A student in a sociology class that I was speaking to asked me what was the
worst thing that ever happened to me as a battered wife. The question caught
me off guard and I answered with a depiction of some really terrible act of
violence that had been perpetrated against me. I knew as I spoke that I was
lying. Not about the incident, but about the claim that it was the worst thing
that had happened to me as a regular victim of violence.
In all the speeches I make and in all the stories I write I never tell
about the worst thing that happened; I’m too ashamed. I’ve been thinking
about that a lot lately and have decided that I will tell it. Maybe someone
else is going through the same thing and needs to know that they are not
alone.
The worst thing that happened to me as a result of domestic violence is
still happening today. Unlike the bruises and the scrapes and the broken
bones, this thing never heals. I will never get over it. I cannot get over it.
The worst thing that happened to me is that I learned to be violent. I learned
it well. I learned that violence is immediately effective in controlling the
behavior of young children. By far the worst thing that my husband ever did to
me was to infect me with this disease of violence.
Perhaps I’m exercising selective memory but I don’t remember ever
having been violent before. In fact, I don’t remember having been bad to my
children when I was with their father. After I left him, however, I quickly
took his place as tyrant and resident ass-hole. I made a lot of exuses for why
I hit my children: I couldn’t control them any other way, it was the only
thing they understood, they were trying to take advantage of the fact that HE
wasn’t around to discipline them, but the truth is, I was scared. I was
terrified that I was going to be a bad mother. It was in that fear that I
became one. I hit my chidren.
And, ironically enough, what was the most frequent offense for which they
got hit? Violence. The worst thrashing I ever gave was to my son for hitting a
girl. I won’t - can’t- go into what I did to my precious child. He was
only ten years old. But I was already so afraid for him. I was afraid he was
going to be an abuser like his father. “Children learn what they live
with.” In my mind, the potential threat of his father’s influence hung
over my son’s character like the blade of a guillotine. I was determined to
save him. Although clear now, it didn’t occur to me, at the time, that I was
“saving” him with the same twisted tactics that his father often
“saved” me. I was teaching him the very lessons that I had learned from
his father, influencing my son in exactly the same way that HE had done.
Unfortunately, I didn’t figure that out for a couple of years. Too late,
perhaps, for some of my children. Some of the older ones seem to have been
hopelessly infected by the disease that I unwittingly carried to them. A
couple seem, actually, to believe in the power of violence as the most
effective method of getting their way. I’m so sorry for them - and TO them.
In an attempt to ensure socially acceptable children, I created unacceptable
ones.
They are right about one thing; violence is powerful. I worry that those of
my children who do not yet practice violence on a regular basis, will steadily
learn from their already learned siblings. I’m afraid that they will all
teach their children and they will teach theirs ...
And that’s the worst thing that ever happened to me as a battered wife.
