well, back to the early days....more to reveal.
already have noticed a much more clear and objective perspective as a result of bringing these ancient horrors to the light of day.
must continue....not done yet !
there were countless blows to the face and head ( backhands, slaps, punches ), was beaten with sticks, belts, clothes hangers, kicked, more than once thrown down stairs.
honestly, i cannot count how often these "crimes" occured with myself and my siblings.
being a bed-wetter, have often had my face rubbed in pissy sheets, my father accusing me of being too lazy to get up and go to the bathroom, of course i was always sound asleep when the bedwetting occurred.
have also had my face rubbed in dog shit several times.
our house dogs were kept in the basement in winter or outside in warmer weather.
sometimes the dog droppings would pile up for days in the cellar, and guess who was almost always the one chosen to have to clean it up, using a broom and shovel.
at times my father wasn't happy with the job i had done, or worse, sometimes i had forgotten to do it.
so the punishment was what it was....having my nose rubbed in it just like i was a dog....as well as the customary beating.
and then there were the interrogations....
often being hauled out of our beds, gathered together, lined up and grilled....
some form or other of this...."where's my hammer ?, i thought i told you kids never to touch my tools !"
whack, a powerful slap or backhand across the face, then he'd move down the line, next, next, next and back to the beginning to continue the interrogation.
he would usually be drunk, and almost always it was a case of him misplacing this tool or that.
there was never a right answer, answers like "i don't know !" or "i forgot !" were absolutely taboo....and would only encite more rage and stiffer blows from my father.
crying was not allowed !
nothing to do or say, any reaction or response, any sounds, any lifting of hands or arms to protect ourselves would only make him angrier.
only just to endure, say nothing and wait until he got tired.
what stands out in my memory is, he seemed to enjoy the beatings, there was this smile of power and pleasure at the corner of his lips and a frightening glint in his eyes.
one could never forget that expression.
he seemed to "need" to create situations that would justify corporal punishment.
he seemed to be addicted to causing suffering with his innocent helpless children.
what was actually true, i cannot say.
where was my mother throughout all this ?
good question....either at work....or hiding upstairs sobbing and crying....we could hear her at times.
what seemed true then was this, she was as helpless, voiceless and powerless as the rest of us.
it was well into my 40's before beginning to question her role, or lack of one, during those early years of torture and abuse.
years later, looking back at his patterns of behaviour, it wasn't until the children were grown and gone that he began to drink more heavily.
it seemed that as long as the outlet of abusing those around him was available to him, he didn't need to drink excessively for stress relief.
why at 63 do i feel a need to tell these tales ?
simple, they have yet to be told !
i do not wish to go to the grave still following his rule....
"DON'T SAY ANYTHING !!!"
as well as knowing within that he would remain unaccountable to society at large.
he was, in my opinion, criminally insane !
to this day, i am convinced he felt no remorse, and considered there was nothing wrong with his world view.
curiously, he was from a small town in ontario called penetanguishene, or "penetang".
this town is infamous for being the location of the province's hospital and prison for the criminally insane.
for whatever that's worth ???
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