talked about what he was doing to my mother. I demanded that he stopped.
“Or else, what will you do?” he replied aggressively.
I didn’t go there that night to engage in some sparring contest or threatening exchange, but I knew I had to turn up the heat. There was no regret, no remorse, no contrition in him.
“Or else, I’ll go to social services, your doctor and the police,” I replied, “and if I have to challenge you physically, I’ll do that too. You don’t frighten me now. You have no hold over me or my mother. It’s the end. It’s over. Now you choose.”
Epilogue
I left soon after that. I’m certain that my mother was never beaten by him again. Sadly she died five years ago from Alzheimer’s. I wondered about the connection of being beaten round the head with heavy objects and that illness. I do believe that in his own way, my father got better too. I talk to him two or three times a year. We salvaged a relationship of sorts. It’s not that friendly but in some ways I care for him. Don’t ask me how. I simply don’t know.
After that night, although I checked on my mother from time to time, my parents didn’t speak to me that much for a couple of years. I feel that in their own way, they too were coming to terms with guilt and shame.
Some time after this event, I made it to the point of acceptance and forgiveness.
It was early autumn. I remember behaving in a way that was out of character. I raided my parent’s drink cabinet and poured myself a glass of scotch strong enough to anaesthetise a skunk. I drew deep breaths.
My mother already knew that something was wrong but she had never imagined hearing what followed. My father talked on and on about himself as he always did. I drew a deep breath and told them both that there was something very important I needed to talk to them about. Silence in the room. Eyes focused on me. Their interpretation was probably that I was about to confess a terrible misdemeanour or say something like I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
I stayed calm to the last. I spoke softly in silence. I talked about what had happened to me at the hands of my father. Something that had really stuck in my gullet was his allegation of how I had committed a sexual assault on my brother, transferring the blame for what he had done to me. I talked of the miserable consequences the abuse had on my personal relationships, a whole series of broken intimate relationships.
He replied, “I thought all I did was to bring you up to be the very successful person you are now.”
I almost bit a chunk out of the whisky tumbler. I still felt anger and I could feel it rising inside me.
“So is that your formula for bringing up children?” I responded. “Beating me senseless until I was unable to function, let alone feel or think. Locking me in rooms, sticking your penis in my face then telling me I had venereal disease. I WAS TEN YEARS OLD! Connecting me to the electricity…I thought I would die. Telling me I was unfit to mix with other children, that I was scum…on and on and on…then going to the doctor and telling him what you did to me, I did to my brother. I was thirty-two when I found out about that. How do you think that felt? So are you going to sit there and lie to me now?”
Those are not the exact words, but a loose paraphrase, but by god was I angry.
He denied it all again. I stayed silent. I remained silent for minutes, seething.
He denied it all again.
I calmed myself and slumped back in the chair.
My mother spoke, “You know Geoffrey is speaking the truth Joe, so do I.”
‘Shit mum!’ I thought. This was support from unexpected quarters.
I watched him carefully, studied his body language, anticipating a violent outburst. I had no need to be afraid. I was very much stronger than him and could restrain him easily.
Begrudgingly and sullenly, he acknowledged that I was telling “my version of the truth” pointing out that he believed that all he had done was for my benefit. After all, “look at him now.”
Once more I went through the consequences of his violence and harming behaviour. This time I didn’t stop there. I talked about what he was doing to my mother. I demanded that he stopped.
“Or else, what will you do?” he replied aggressively.
I didn’t go there that night to engage in some sparring contest or threatening exchange, but I knew I had to turn up the heat. There was no regret, no remorse, no contrition in him.
“Or else, I’ll go to social services, your doctor and the police,” I replied, “and if I have to challenge you physically, I’ll do that too. You don’t frighten me now. You have no hold over me or my mother. It’s the end. It’s over. Now you choose.”
Epilogue
I left soon after that. I’m certain that my mother was never beaten by him again. Sadly she died five years ago from Alzheimer’s. I wondered about the connection of being beaten round the head with heavy objects and that illness. I do believe that in his own way, my father got better too. I talk to him two or three times a year. We salvaged a relationship of sorts. It’s not that friendly but in some ways I care for him. Don’t ask me how. I simply don’t know.
After that night, although I checked on my mother from time to time, my parents didn’t speak to me that much for a couple of years. I feel that in their own way, they too were coming to terms with guilt and shame.
Some time after this event, I made it to the point of acceptance and forgiveness.
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