I should have known better

Trigger warning: Contains themes and depictions of familial abuse, including physical violence and emotional trauma

I was born into a world of unrest—a world of pain, hatred, unmet dreams, and unhealthy expectations. Anger and secrecy became my only companions. I watched my parents grow from teenagers, scarred by the pain their own parents had inflicted on them, to adults who willingly, and at times purposefully, passed on even worse pain to the things they were meant to cherish. I saw the cycle repeat and worsen. Pain turned to anger, and that anger was redirected into feelings of discontent and disgust toward a small child just trying to survive.

I watched others see the cracks in the carefully constructed façade my parents worked so hard to maintain—and do nothing. At best, there were quiet words of acknowledgment, spoken in hushed tones. At worst, there was no help, no intervention, no recognition of the mental and physical anguish. I should have known that people who claimed to love abusers even after seeing the abuse first hand would do anything to protect them, allowing their cycle of abuse to continue, no matter how much they swore to love you till their dying breath.

I watched this ugly cycle continue and, in my attempt to protect the ones meant to love and protect me, I covered up the evidence myself. I watched my parents inflict intentional and unintentional pain, failing at the only job that matters when you’re gone, to give love in a way that heals, not harms. I watched, I felt, I protected, I loved, and I convinced myself that this was how love was supposed to feel. Love was something so strong that when it didn’t meet your expectations, it drained life from you.

 I remember sitting in the dark corner of my room, my body trembling, the taste of salt from my tears mixing with the blood dripping from my face. The ragged fabric of my torn jacket scraped against my skin as I clutched it, trying to hold onto something, anything, as the cold air made every bruise feel like it was burning. My head aching from being slammed against the wall, held up by my throat. I clung to the hope that it was all just a nightmare—that I would wake up to my family making my favorite breakfast, smiling genuinely, speaking words of encouragement and love while I simply existed.

A mother who would smother me with unconditional love—love that wasn’t tied to my weight, skin, hair, achievements, or how much I differed from her. A father who would protect me from even the monsters in his own head. But that voice inside my head whispered, “You know better.” And it was right. I should have known better.

Her rage, results in providing her comforting words of recognition of fault, regardless of its truth. To pacify the threat and attempt to improve your next moments I’ve come to learn you will say just about anything. Until you get old enough you can’t pull out the fake smile and sweet words she wants to hear. Then I really understood her feeling about my existence.

His rage his red blind rage. Usually coming out of left field. Unable to prevent or predict it at all. One moment a calm sea then a wrong choice of word, the wrong glance of your eyes, the wrong action, the wrong decision. How they think you should present, act, speak, write, behave, and come off to others. Are all easy ways to ignite his hair trigger temper resulted in long hours of loneliness and self or otherwise imposed isolation. 

To look in the eyes of your child and see genuine fear- not the fear of the monster potentially lurking under the bed or the clown laughing maniacally in your dreams will it devours you bit by bit. No the fear and uncertainty that one wrong step could result in the people who are supposed to love you most will unleash their dark hatred upon you. 

It shouldn’t have taken watching the innocence of my own children to realize how wrong it all was—that my parents never truly tried. But now, when I look back, I tell myself to leave the past where it belongs, to focus on the future and live in the present. Yet that voice continues to gnaw at me. It didn’t matter how hard I tried or how much I changed myself to please them—none of it mattered. Monsters are still monsters, even if they look like Mom and Dad.

Looking into my children’s eyes I promised myself that the cycle would not continue—that their childhood would not mirror mine. It was a silent vow, one I carried in my heart every day, knowing that I would protect them from the very demons that once haunted me. I would never let them believe that love came with a price. As I stare into my child’s eyes and see my young self reflected back to me and I ache for the past version of myself. 9 year olds should not want to die because they are such a disappointment and already know they have no chance of ever living up to their parents expectations. And that means the abuse will never end. That reality haunted me well into adulthood. 

The love shown to me by other family members was met with anger—resentment, even—as though I were betraying my mother by accepting affection from anyone else. I learned to pull away from kindness, to treat it as a threat. Love, in my world, was a commodity. It was earned, traded, and always came with strings attached.

No one was safe. No love was free everything had a price. Happiness is a competition infact the only competition that if you won your prize was anger by the person who shared half your dna.

I sometimes wonder how that little girl could have turned out if she had just seen the signs, read the writing always splayed so brazenly behind closed doors across their faces. I see in her the same potential I now see in them. Who would see that in their child and see that as a threat. 

I should have known better. I should have known better. The voice of regret will echo in my mind, reverberating across the vastness of the childhood I’ll never be able to forget.

I should have known better.