How Can A Parent Hate Her Child?
I recently said something to the effect of "my mother didn't love me, or care about my safety, occassionally beat me senseless, and basically had no respect for any female, herself or me included, but she hated my little brother with a passion"
I was then asked "Why did she hate him so much?"
I've given this a lot of thought. It has been taking up a lot of the limited space in my brain, and I felt the need to examine it. I can't have too many negative queries banging around in there all at once, no good can come from that.
Dugger was sweet. Dugger, of course, was a nickname. His other nicknames were vile and varied, and were sometimes as effective as a blow to his body when used cruelly.
He was a small baby, cute and cuddly and needy, like new babies are. I was three when he arrived with the "social worker", whom I now regard as more a dealer or a pimp, and he instantly became "mine".
He was slow to talk (he didn't need to talk, I knew what he wanted before he did, and made damn sure he had it before he cried for it, because he was beaten early and often when he expressed needs, wants or desires). He was slow to walk. Slow to tie his shoes, dress himself, potty train (God, the physical scars that little boy has carried to manhood because he couldn't get the concept of toilet training). He wasn't challenged, had no learning disabilities, he just sort of wandered through like at his own pace.
My mother detested him. She routinely beat him black and blue. He cried, as little boys will when they are being brutalized, which sent her over the edge. That's where I stepped in, since she didn't really recognize at that point who she was pounding, only that someone was hurting, and it wasn't her. It went on for years and years, through belts, canes, riding crops, broom handles, to a tire iron, a rolling pin, a cast iron frying pan and a table leg. Her abuse made me hard, but it made him soft. I hated her with every ounce of strength I had, but Dugger wanted to earn her love. It was pathetic....this wee sweet boy, only wanting his mommy to love him, this drunk, hatred filled, violent anti-mommy wanting this "pussy boy" to become a man.
Like who? Her violent, drunken, unpredictable tyrant husband? This poster child for birth control or retroactive abortion?
We were beaten, pretty much daily, "beaten" being one of those quaint words that really means battered, brutalized and dehumanized. We learned not to scream, no matter how much it hurt, we learned not to cry, to whimper, to make a sound. We learned not to beg, plead or run. I got tougher, Dugger got softer, sometimes almost catatonic. I would provoke a beating to give him time to escape. Sometimes he did, more often he did not, which made it bad for both of us, but for me it was hell, because he was always first, and I always had to watch, and wait....
They hated him. He was a beautiful, perfect baby with the most angelic smile and a giggle like fairy music. She beat it out of him and eventually made him into her "perfect man" a substance abuser, a hate filled tyrant who chose to fill his life with a mysogynistic, homophobic, racist "church". I bled for him, and would again, willingly, I would do anything to make my baby brother whole again, but he is gone.
I'm so sorry, Dugger. I wanted to save you. I failed.
I was then asked "Why did she hate him so much?"
I've given this a lot of thought. It has been taking up a lot of the limited space in my brain, and I felt the need to examine it. I can't have too many negative queries banging around in there all at once, no good can come from that.
Dugger was sweet. Dugger, of course, was a nickname. His other nicknames were vile and varied, and were sometimes as effective as a blow to his body when used cruelly.
He was a small baby, cute and cuddly and needy, like new babies are. I was three when he arrived with the "social worker", whom I now regard as more a dealer or a pimp, and he instantly became "mine".
He was slow to talk (he didn't need to talk, I knew what he wanted before he did, and made damn sure he had it before he cried for it, because he was beaten early and often when he expressed needs, wants or desires). He was slow to walk. Slow to tie his shoes, dress himself, potty train (God, the physical scars that little boy has carried to manhood because he couldn't get the concept of toilet training). He wasn't challenged, had no learning disabilities, he just sort of wandered through like at his own pace.
My mother detested him. She routinely beat him black and blue. He cried, as little boys will when they are being brutalized, which sent her over the edge. That's where I stepped in, since she didn't really recognize at that point who she was pounding, only that someone was hurting, and it wasn't her. It went on for years and years, through belts, canes, riding crops, broom handles, to a tire iron, a rolling pin, a cast iron frying pan and a table leg. Her abuse made me hard, but it made him soft. I hated her with every ounce of strength I had, but Dugger wanted to earn her love. It was pathetic....this wee sweet boy, only wanting his mommy to love him, this drunk, hatred filled, violent anti-mommy wanting this "pussy boy" to become a man.
Like who? Her violent, drunken, unpredictable tyrant husband? This poster child for birth control or retroactive abortion?
We were beaten, pretty much daily, "beaten" being one of those quaint words that really means battered, brutalized and dehumanized. We learned not to scream, no matter how much it hurt, we learned not to cry, to whimper, to make a sound. We learned not to beg, plead or run. I got tougher, Dugger got softer, sometimes almost catatonic. I would provoke a beating to give him time to escape. Sometimes he did, more often he did not, which made it bad for both of us, but for me it was hell, because he was always first, and I always had to watch, and wait....
They hated him. He was a beautiful, perfect baby with the most angelic smile and a giggle like fairy music. She beat it out of him and eventually made him into her "perfect man" a substance abuser, a hate filled tyrant who chose to fill his life with a mysogynistic, homophobic, racist "church". I bled for him, and would again, willingly, I would do anything to make my baby brother whole again, but he is gone.
I'm so sorry, Dugger. I wanted to save you. I failed.
posted by Alphamutt at 12:41 AM
1 Comments:
you did not fail him. everyone else did, but not you. you did a hell of a lot more than anyone else did for him. you put yourself in harms way daily so that maybe he would be spared. there is no way in hell you failed him. all you can do is try your best and you definately did. he chose to live his live the way he did and there is nothing you could have done to change that. you did more than most siblings would do for each other at such a young age. do you think he would have made it out if you hadnt done what you did? dont blame yourself for the way he turned out. it isnt your fault.
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