Adolescence

I remember the day that I became a prefect, I was 11 years old, my mother worked very close to my school and could have come to the assembly to watch but of course she didn’t.  A few months later, we had a swimming gala at school and I received a trophy for the winning house, as I was house captain, they weren’t there either.  I do however remember walking passed my uncle who was there to support my 3 cousins, and he said “well done my kid” when I walked passed.  I have never felt more proud, nor more unwanted in that very moment.
At the end of my grade 7 year we had a special assembly.  I was in the choir and was part of the entertainment section of the final assembly.  I was told by my class teacher that I was receiving a trophy for something.  I remember begging my parents to attend.  They didn’t.  I received the female “Victrix Ledorium” trophy for 1988. My name is still on the board in the school hall.  When I came home with the trophy I received a few minutes of praise.  It still amazes me how you can feel so lonely in a room full of people.  It frightens me that I already knew this at the age of 12.

One Sunday afternoon, I was watching a TV programme in the lounge with my sister and her boyfriend who was visiting. Our day was ruined all because she had not done a basket full of ironing in the morning.  She had planned to do it when her boyfriend left the in the afternoon but this was just the reason my father needed for his outburst. My sister was always feisty and would not keep quiet when my father went on a rant.  I suppose that happens when you no longer have respect for a person.  My father was screaming and shouting and then grabbed my sister, pulled her off the couch and threw her into the glass coffee table that broke underneath her. He then went upstairs and smashed everything in her bedroom. Everything that was on her dressing table, everything that was on her walls and shelves, everthing inside her cupboard. He smashed her guitar, her love palm plant that she was growing, the boom-box radio we shared as a Christmas present the year before.  My sister’s boyfriend got up and left straight after my sister landed and cracked the glass coffee table.  He knew that if he didn’t leave that very second, he would do something he regretted. I was stunned. Never had my father ever gotten that physical with either of us.  Yes he had always smashed and broken and torn things, but never intentionally hurt us. Was this normal? Surely every family has these issues?
I remember my sister grabbing her bag, shoving some clothes in it and standing outside in the garden crying.  I think she was so shocked and probably hurt from landing on the table, that she didn't know what to do.  It was late afternoon now and was getting dark. 
I remember feeling terrified.  I didn't want my sister to leave because then I would have no-one.  I remember feeling selfish for wanting her to stay with me in that house.

My sister married my brother-in-law 6 months later.  That is how desperate she was to flee our home.  It was a difficult time for me because my sister was no longer there to protect me, I was all alone.  They moved to another province straight away and I thought that I would never see her again.

At the age of 12 in my first year of high school, I participated in a school play.  My parents said that they would attend the production. I put on my best performance.  Perhaps they would notice how good I was and feel proud of me, maybe love me a little more.  At the end of the show, I climbed into the car with my dad and asked him what they thought of my performance (I noticed that my mother wasn't in the car and feared what his response would be).  I was told that they didn’t watch.  Apparently when they arrived (late) there were no more seats and they left.  They could have asked a teacher for an extra 2 chairs or asked pupils to give up their seats as that would have been something that the teacher’s would have insisted upon anyway, but no, it was just easier to leave.  I was gutted.

In grade 11, at the age of 16, I co-directed a school play for our “house”.  I stood in front of the jam packed hall and said a speech regarding the directing process, and introduced the "Perils of Prince Percy of Pomegranate" play without cue cards.  It was a proud moment.  My parents were actually in the hall watching.  My sister was there too.  My sister was so proud of me and was the first to come up and congratulate me on the win for our “house”. I was thrilled.  The hard work had paid off and my parents were there to witness it. 
This was short lived by another escapade whereby my father decided to smash every single item in the house. A temper tantrum, a mood swing, an alcoholic on a binge.  This time it was my turn to feel his wrath.  He ripped every picture I had on my bedroom walls.  It was like they were my friends, my confidents. He relished in destroying simple things that meant so much to me. As the tears streaked my face and I begged him to stop, he just kept on ripping up my prized possessions.
There was nothing I could do to save my teddy bear or my birthday presents from my school friends.  And of course, after every rampage, there's the quiet in the house.  Where no-one talks, tears flow from your puffy eyes and you don't dare make a sound.  You quietly tip toe around the house and pick up all the glass and broken pieces.  Try to separate what can be salvaged and what has to be thrown away.   The cleaning up task would take hours.  Every piece of furniture would have to be put perfectly back in place, because you didn't want to suffer another episode if it wasn't done correctly.

Again, I think to myself, where was my mother throughout all of this.  I never recall her trying to comfort me.  Why didn’t she stand up for her children?  Why didn’t she leave with us?  Surely my grandparents would have taken us in? Or my aunts and uncles?  Why did she subject us to a life of torture and pain? 
I remember my sister being the one to comfort me when I was scared.
I stopped going to my mother because she would just shout at me for waking her in the middle of the night.  I would have nightmares and I was terrified of the dark (I probably suffered from PTSD).
I would walk to my sister's bedroom and wake her up and tell her I was scared.  She would just roll over, lift up the duvet cover as invitation for me to climb in bed with her and then I would fall alseep hugging her.  I think it was the only time that I ever felt safe when I was at home.

It’s actually pretty sad when you think about your parents being your biggest foes.  It is a parent’s responsibility to keep you safe, to keep you fed and cared for.  I think that somewhere along the line they never grabbed this piece of knowledge. They live in a dream world where they are right and everyone else is wrong.
Every tantrum can be justified by something you did or said or didn't do or didn't say.
Almost thirty years later, I can still see these vivid images in my mind when I close my eyes.  Reliving every detail and every time I think of it I cry.  There is so much hurt there under the surface and I don't know if I will ever be able to recover fully from this.
They are one of the reasons why I chose not to have any children of my own, for fear of becoming just like them.  Too many times have I seen it for myself, where history repeats itself.  It stops with me! I would never subject a child to this kind of behaviour, regardless of the situation. I would do everything in my power to protect that child and keep them safe and most of all make them feel loved.