Well done Childline

A great big well done and tip of the proverbial hat to Childline and Esther Rantzen. It was 20 years ago today that Childline first opened it's phones to help children suffering from any sort of abuse.

Although I never called Childline myself, I'm not sure why, it still helped as I described before at the beginning of this blog. Childline told me what I was and what had been happening in my life' even though the abuse continued I now knew it had a name, that this wasn't usual and that it was wrong. Yet I still didn't call them.

I can't think why.

Testing

Hmm, would you believe that some computer program told the bright sparks at Blogger that this was a spam blog hence I've been unable to add any posts because my blog was frozen until I sent 6, yes 6 confirmation emails to save getting my blog deleted!?

Clearly they need to look at reconfiguring this program *grrrrr*

Tension

I can't decide if things got worse or if it's just a case that my memory is less hazy but things did seem to go from bad to worse.

My brother seemed to get into more trouble around the time he was 6 or 7. I distinctly remember seeing him being either picked up by his ears or picked up by his head being between our father's big hands. I also remember hearing him being beaten from behind a closed door. I'm ashamed to say that I was pleased, firstly because the little bastard was always doing something wrong and trying to pin the blame on me and secondly because it was him in the firing line for a change and not me.

It was about this age that my brother went deaf in one ear for a period of 6 months. It was never acknowledged or treated. Something must have mended though because his hearing came back.

Weekends were the worst time. We played outside as much as we could because indoors we inevitably got into trouble. We were too loud, too noisy, too messy, too anything. Anything that meant he could lose his temper on us. If he was listening to the radio or the tv we had to be silent. Living in small flat is difficult. Kids make noise. They just do and when our bedroom is at the other end of the hall to the front room you can guarantee that he'd come stomping down the hallway regulary to shout at us.

It wasn't always easy to judge his moods either. Sometimes you could joke and he'd laugh and join in, another time it would result in some scathing critical put-down that would cut you to the quick.

What's worse? Physical abuse or emotional abuse? Plenty of kids are smacked or hit and they continue to have a positive realtionship with their parents. To me anything that you do to your kids, that would be an offence if done to another adult, is abuse. You wouldn't smack an adult because he'd done something wrong without expecting either a) a smack back or b) a visit from the Police, so why do it to your kids? It doesn't make sense to me.

Emotional abuse is worse I think. Bruises, red marks, broken bones heal. It's the tirade of put-downs, insults and betrayal from the people who should be nuturing you and protecting you that is the hardest thing to bear. I only remember a few bruises. But the words stay with me years and years later. The way he treated me has impacted on my life in so many ways I can't unravel them. They are an integral part of me that I have tried to identify and isolate, sometimes successfully, but I am still finding those pieces in me.

As much as I like to think that I am what I am DESPITE of my parents. I know that I am what I am because of the way they treated me. I still react to certain situations because of how they brought me up to think and believe and I know that I still have doubts in my own abilities because I was constantly told how unimportant, stupid and insignificant I am.

Stop bloody snivelling...

At this new posting I was able to go horse riding. I loved it. It was every girl's dream come true. I took to it like a duck to water and for my combined Christmas and birthday present I got a new hat, a new pair of boots and some jodhpurs, I WAS the bees knees. I loved horse riding, absolutely adored it and I was pretty good. My very first competition was dressage and I was first, my first rosette and it was red!

I rode this dopey pony called Oggy, he had the weirdest gait when he trotted but because I'd learnt to ride on him I'd learned to rise and fall seamlessly on him. One particular lesson, I think I was about 10 or 11, he bucked under me. I was so surprised and unprepared that he threw me. Unfortunately I got my foot stuck in the stirrup so after landing heavily on my arm I was dragged as he bolted across the school. I wasn't dragged too far but I can still see those rear hooves flashing in front of my eyes until I heard a bellow "OGGY STOP!!!" from one of the grooms who thankfully, unusually, was there with the instructor.

The pony screeched to an obedient halt just before he leapt the caveletties that divided the huge indoor school for the Pony Club (kids and ponies) and the Saddle Club (officers and sleek hunters). Like all good riders are taught to do you sit up and say you're okay. My nose was pouring with blood and left arm was agony but like all good instructors do I was shoved on top of a pony before I'd even gathered my bearings. I then had to ride this pony until the end of the lesson.

