Disclaimer: This article discusses abuse.
My father used to hit me. I don’t know exactly how to talk about this because I don’t think I’ve fully dealt with it. I don’t mean that he would give me a slap for doing something especially wrong, I mean he really hit me. I remember once in elementary school, my mom told me not to wear a headband because with my hair pulled back you could see the bruise on my forehead that he gave me. I remember him pushing the kitchen table against my ribs, trapping me between it and the wall so that I’d stop running away. I would try to run away from him every time I knew he was angry with me, locking myself in bathrooms, hiding under the sink—small spaces felt safer somehow. When he changed the handle on my bathroom door so that it didn’t have a lock anymore, I would sit in the shower and press my back against the glass door and my feet against the wall so he couldn’t get in, so he couldn’t hit me. Once, in the middle of an argument that I can’t remember anymore, I saw him start to get angry and move towards me so I ran to hide in my shower. He pushed so hard against the door to get to me that he shattered the glass.
But, what I remember most of all are the things he said. That’s right, scurry away, you little rat. I wish every day you were never born. Next time, I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll end up in the hospital. The feeling of fear and worthlessness his words instilled has stuck around, long after the hitting has stopped. It’s manifested itself into an anxiety that has left me shaking with panicked tears more times than I care to admit. It’s in my head every time I meet someone new and get sweaty-palmed and dizzy, terrified of what they’ll think of me. It’s what makes me rehearse a response five times over in my head before I ever raise my hand in class, why my heart rate speeds up ridiculously fast every time I share anything even remotely personal. I am so sure that everything I am going to do is wrong. I am so scared that I am going to get hurt again.
Most of the time, I flip-flop between thinking of myself as a victim and thinking that I deserved it, telling myself that I am overreacting in calling what happened abuse. I’ve told myself so many times that my father only hit me when I did something wrong, that I had brought it on myself. That any sort of anxiety symptoms are me being overly shy or emotional, that I just have to get a grip. I still don’t know if it is him or me who is at fault. But, since coming to Kenyon, I have started making progress (at least I hope) towards dealing with everything that I’ve been through. I started seeing a counselor, started learning how to deal with the fact that I have been abused and the fact that I have anxiety as a result.
I still haven’t been able to honestly and openly talk to anyone about this except for with a few closest friends. The idea of any sort of vulnerability, especially in regards to this, is the most terrifying thing I can think of. But an article, I guess, has a distance to it. You don’t really know me. I don’t have to see what your reaction is. It’s a small step at best, but I only hope that maybe it will make things a little bit easier.
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