My Parents Didn’t Know They Were Abusive
I still remember the fear. But the love was always stronger.
Mom taught me to knit and crochet, her fingers nimble and sure on the colourful yarn. Dad taught me to check oil and pump gas, his hands smudged with engine grease. They both made sure I knew that I could do anything, be anything, in life.
When my mother would get so upset she couldn’t contain it any longer, she would go into the kitchen and pound the stovetop as if it was a punching bag. The sound was a cacophony of clanging that filled our small house with a din that terrified me.
Mom taught me to play her old organ, though she only knew the basics herself. I fell in love with the music, and she immediately put me in piano lessons, the cost of which likely stretched the household budget much more than I could have imagined.
My piano teacher told Mom, “Students like Esther make teaching worthwhile.” Mom told everyone this story for years, her pride in me shining in her eyes.
One of my earliest memories is running from my father to hide in the bathroom because he was going to spank me with his “spanking stick” and I just wanted to escape. I was terrified. I don’t remember the pain, just the fear of it.