I was in agony. My left arm was dead, I couldn't move it without wanting to scream but I bravely tried to steer this sodding pony with my calves as it trundled around the ring. My friend's dad arrived to take us home and he was told about the accident. I sat in the back of the car and I remember that I was extremely quiet and clearly I was in shock.

My friend's dad dropped me home and explained to my mum that I'd had an accident. I should think it was pretty obvious actually I was covered in blood from my nose. My mum helped me take my boots off and asked what happened. I burst into tears. I could barely speak from the shock and the pain in my left arm. My dad came into the bedroom and shouted at me to 'stop bloody snivelling and making a fuss about nothing' and refused to take me to hospital in the car, he said that I could 'bloody well walk'.

My mum walked me to the nearest medial centre where after an examination and subsequent x-ray I was diagnosed with a broken arm.

It staggers me that my father could be so callous and it amazes me that my mother could continue to cook and clean for this man. I didn't know any different at this time of course and when you don't you just accept, you don't question or analyse until later. I'm a mother now, and have been for over 9 years. I cannot grasp the fact that he really didn't give a shit about me.

My brother was involved in an accident some years later. As a teenager he was brought home by an eldery couple who had seen him go flying over his bicycle handlebars. They bundled him up with a teatowel for his mangled face, chucked his mangled bike into the back of their car and they brought him home. It was a Saturday morning and my dad was waiting for his lift to go and see his favourite football team. When it was clear that my brother needed to go to casualty, I'd pulled the teatowel away from his mouth and nearly fainted on the spot, my father stomped and shouted and tantrumed because he's have to miss going to Old Trafford and take his son to casualty.

'Why did this have to happen today. Why do things like this always happen to me!?'

My brother had stitches in his upper lip, he still has the scars, and my father sulked all weekend.

I was ashamed of him. I am still ashamed of his selfish, self-centred behaviour.

I am ashamed of my father.

Independence.

We moved to another posting when I was 9. Another posting means another school. This time though I wasn't going to a small primary school I had to start at a huge school with 100s of pupils. Army schools are different, there is no distinction between secondaries or grammars and it's only now that I've realised I was out of a smaller safer primary school at such a young age. This school must have been a middle and an upper school combined.

Imagine being at a school bus stop with a load of strange kids, travelling 10 miles or so and having to find the Reception to enroll yourself on your own on your first day at a new HUGE school at the age of nearly 10. My mum had taken my younger brother to his school so she couldn't come with me. Whenever we went to a new posting we were shoved into school as soon as was humanly possible. No time to settle in, but off to school. Why on earth she couldn't do us on seperate days I have no idea. She didn't work. She was at home like everyone else's mum.

Weird.

Secrets

I can remember the defining moment when I knew that certain elements of my upbringing had to remain a secret. On the surface we were the typical family, mum and dad and one of each. I always wonder what goes on behind closed dooors when I see otherwise happy families. You just never know and having been in that situation a few times I am aware of the ability to project what you want others to know and hiding or suppressing what you wish wasn't actually happening.

There was one occasion where I had had a beating for something or other, I can't recall them all and the reasons for them, it all sorts of blurs into itself. It's the defining moments only that I have remembered from my childhood beatings. Your brain tries to protect you from your memories and experiences, pushing them into little boxes in the dark corners of your mind. Either you stumble upon them and open them, sometimes prepared, sometimes unprepared for the contects, or you ignore them because with any luck they lose their significance and become invisible.

So anyway, after the beating my head was pounding, really pounding. My neck and shoulders aching from trying to support a head that is being knocked from side to side. My ears burning from being central to the alternate blows. Left, right, left, right. I decided to write a letter to my paternal grandparents and explained how bad my headache was and why it was unfair that I had been hit because I hadn't meant to sound like a spoiled little cow. I was quite matter of fact because the regular beatings were quite matter of fact and as far as I knew fairly common place so I wasn't moaning about my sad life. I showed the letter to my mum to check my spelling and she ripped the letter up. She said I wasn't to tell my grandparents anything like that because they would be upset. I wasn't to talk about it.

