Just the one...
...I was 11. It's a long story, bear with me, for this is my first post.

Growing up I was treated to the regular sight of my mum being slapped, kicked, punched, pushed, throttled, humiliated and just generally treated like shite.

That's unfortunate, you're probably thinking, and the general b3tan level of cynicism leads me to believe that the general consensus is that this isn't particularly uncommon. Sad, but true.

Bit of teh background information...my father (when I say that, it's only in the sense of the man responsible for half my genetic makeup, parenting's been a bit thin on the ground) was (still is, technically at least) a minister in the Church of Scotland. He's also a good six inches shorter than me (mother was 4 foot 9 or thereabouts).

Fuck, where am I going with this...catharsis I guess.

From growing up in a Baptist, middle class Edinburgh family, my mum had the misfortune to meet my dad at uni in the 60s. I don't know how they met, or what they were like as 20somethings, but she had every right to think she'd graduate, get married, and enjoy a similar lifestyle to the one she'd had growing up (isn't that why the middle class remain successful though- that they expect financial success, so it come naturally? but I digress).
My dad was a minister for a good 15 years- probably keeping a lid on his real self for a good portion of that. Fast forward to the early 80s (the time at which my memories start, being 28 now) and the violence, addiction to porn and general beastliness is in full swing. He had to resign from the church in '86 (don't know why, though I've heard rumours and can imagine reasons- anyone who knows why, please tell me) and we ended up in the north east of Scotland- my dad permanently unemployed for the next twenty years and my mum unable to hold down a teaching job- black eyes don't look good in the classroom.

Cut to 89/90. I'm in primary 6. My mum's been collapsing in agony and unable to move during these attacks for a while. The doctors, God love 'em, diagnosed 'stress headaches'. Fuck knows what kind of euphemism that is, but that is what they said. Again and again. Eventually, a brain scain at ARI was booked. Brain tumour. She was 42.

Chemo and radiotherapy followed. Hair gone. Tracheotomy at some point. Using a zimmer frame to walk. Lost a lot of weight that she didn't have. All through this, the beatings continued. My dad, behind the back of his gravely ill wife, thinks it'll be a good idea to sign up with some dating agencies (apparently this was nothing new, just more socially acceptable than the prostitutes he'd reputedly used in the early years of their marriage) to meet some new meat. My mum was dying, her children were watching this. Living in squalor, unable to do a single thing about it, she got worse. Much worse.

It all reached a head in summer 1991- I think that it must have been clear to all that she was dying, so me and my little brother were packed off to our aunt & uncle's house to visit for the summer- my sisters remained in Scotland.

One night, I was in the top bunk in my cousin's room where Colin and I were sleeping (I can still picture that room) and I knew. Something hit me, and I knew. I told my brother our mother was dead. He was 9 and I was 11. I knew. I know that sounds cheesy and you'll mock, I don't know how it happened, but I knew. He cried for a bit and told me to shut up.

We went to sleep.

In the morning, our aunt Pauline told us to come for a chat and sit down. She told us our mum had died the previous night. Colin wept as only a nine year old can. I was numb. She asked us how we felt. I couldn't answer. Colin was bawling.

She's a good woman and shouldn't have been put in that situation.

We went back home for the funeral. We went to the chapel of rest (my dad came out with some pish about saying goodbye- when had he said his? in the letters to women he wrote when my mum was dying? when he punched her in the face when she couldn't stand up, let alone try to dodge the blows?) and she lay there in the coffin- waxy, pale and still looked ill. No respite, even in death.

I just looked until I couldn't any more and turned away. Colin, 9 years old, jovially said 'Bye mum' and that was that. My first dead body.

The funeral was a couple of days later. We'd been an unpopular family (due to my dad), but one of my strongest recollections of that day was looking round and seeing the graveyard full of people. It's quite a big graveyard (Kemnay, if you know it) and the back part was full.

I didn't cry.

I stood there, a little boy, with my gran, my grandpa, my brother, my sisters, two uncles (including my mum's brother) and watched my mum's coffin go into the ground.

My dad, I think, led some kind of prayers. The hypocrite.

After that is a different story. My jaw's hurting now, I'm keeping back the tears I didn't cry then, and I'm almost done with my story.

I think about my mum and the horrible death she endured (in some ways, it took 20 odd years for her to die) every day of my life and in many ways I'm still just the numb little boy I was that summer day. A part of me died that day, a part that I'll never regain.

I don't see my family much, but if you're reading this:

I love and respect:

Uncles Kevin and Alasdair
My sisters and brother
My aunt Pauline
My gran & grandpa (both dearly, dearly missed)
Everyone who made an effort that day.

Thanks for reading.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 5 Mar 2008, 22:47, 5 replies)

No way of saying this
without sounding American (apologies to our Merkin friends) and tacky, but mate:

- cry. Nothing wrong with it. Give yourself permission to do so. It sounds *so* corny, but let it out, for God's sake, keeping it in isn't manly, or strong, or natural;
- counselling helps, it really does; not a quick fix, or a pain-free one, but it's more cathartic even than B3ta QoTW's can be;
- you can't change your childhood; or get revenge on your old man. All you can do is not do what he did, and not fuck up other people.

Sorry for the above if it's been patronising or whatever - it wasn't meant to be. It's just when I typed this no-one else had replied, and an entry like yours deserves a reply. I know that most of us, myself included, love a QoTW that supplies amusing, risque anecdotes, and the last two have been very light on those, but on the other hand some people have used them to bring their own demons into the light, so maybe some good has been done even if it's hardly been a laugh-a-minute fortnight.

Take care
( I_Was_Mordred, Wed 5 Mar 2008, 23:21, closed)

You
have made me question all that is right and wrong in the world, this is not very b3tan but fuck it *hugs*, having come from a fairly stable, but no less Scottish, background, I find it difficult to read what you have been through, and still believe in the goodness of mankind, but it is there and I hope that you experience it daily so that you can know that there is good in the world, even if your childhood didn't show you much.

I post this with the ultimate good faith and hope that you take that faith with you
Tovi
( Tovi boom bang a bang bangs all the time., Wed 5 Mar 2008, 23:34, closed)

Despite all that happened....
Seems to me you've grown up in to quite a decent chap.

I think the best revenge on your father is not being him nor anything like him. I hope your brother turned out as well.

I think there's a special place in hell for husbands that beat up wives. I'm sure there's an even more special place for ex-members of the cloth that do the same.

Good luck to you mate!
(Lurkaloid awarded wanking black belt on, Thu 6 Mar 2008, 1:20, closed)

Christ
No-one should have to go through that. It's good to see that you have grown up into a well-adjusted person. Should we ever meet up, there is a pint of whatever you like with your name on it.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 6 Mar 2008, 9:48, closed)

What they said above
and more

I lost my father when i was 11 (solidarity). Nothing quite as horrific as your mum had to endure before and during her illness. it was an accident.

but i totally believe you felt it when she wnt. the night my father died i had a dream that my parents split up. which wouldn't mean all that much except 6 weeks before my brother died, and i dreamt that my best friend had died. Also my mother said that the day my father died (he was away , in america) we all went for a walk to get out of the house and suddenly she felt this overwhelming sadness and that she was alone on the world so she turned us around and we all went home. that night she got the phone call.

so people can be cynical, and i'm not sure what i believe, but i do believe in the enduringness (is that a word?) of the human spirit and that we make connections with people that are so strong that we can feel it when someone is gone.


so there'll be no mocking from me.
(electrogirl no one thinks about the implications of a clown su, Thu 6 Mar 2008, 9:57, closed)