Parents love to beat: real stories of domestic violence Bashny.Net

In our childhood, admitting to friends that you were beaten by your parents was terribly shameful, scary and generally uncomilpho. Yet one in two current adults has stories of domestic violence.





When I was a kid, my stepfather beat me. Mom could slap, but so, under the influence of the moment, but the stepfather beat with a belt, wide, thick, leather, well without a buckle. He could get hurt for anything: I was 5 minutes late home from a walk, he thought I raised my voice in an argument or disrespected his mother.

The most hurtful thing about it was that my mother never, ever stood up for me, although, in fact, a completely stranger raised his hand at me, they were not even married. She preferred to sit in another room or in the kitchen, and then pretend as if nothing had happened, never felt sorry for me or supported me.

I still can't forgive her for that. And I can't stand physical violence: twice my romances ended when a man put his hand on me. It's taboo to me. And with regard to children all the more – I remember too well this feeling of powerlessness, absolute defenselessness and burning resentment against adults.







My husband was brought up in strictness: for the slightest offense punished either physically, or began to “play in silence” – stopped talking to him indefinitely. Unfortunately, now that we have children of our own, he is fully following this model of parenting and demands total submission and obedience from our five-year-old daughter, as in the army or, I don't know, in prison.

Almost not so - scolding and punishment. I, of course, intercede for my daughter, and I also get full: the child was brought up badly, not the mother, but shit on a stick. At the same time, bringing his daughter to tears for him is a matter of two minutes, sometimes he directly trolls her, as if it gives him pleasure. He does not want to read special literature on education, he believes that he knows everything perfectly.



When I was a kid, I was punished like this: You know what? Get your belt, take your pants off, lie down on the couch. Up to 12, 13 years. That is, total humiliation and demonstration of power by the father. I've been through this really hard, working a lot with a psychologist to let this shit go.

I even had problems with sex: it was as if I unwittingly drew a parallel between dominance in punishment and male dominance in bed and clamped in fear. But I think I managed to overcome that injury. I myself am a very irritable person, but I do not beat my children under any circumstances. I'd rather have a sofa or some furniture, but never children.







As a child, I was beaten regularly and with high quality. But I don’t remember feelings of humiliation or resentment at all – there was always a good reason for punishment. My father believed (probably) that some things and basic truths to me and my brother could not be communicated otherwise than by physically acting. I don’t feel any self-pity, I had a wonderful childhood and beating – it’s just part of it. My father was also hit by his mother as a child – my grandmother, whom I adored, she was the sweetest and kindest person. But, apparently, something is really easier to drive into a child than to explain a hundred times.



I have repeatedly and severely beaten by my mother, I remember very well fear, humiliation, helplessness. It even hurts me to read questions like this and people's quiet reflections on when it's justified.





For me, the use of physical punishment on my own children is absolutely unacceptable, precisely because I know firsthand what it is like to be spanked by a child. Of course, there are situations when I lose my temper and do not know what to do, powerlessness overwhelms. At such moments, I try to move away from the child, breathe, wash myself with cold water, calm down as much as possible.



I was the most unloved of children, I was constantly beaten, beaten in front of friends of my older brother and sister, which horrified the teenagers. They would even take me away from home sometimes until my mom went to work if she had a night shift. That is, I was thrown against the floor and walls, hit with heavy objects and smashed on the head. Once in the heat, my mother slashed my hand with a knife, and once threw tools at me and cut her leg to the bone with a dirty shovel. All this was terribly inflamed, I had to open and clean the wound, of course, no one took me to the hospital. It's just that I opened it with a razor, washed it with boiled water without anything. I was 8 years old. I left home at 17, and I still have a cramping reaction to sudden movements at the edge of sight or if someone quickly raises their hand. Moreover, my mother was not insane, an alcoholic or a drug addict: I asked about the impressions (already when I grew up) of the guys who sheltered me (could seduce me using the opportunity, but I was lucky for good people), and they said – no, she is the world’s mother with adults at once. For some reason, she was not ashamed of children. When I myself once pushed my little daughter in the heat so that she tripped and stretched on the ground, I was much more horrified than she was. I did not accept violence as a norm, as many battered parents do, I find it disgusting, although I occasionally slapped on the butt, but it was more of a symbolic act. When her own father really hit her butt a few times, like a flog, we had a big fight.


When I was a little girl, I was slapped a couple of times in critical situations, but more often I was given many days of boycotts, insulted and humiliated by words, attributed to me thoughts and words that I did not have. In short, they were morally bullied. And the worst thing is that they never apologized for these abuses, but they asked for forgiveness. As for me, it would be better to beat and apologize than these terrible non-physical influences.



I've been hit all the time, anything I can get for anything. For example, one day I was slapped with a wet towel to black bruises because I was talking too loud on the phone, I was 7 years old. The result is success in life to spite parents. I hate them, we don't talk or even call them. I can't forgive them. No children of their own yet.



I was beaten as a child. Mom and dad. One time my father beat me violently for pushing my brother in the game, and he hit his back hard on the edge of the bed. My brother started screaming like he was cut, my father was afraid that his spine had been damaged, and he started hitting me with a wooden 60-centimeter ruler. Beating all over his body for 15 minutes. I could no longer cry or scream.

Mom kept quiet. Then she went to her neighbor and complained to her about how it was possible to hit a child like that. Then why didn't you intercede? I can't imagine letting my husband beat his child so badly.

Mommy did too. She could have hit me with anything. She did not like that I put my dirty shoes on the clean floor. She took these slippers and started hitting me on the head with them dirty. Anyway, I had a fun childhood. Did it affect me? Maybe it did.

I have a constant sense of guilt, I am used to self-deprecation. Nail biting since childhood, there is another moronic habit from the same opera - psychologists say that a person who has such habits bites, that is, eats himself. Although I'm not sure it's the beating. Maybe something else.





My father told me many times at school that my place was in a mentally retarded school, and they didn’t transfer me there just because he was doing my homework. And if he stops with me, such a fool, studying every night, then I will be transferred to school u/o.

However, I graduated from high school almost without threes and entered a very prestigious institute. Maybe on the second try, but I did. You don't have to. Later, she left for Israel in proud loneliness and here she achieved everything herself. My mother, I remember, shouted on the phone: “It’s hard for you to be alone in Israel, come back to us.” I said no!

I'd rather the Palestinian bomb explode here. My sister seems to have forgiven my parents, and I still can’t! Let them reap what they sowed, I can do without them. Their callousness, rudeness, unwillingness to understand, to enter into a position I now return them with interest. And I don’t care about them, just as they didn’t care about me 20 to 25 years ago: all the young people are walking, and I, at the risk of getting hit by a car, rush home in the hope of being in time for the “control period” so as not to heat up the napes and swearing.

Now I take revenge on them with my indifference and get incredible pleasure. I have promised myself that my tears will be poured out to them, so let them pour out. Good work. published

Stories collected by Ekaterina Kuzmina

P.S. And remember, just changing our consumption – together we change the world!

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