Naturally I didn't want to be upset so I very carefully wrote about everyday stuff because I really didn't want to be responsible for upsetting them. I loved them.

Mealtimes...

...were a strain. They were either fun filled and we talked or laughed or they were tense with us kids not daring to say anything because you could guarantee it was wrong. It depended completely on what mood my father was in.

Another stress about mealtimes was that we had to eat EVERYTHING on our plate. I remember occasions where I had to sit at the table for hours, and I mean hours because I hadn't cleared my plate. I'm not saying I was a fussy kid, I wasn't, but my mother wouldn't accept that I just couldn't eat the thick strip of white fat from the boiling bacon. Just because it was covered in parsley sauce I was expected to eat it.

There was one occasion where my brother couldn't finish his meal. My mum wouldn't let him have any pudding. Absolutely refused point blank to give in. I later found him eating his leftover food from the kitchen bin because he desperately wanted some pudding.

We then tried to hide bits of food under our cutlery so that it was taken into the kitchen and we were eating our pudding because she realised what we had done.

Thankfully by the time I was 14 we got two dogs who'd patiently wait under the table whilst we slipped them rock hard roast potatoes and fatty bits of meat.

Back to my nanna declaring that we could leave any food we didn't want. It was great getting one over my mum who was so strict about leaving food.

It was years later when my nanna told me how when we were toddlers my mum would force feed us our food by forcing our heads back and holding our noses so that we had to swallow our unwanted food. My nanna would have to leave the room in tears because she couldn't witness it. As we got bigger she put her foot down in her own dining room and stopped the food forcing. It's with great delight that I state that I don't believe in force feeding when my mother tries to tell my daughter that she won't get any pudding if she doesn't eat her cannonball of a roastie. I whip the semi-cooked potato and overcooked peas away and replace it with an big helping of trifle.

I always think of the production of foie gras when I think of this. A lot of people refuse to eat it because the geese are cruelly force fed.

Extended family

So what about the rest of my family? What did they know? Did they care? Because we lived in Germany we only saw our grandparents every 2 years or so. I'm not sure why we didn't come home to the UK more often, possibly because of the cost.

I used to look forward to going home tremendously. I wasn't so keen on seeing my mum's parents because my dad was always sulky and tense there and my grandad barely interracted with me. I remember my mother explaining that because he had two daughters already he was more interested in my brother because he was the nearest he had to a son. Fine, I didn't like the miserable, complaining, smoking old git anyway. We'd only stay for about 4 days. It was exhausting though. My dad would have a face like thunder most of the time and my mum would be cheerfully pretending that she was happy, we were happy and everyone was happy. She'd constantly ask her own mum what she thought of her daughter's choice in husband. My nan would say something that clearly my mum wanted to hear.

It's funny what odd things you pick up as a child. You don't understand it but it sticks in your mind to be analysed later when you are able to understand the implications of a conversation.

It was on one of these brief tense visits that all hell broke loose and my maternal grandparents saw through the facade. My dad had gone to some football match and been involved in a line of slow moving vehiles shunting into each other. He came home furious. It was my grandad's fault. My grandad made my dad feel unwelcome so he had to 'escape' to football and was involved in the crash. Entirely my grandad's fault.

There was an almighty row. My mum bundled us kids upstairs and tried desperately to placate my father and grandfather. The only thing I heard was my dad shouting 'She's not your daughter, she's MY WIFE!' My mum was crying when she came upstairs and told us to pack our bags. Before we were bundled in the car I kissed my nan goodbye, she was stood in the kitchen crying.

And so we went to my father's parents who were always happy to see us and fuss over us. This time I was fully involved because my dad was an only child and his mum was sad to never have her own daughter. My nan never got on with my mum so I was the next female. So whilst at my paternal grandparents it was always my mum who was tense and on edge. Again she was seemingly desperate to win an award for 'who could pretend that everything was fine and okay the most'.

All through the mealtimes she would repeat 'Is everything alright children?' in her best telephone voice as if she really was bothered. Children aren't stupid, they can see through fake concern and fake behaviour. I'd love mealtimes at my nanna's. There would be plenty to choose from and best still we weren't force to eat everything on our plates which was just as well because my nanna would steam vegetables into lumps of mush, only vaguely identifiable by the colour. My mum would tell us to eat the food and my nanna would say that we didn't have to. Nanna won I'm pleased to say.

