As far as I can remember, I have lived a life filled with fear. Yes, the fear.
I do not recall my childhood as a happy shiny place, but as a dark, messy spot. And me in the center of everything, usually shaking and trembling through the tears. Of course, there were bright moments, but too few of them to make me a happy and a smiley child.
I was introverted, always looking down, never looking anyone in the eyes. I did not have friends. I had some acquaintances, that’s all.
I had to keep all what was going on inside of me, so I retreated from the society very early.
In the school, I was the best student. In everything. You name it, I nailed it with perfection.
In the outside world I was walking perfection also. Polite, I smiled when it was expected, I did everything like it should be done “normally”. Inside of me, screams were always present, day or night.
No one had ever asked me if something is wrong with me, or if something is troubling me.
I wore a mask. Again, with perfection.
You ask yourself probably why was my childhood such a nightmare.
Well, I was born and grew up in a dysfunctional family.
With a lot of mental and physical abuse.
By that I mean calling me with harsh words and yucky names, and beating me up until I usually landed on the floor, every day, without exception.
I never understood why. I was perfect at school. I was perfect at home.
I was perfect for everyone except for my …….. father. He ….well….I think today of him as a sick person, mentally sick, and I now I am not mad at him as I was before. I feel sorry for him.
My mother,oh God, that’s another story. She took her beating part pretty well, and never could stop my father going onto me. She never tried to leave him.
They are still married. Happily, I guess, because my mother accepted her “victim” role, and plays it all along with a smile.
“He is not the bad person”, I remember her words, “just do not provoke him”.
She didn’t understand that my father didn’t need a provocation. I got punched in the face from the age of three, four years almost until I was eighteen years old, and beaten without any reason.
The reason was there though, in my father’s head.
The beating ended when I punched him back. That was when I was 19 years old.
But the mental abuse, phone calls, messages and total life control never ended.
I left the house and went living on my own, when I was 20. I thought I had finally escaped, I thought the nightmare had ended.
Oh, how wrong I was!
This is just The Part One. The Background, as I’d like to say. But there is much more to tell. And I will, in time.
The Borderlines do come from dysfunctional families, that much is what I know.
But I never realised how deeply damaged I was by the all of the happenings, until The Nightmare I had, turned out to be a living hell on Earth.
Now, there is a question for you. Yes, you. If you can, if you want, please answer it. I would appreciate it.