2007 04: Abused as a child

The Star Online. Lifestyle. Focus. Monday April 9, 2007

By JF

A husband shares his wife’s experiences of child abuse.

JEN was dragged into the room by her mother. Her tiny frame was filled with dreadful anticipation of the beating she would soon receive. She knew it would be a violent one, simply because her father was in the room her mother was dragging her into. She tried in vain to pull away.

In mad moments like this, her mother seemed to develop supernatural strength. Jen’s father was sitting on the bed, reading newspapers.

“How many times have I told you not to play with dolls? Why don’t you listen to me?” She slapped Jen across her face. “Teach you not to be so stubborn,” she shouted at the frightened little girl, before she started shaking her.

“If I knew you would drive me crazy, I’d rather lay an egg. At least I could have a half-boiled egg for breakfast.” She kept hitting Jen.

“‘Where did you get the money to buy the doll? Didn’t I throw your doll away? Did you steal? You, you ... @#**##@ ... If you did, I’ll kill you!”

“No, I didn’t ... grand ... grandma ... bought it for me.” The words barely came out of her mouth as she gasped for air. “No more playing with dolls, you hear me!” She kicked Jen, sending her flying to the side of the bed.

Her mother flung her away from it and her head struck the wall. Jen didn’t get up. She sat on the floor, weeping quietly. She knew better than to draw attention to herself.

‘What are you waiting for? More beating?” She gave Jen a kick on her already bruised thigh.

Back in her room, Jen lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling and thinking. “Grandma always tells me about God. God, did you see how my mother beat me? My father did nothing to stop her. Why do they hate me so much?”

Jen pictured herself in a coffin. All the people who attended her funeral were saying nice things about her. Her mother was crying like crazy. “I’m sorry, Jen ... I’m sorry.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks when she pictured how remorseful and apologetic her mother was. Her father was silently weeping at the side of her coffin. Every time the beating became severe and unbearable, she would picture the same scene over and over again until she fell asleep.

Whenever Jen’s father angered her mother, she would take it out on her. She was more violent and vicious then. Her father never stopped her, but seemed deaf to the cursing and shouting of his wife and blind to the pain of his traumatised daughter. Jen’s parents seemed to lead separate lives even though they lived under the same roof. Jen’s mother took to gambling when her husband was at work. Jen knew her mother had had a good day at the gambling table when she came home in a good mood and sometimes, bearing gifts. When she lost, she’d make Jen’s life miserable. Jen’s father disappeared during the weekends. During weeknights, he came home drunk.

By the time Jen was almost 16 years old, the beatings had stopped. She hardly spoke to her father, and vice versa. Her mother’s behaviour was dictated by her moods. When Jen started working, their relationship improved. Her first pay cheque saw to that. Each month, Jen made sure she set aside some money for her mother. Once, Jen promised her mother part of her bonus so that she could join a package tour to Europe. After that, Jen’s mother was cordial, almost to the point of caring. But all this changed when Jen was two days’ late in giving her the money. When Jen came home from work that day, her mother ignored her greeting. “I’m not lucky like Mrs So-and-So whose daughter always takes her to high-class hotels for meals,” her mother sighed. “I would be lucky if my mother were as sweet as Mrs So-and-So.” Jen couldn’t help thinking. However, she knew it would turn the complaint into a dragging melodramatic scene if she’d dared to voice her thought.

“I don’t know how some people have the cheek to make empty promises. Their parents must be cursed to have children like that. Ungrateful children, only know how to take and take.”

Something inside Jen snapped when she heard the word “ungrateful”. She forgot how much her mother terrified her. “You have never cared for me and now what you care about is money. Have you ever cared if I’m happy or not? Money, money, money ... that’s all you care about. What about me? Do you remember that I’m your daughter? Have you ever treated me as one?”

Jen’s eyes welled with tears as she spoke emotionally. Jen’s mother got up from her chair and, without a word, went to her room. Shortly after, she came out with her handbag and headed for the front door. Without a backward glance, she slammed the door and left. She was gone the longest time. Past midnight, and she was still not home. Jen worried about her mother. Several times, she waited at the gate. Jen’s imagination started to run wild. She could picture the next morning’s newspaper headline: “Woman jumps from seventh floor of hotel.” She was getting more frightened by the minute. It was her fault, Jen thought. If only she had not confronted her mother. She should know that her mother would never understand that all she wanted from her was a little love. When her mother came home shortly after 2am, Jen felt relieved. She waited another hour before she went to check the shoe rack. Yes, her mother’s favourite pair of heels were there. When she received her bonus, Jen rushed home to give it to her mother who took the money without a word.

Fast forward 30 years. Jen’s father was dying in the hospital. He had been diagnosed with throat cancer. Jen remembered she flew home and went straight to the hospital. She was shocked when she saw how frail her father had become. Her father’s eyes lit up and a smile of welcome played on his very pale, sallow face when he caught sight of Jen. She thought this was the first time he showed some emotion. This was the man who had never acknowledged or thanked her for the birthday presents she’d saved up to buy. This was also the same man who almost broke his silence when he had alcohol in his system. One night, in his drunken state, he had attempted to offer an explanation. “You kno-ow-w, w-what your mother is cap-aa-ble of ... t-that’s why I ... didn’t st-stop ?,” he said. Before she could react, her mother’s sharp hearing brought her out like a crazed animal. She backed him up against the wall, to shut him up. “Oh, you are so-o-o-o perfect, so-o-o-o blameless. Most of my problems are thanks to you.” Her tone was sharp and cutting. “Don’t make me knock you down, you @@#$%%&&$ drunk,” she threatened. “I can’t outta-a-lkk her?,” he said, as he put his hands up in surrender and walked tipsily to his room.

During his one-week stay in the hospital Jen had a lot of “firsts” with him. It was the first time she saw him up-close. It was the first time she touched him as she gently massaged his shoulders. She was so nervous. Her father had been such a remote figure to her. He’d never been her protector, never soothed her when she was hurt, never been there for her when she needed him. It was the first time she tried to feed him. She could feel her hands tremble. Throat cancer took away his ability to talk.

Jen knew he was in pain most of the time. To his wife, he was a burden. She considered their union a misery. Jen’s father died in silence – exactly a week after he returned home from the hospital. She would like to think that his indifference towards her was born of love. Had he spoken up, or attempted to rescue and protect her, her mother would have been more brutal. However, Jen felt she had unfinished business with her father. When he had the chance to speak, he didn’t; and when he wanted to, he couldn’t. She would always remember the little bit of warmth they’d shared before his passing.