It was a strain being on best behaviour. It was a strain being part of a game but not really understanding the rules. There were always undercurrents of something going on. I now what it all was then but at the time it was just another part of my life that I had to make the best of.

Sibling rivalry and shattered trust

I hated my little brother. I hated him because he was the favourite.

Understand that this wasn't just the usual rivalry that exists for years and years between siblings. I really hated him. If anything went wrong, it was my fault. If anything got broken, it was my fault. Years later, my brother and I discussed this jealousy and favouritism, he admitted that he knew he was the favourite, not just with my father but with my mother too. He knew it and he played on it.

Now I can see that by deflecting attention and blame away he was merely adapting a survival technique. He could pass on the blame to me so that he wouldn't be beaten. I honestly can't remember if I deflected blame on to him or whether I just didn't bother because it was such a pointless exercise. It's easy to pass the buck when the person in charge wants to believe in your innocence in the other's guilt. Particularly if you like the former and dislike the latter.

It wasn't just that I received most of the negative attention. It was that I was a long way down the queue of two when it came to getting the positive attention. My brother and I slept in bunkbeds, him on the bottom and me on the top bunk. I remember my dad coming in to say goodnight and he'd kneel next to the bottom bunk and he'd tickle my brother and play with him, making a fuss of him. He didn't do that with me.

I approched my mum about it and told her that I felt really left out and that it wasn't fair. I didn't want her to tell my dad. The next night my dad made a fuss of my brother as usual. He then stood up and started to tickle me. I could tell that he didn't mean any of it. He tickled me and he said the right things (forced though) but I could tell that it wasn't there in his eyes. I could tell he didn't mean it, and I could tell he didn't want to do it. He realised that I wasn't falling for it and he stomped off in a huff shouting at my mum that I was an ungrateful miserable little cow and it was no wonder he never played with me.

It was clear that my mum, who was stood at the door, had said something to my dad, and my dad was obliged to do the dutiful thing and make a fuss of me too. I looked at her in horror after my dad had stomped off because she'd clearly told him that I felt left out. . She said something like 'You have to learn that you can't trust people'.

I was mortified. She'd told my dad what I had said! I was so embarrased and miserable and at the age of 7 I'd learned that I really couldn't trust my own mother.

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Showing him up

All my dad was concerned about was appearances. Whether I was showing him up or not.

One afternoon I was playing outside with friends. I was shouting my head off as usual, as kids do. My dad came home from work, got out of the car, stormed over, grabbed me by my arm and dragged me inside the house where he beasted me about being a loud noisy gobby cow.

I've explained beasting. What I didn't mention before was the hitting. My dad would beast me ie shouting in my face, but then he would talk slow-ly in syll-ab-les, with each syll-able emp-a-sised with a smack a-round the head. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Like this:

'You have just shown me up to our neighbour! I was giving (insert name) a lift home and we could hear a gobby little cow shouting her mouth of! (name) said to me 'That girl is shouting her head off again. She's always shouting. She's so loud!' and who is it when we look, it's you, how...smack... dare...smack... you...smack... show...smack... me...smack... up...smack... to...smack... all...smack... the...smack... neigh...smack...bours...smack.' This tirade goes on for as long as it takes for him to run out of steam.

Imagine having your head smacked on alternate sides like that. It hurts.

Unknown to him, because he'd dragged me into my bedroom so quickly, one of my mum's friends was in the flat having a coffee. She came running out asking what on earth I had done wrong (gosh, in fact this is the only time I remember her ever asking - must have been because there was someone else in the flat). My dad explained how I'd shown him up in front of the neighbour, about me being loud, shouting etc. My mum exclaimed that how would the neighbour know? Him and his wife didn't have their own kids yet, so of course he would be annoyed, all kids shouted when they were playing. It's what kids do.

It was all about not ruining the facade. It was all about not showing him up. It was so that nobody could accuse them of being bad parents.


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Front of Stage

You may have the impression that I was a very withdrawn girl, maybe struggling at school or bullied by my peers. Not so. You see school is where I could relax and I didn't have to read moods and be ready to get out of the way. I can't remember a defining moment when I knew I had to read moods. It was just how I developed as a child and as a person.

I wasn't covered in bruises so there was nothing for the teachers to see and report. In fact, even if there was I'm sure there was nothing they would have done. Child abuse wasn't talked about. If a child was abused it was called 'strict parents' or 'firm discipline'. Plus I wasn't a delinquent kid who struggled with schoolwork. I was always in the top group and I was popular with my classmates. I wasn't your typical swot because I was also one of the fasted runners so I had respect from all the boys too.

So on the surface I was a typical tomboy who was doing really well at school. I also came from a really good family. My mum kept the house tidy, we always had good food and we were always clean and well presented. My dad worked hard and was liked by colleagues and neighbours. He has a good sense of humour and he was very friendly. Perfect.

Behind the scenes though was pressure. Having to read his moods. If we ever got told off we had to learn how to freeze our faces, be completely expressionless so that he couldn't say that we had 'looked' a certain way. For example. One weekend we were having breakfast. My mum pulled me up on something, I did look at her but even now I know it wasn't with a 'look'. My dad pounced, 'Don't look at your mother like that!' He picked me up by the scruff of my neck, I was lifted up and over the kitched table by my dressing gown and pyjama collars and thrown down the hall. I was so petrified that I wet myself - all over the kitchen table.

I can't remember what happened then but I do remember going back to my mum and saying sorry because I'd weed on the table. Her reply was 'Yes, I know'. She pursed her lips and that's all I remember.

I was 7.

Adaptation

Looking back at my childhood I try and remeber how I felt about the abuse I suffered. I never plotted to run away, and I never told anyone so I must have thought it was the norm. One of my best friends was hit by her dad so I must have thought that it was normal. Not that you question your parents as a young child. They are your parents. They are always right. I genuinely did believe that plus I was told this all the time by them.

So I believed that they loved me, that they did the best for me and I believed them when I was told was a silly cow, and useless, and stupid and thick.

The verbal and physical abuse was carried out by my father. My mother backed up my father. I would be beaten by him and then I would go to my mother for some comfort and reassurance. My mother would never cuddle me or tell me it was okay or that she loved me. She would have a look on her face that told me I deserved it and not to bother her, she was abrupt with me and so I would go to my room and cuddle my panda Chi-Chi.

At a very young age I would be able to read my father's mood. If he came home in a bad mood I would rush to my room and try and tidy it up in case he came looking for trouble. It became a reflex. During my marriage, everytime my husband started to verbally abuse me I'd go to my room and either cuddle Chi-Chi or I'd tidy my room. A reflex. I couldn't stop myself doing it if I tried. Even now if I feel anxious or distressed about something I tidy my bedroom.

As a child you adapt, you have to, it's a survival technique. If my father was in a good mood, I'd laugh at what he laughed at, I'd enjoy the same TV programmes as him, I'd make his opinions my opinions. Anything for him to accept me and not be annoyed with me. I desperately wanted his approval. I would have done anything to keep his approval.

It took me years to realise that my mother's rejection of me when I most needed her was her way of staying on my father's good side.

When self-esteem is fragile

How do you know that you are valuable? How do you know that you are loved, or cherished, or adored, or when you are important and you have something to offer, to give, to be celebrated?

You know because people tell you and show you. The first people to do this are your parents. You know who you are because they reflect you back to yourself. Their reactions, their behaviour towards you tells you how relevant you are.

I was a silly little cow, a stupid cow, an ungrateful cow. I thought the world revolved around me. I deserved to be shouted at. I deserved to be blamed for anything that went wrong. I was particularly blamed for anything that happened to my brother. I wasn't good enough to be comforted after my father's beatings.

Bruises heal. Words stay with you forever.

An example. In the kitchen there was some steps, a sort of stool that has steps folded away underneath, pull out the steps and there would be two extra steps to go with the top one. You would use this to reach into the back of cupboards. For some reason, I have no idea what my brother had climbed onto the second step, I needed to see whatever it was as well and I climbed up behind him and stood on the first step, the bottom step. I still can't figure out why but the steps toppled over causing me to fall backwards onto the kitchen floor where I cracked the back of my head. My brother landed on top of me, rolled off and was fine, I was crying from shock and pain and he was crying from shock, he landed on me so he wasn't physically hurt.

I however got 100% of the 'blame' and was subjected to a barrage of insults as he leant over me and shouted at me. I was accused of hurting my brother, having no brains, being selfish and thoughtless, oh and yes, being a cow. I do remember my mother asking him to stop it because I was the one who was actually hurt and it was an accident after all. This was the first time she tried to intervene. The second time she tried to intervene was when I was 18.

Have you ever seen TV programmes where sargeants and corporals shout into the faces of the new privates? They lean their forehead against the forehead of the poor private and just hurl abuse at high volume. It often results in the private crying. It's known as beasting.


I was regularly subjected to beasting from the age of 5.

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When trust is destroyed

You might think from reading my blog so far that I was a very withdrawn child who kept herself to herself and sat quietly in the corner and wouldn't say boo to a goose.

Not so. Never believe the stereotype. I was a very outgoing child who had lots of friends and I was very strong willed. I would often play with boys because there seemed to be more of those about, girls were too wimpy. There were two boys I played with regularly. One had a red indian outfit and a wigwam, and the other had a Sherrif outfit complete with stetson, badge and gun. I had to be the Indian Princess or some other helpless female who had to be content at being tied up and held captive somewhere whilst the sherrif and the indian fought over me. I was peeved to be honest. I preferred to do the shouting and running around not sitting in a wigwam with crow feathers stuck in my hair. One afternoon I got so fed up I wriggled out of the skipping rope that was looped around me and slipped under the back of the wigwam and left them to it.

There was another boy on the camp who would play with us occasionally. I knew my parents wouldn't approve because his family were a bit rough. He was older than me, maybe by a couple of years or so, enough to intimidate me and fascinate me at the same time.

I supressed the memory of the following incident for a number of years, twenty to be exact, out of shame. I dregged it up and talked about it for the first time during some counselling to try and cure my depression. It was only during the counselling that I was able to accept that what happened wasn't my fault.

This boy, I can't even remember his name, took me to the side of a building and lay me on the grass. Somehow I ended up with my knickers around my knees as he tickled my 'front bottom' with blades of grass. I know I was mortified. I know I was embarrased and I knew it was wrong. What froze me and made me unable to do anything about it was that he threatened me, he said that if I didn't do as he said or if I told my parents then he would tell them that I was a naughty girl.

At 5 years old I was more afraid of my parents than of him. In my head I felt that they would believe him. At 5 years old I knew that I could not trust my parents to trust me. My fear of my father's scorn and derision was enough to allow this boy to abuse me.

Incidently, I recalled this incident during my counselling, my husband was there also. He was there under the guise of supporting me but really he was there to sort some of our issues. He believed that my depression was a result of my childhood and was the cause of our marital problems. After recalling this incident and explaining how I felt betrayed by my parents, in that I should've been able to run to them and tell them what had happened so the little shit could be dealt with, or I should have been so secure in their love and support that his threat would have been inconsequential, my counsellor asked my husband how he felt listening to this. As I mopped my tears and blew my nose he, in teacher mode and teacher talk (he is a teacher), stated that he could only wonder at what abuse the boy had been subjected to in order for him to do what he did to me and say what he did.

I gaped. I was stunned. I'd just blurted out the most shameful secret I had and he felt sorry for the fucking boy! To say that it felt like a punch to the stomach is an understatement. I felt betrayed all over again. I felt like scum. My counsellor asked me if I needed a hug. I certainly did so I gulped and nodded but she got up and left the room. I realised I was expected to be comforted by a hug from the sanctimonious shit I was married to. He dutifully hugged me and I cried and cried, my husband had let me down in the worst possible way and something inside me died.

He had done exactly what I was afraid of. He had dismissed this abuse and it was abuse, this wasn't two kids playing 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine'. This was a person using another person's fears to manipulate them into doing something they did not want to do. I wasn't the victim in my husband's eyes. The boy was the victim because he had obviously seen or heard a similar incident.

What upsets me the most about this incident is that I feel my parents had let me down. I couldn't trust them to be on my side. I was also let down by the other person who I should've been able to rely on, my husband, the man who promised to cherish me. The man who should've been able to push his teacher self aside and be my husband, to support me and comfort me. He couldn't even pretend.

I still cry when I think of this.

Happy Families

One of the most draining things about my childhood was the insistence of my mother to play at happy families. Who was she trying to kid? Me? Herself?

One Christmas I got a nurse outfit, I was so pleased with it, I was either 4 or 5 so still quite young. My mother bought a roll of fabric dressing and cut it into tiny strips to make lots and lots of plasters. I can't remember how much I played with the outfit but I seem to remeber being dressed in it quite a lot and nursing all my teddies. I do remember one particular incident and even now I cringe with both embarrasment and anger at my mother's head in the sand attitude.

I wanted to play at nurses and I was armed with these plasters. My mother was busy in the kitchen and my father was watching TV, he was in a mood and even at this young age I knew how to read his moods and when he was best avoided. My mum wouldn't play as she was too busy so she encouraged me to play with my father. I know I didn't want to. I knew he was in his 'waiting for an excuse' mood, waiting for someone, preferably me, to do something, anything to give him an excuse to blow and take out his anger on. I approached this immobile man who was sat in the armchair watching TV, he would have heard my mother's suggestion to be my patient yet he made no attempt at communicating with me, or her. At her urging I carefully stuck plasters all over his face as instructed. I know I was tense. I know I was watching him. I was dreading that anything should go wrong. I can honestly say, hand on heart that he neither looked at me nor spoke to me the entire time. He just sat there, staring ahead at the TV.

As soon as I felt I had 'played with him' enough to satisfy my mother I escaped.

My mother

My mother was the younger of two sisters. Her mother was unusual because she was a working mother, very unusual back in the 50s. Full-time by the way, not part-time. Her father was a self-employed painter and decorator who, once my mother was 5 years old and at full-time school, told my nan that 'he wasn't prepared to support her and the kids any longer' and so my nan was forced to obtain full-time emloyment. My grandfather's passion was motorbikes and radios, I suppose he would rather spend his wages on those than his own family.

So from an early age (5 and 8) my mother and her older sister had to come home from school and whilst my mother cleaned out the grate and prepared the new fire my aunt would prepare all the vegetables so that as soon as their mother came home she could light the fire and cook the dinner.

My mother remembers wearing the same underwear and clothes for the entire week. She even remembers having fleas, whether they were cats fleas or human fleas she doesn't know. She has hammer toes from wearing shoes several sizes too small. Her childhood wasn't due to poverty, sure they must have been struggling, after all my nan had to support herself and her two girls on a female factory worker's wage but neglect due to her being so exhausted after a 12 hour day that she just could not look after her children properly. My mother remembers my nan pushing coins around on the kitchen table working out which bills should be paid first and which could wait just a little while longer.

My nan had 'married beneath her' by marrying my grandfather and she had a lot of stubborn pride, she would save up the pennies so that should any of her family visit she could lay on a spread to impress, the best cakes and fancies, just to prove to the outside world, her family, that she was happy and had made a good marriage after all. Perhaps this is where my mother learned to project the right appearance?

My mother also remembers seeing my grandfather abuse my nan. During one occasion he punched her in the stomach and left her propped up against the dining room wall crying for her own mother.

Perhaps my mother thought her situation was better then her mother's, that our situation was better than what she had. Perhaps she just deluded herself in time-honoured female fashion that 'things weren't as bad as they seemed' or 'things would get better'?

What I do know though is that both my mother and her mother were that breed of female who believed in the old adage 'you make your bed you lie in it' or 'you have to make your marriage work' and 'marriage is forever'. Unfortunately they were both married to selfish, bullying tyrants who weren't in the slightest bit interested in the marriage 'working' but more interested in having their needs, wants and desires catered to.

So in comparison to her childhood perhaps my mother thought we had a good deal. She was a full-time mum who kept a clean and tidy home, we were fed, clothed, didn't have fleas and we had shoes that fitted correctly. He didn't punch her so yes, perhaps she felt things could have been worse.

Something else about my mother's situation. Understand though that I'm not making excuses for her, I'm just trying to see things from her point of view. She was 18, living in Germany and had a baby daughter, if she went home to her parents she would have had no support. My family are very much of the opinion that you should work at your marriage, if it fails then it's your own fault (apparently this is more likely to apply to you if you have breasts!).

I suppose things were much harder in the '70s.

My father

Where does an abuser come from? The answer is anywhere, from any social class, the scary part is that the abuser is usually the last person you would suspect.

My father is 6'2". He is as strong as an ox. During his Army career he played a lot of sport. He played rugby, football, hockey, squash, cricket, he was very fit and very strong. He was also very well liked by other parents and my friends. He was the amiable dad who always had a word for my friends whereas their dads would just grunt at us kids. My dad was the life and soul of the party, he always had a collection of funny anecdotes and his intellectual humour always made him stand out from the crowd. He really was a father to be proud of.

He was an only child, who practically ran away to the Army. He couldn't join the police force because he had flat feet, he couldn't join the Navy because he got sea sick so he joined the Army. The first my doting grandmother knew about it was when the recruitment sergeant turned up on her doorstep to collect her son.

So from the age of 19 my father was in full-time employment with great prospects. He was never a drinker, and he never smoked. So why become an abuser? It can't be blamed on the frustrations and stress of unemployment, nor can it be blamed on alcohol abuse. I believe that my grandmother, who is a control freak and boy don't you know it when she doesn't get her own way, must have been very very critical to her only child, her pride and joy.

I then believe that the Army aggravated the insecurities that my father possibly had. The armed forces of today are a picnic compared to the 1970s, back then bullying was rife. Training basically meant that your will and spirit was broken down and you built back up again in their idea of the perfect soldier. I know my father had a frustrated career in the Army. Because he left school with a couple of O'levels the recruitment sergeant wanted him to go to Sandhurst to become an officer. My father rejected that idea and instead wanted to join the ranks, start at the bottom and work his way up. He had clearly read too many action hero comic books. In his entire 21 year career he never progressed past a Corporal. He was bitter and very scathing of Officers straight out of Sandhurst.

Although a lot of abuse blew up over something and nothing whilst we were all at home often he would come home from work in a stinking mood and he'd prowl the house looking for a reason to unleash his frustrations. The easy target for this of course was the state of our messy bedrooms. Toys would be trampled on and surfaces would be cleared with one sweep of his arm.

Myself, my brother and my mother were all targets for his derision and cruel comments. However I never saw him hit my mother but he would talk down to her, criticise her or belittle her. He did beat my brother but we have since agreed not half as much as he targetted me. He was never drunk, he was stone cold sober when he beat us, dad was a happy drunk if he ever did indulge, perhaps it would have been better for us if he did drink more.

Daddy's 'boofy bag'

I don't remember the defining moment that I was hit for the first time. I do remember being hit with his slipper across my backside or my legs but when and how he progressed to his fists and his feet I don't remember.

It just happened. It was just my life that I literally did become my father's 'boofy bag'. I don't know why my mother insisted on trying to pretend that everything was okay and normal. Repeatedly she would tell me how much my father loved me and how I used to be his 'boofy bag'. I can see now that she was rejecting reality and trying to impose some sort of alternative happy families reality on me. She was trying to assuade her own guilt I suppose. Unfortunately for me it jut added to the emotional abuse I suffered.

I wanted to believe that my father loved me. I had to believe that. I wanted to believe my mother. Like any child who has been in that situation I analysed that my parents loved me and were doing their best for me (incidently I was told this on a regular basis, usually after a beating) therefore like any abused child you will ever read about or listen to I blamed myself. The corrosion of my self-esteem must have started before the age of 4.

Why review my baggage now?

Good question.

My current situation is that I am an undergraduate doing a Psychology (Hons) BSc and I find it impossible to not question and analyse my own development.

I am also a Dominatrix.

As well as questioning my submissives to find out their early experiences or find out their earliest memory of female domination I am questioning myself and my enjoyment, and my desire to be a Domina. I want to explore the stereotypes of Domme and submissive and discover if being a Dominatrix is indeed innate or if it is a situation or role that I am using as a shield - possibly to protect myself?

Or possibly because I just simply am a dominant female who has struggled to fit the submissive role that society prefers me to follow.