Home sweet home is where the heart is

I was much younger when I refused to come home while I was staying with my father’s elder sister. It was such a care-free time spending with my cousins and aunt. I was particularly close to my cousin who was 2 years my junior.

I was released from the feeling of walking on the tightrope. Out of the sight of my mother, there wasn’t any gnawing fear of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I found a safe haven in my aunt’s house.

One night, my happy bubble was burst when my parents came to fetch me home. Before I got into the car I’d asked mother whether she would return me to my aunty. I had this mistaken notion that my parents only came for a visit and took me out for dinner. My mother gave me an affirmative.

I was pretty disoriented when I woke up and found myself back in my own house. My father just turned his car into the driveway.

“You told me you would take me back to Aunt’s house.” Those were my first words.

To show her how serious I was in wanting to be with my aunt, I ran out to the road. My mother ran after me and dragged me into the house. Undeterred, I ran back to the road and my mother was equally undeterred, ran after me.

The next time I ran out it was my father who dragged me and then beat me with the dog leash.

“Your father doesn’t love you,” my mother taunted me. That night I cried myself to sleep. It hurt deeply to feel like a “nobody’s” child. It wouldn’t have mattered if my father had showed me otherwise. He had never protected me during the beatings.

My mother reminded me constantly of the one time that my father had ever beaten me. It had never been a good feeling when she’d made it a common knowledge in the family.

When I was old enough to think, I realized why my father did what he had to do. He did it out of fear that I would have run into an oncoming vehicle.

Fare ye well mama dearest

My middle sister was the only one who chose to leave home when she was over 12 years old. She chose to live with our cousin even though at that time her interaction with our married cousin was the passing kind. Yet she would rather leave home to stay with an almost complete stranger than stay home with her own family.

I remember the most severe beating my sister had ever got from my mother was when she found a 20-cent coin and took it home. Was it stealing? Definitely, “finder’s keeper” was not something my mother condoned.

My sister got the usual kind of punishment. However, this time she had something extra and unexpected, she was tied to the lamp-post in front of our house. It was my kind neighbour, who lived across our house, who came to rescue her. This was not her first rescue nor would it be her last.

Another time, she rescued my younger brother from the garbage bin. At that time we had no inkling that he was our mother’s favourite child. His crime was skipping lunch after his return from the kindy.

Strangely enough, I was never at ease with the grown-up neighbours. In one way or the other, these regular rescuers had been kind enough to intervene at the appropriate time. Personally, I should be grateful to them for being there for us. However, all I’d felt was shame, mainly because my mother would justify her deeds by badmouthing the one she punished. Most of the time, I stood there and wished for the ground to open up and swallow me in. Sometimes I wished I was dead as I listened and watched her making a scene.

To be fair, there were times my mother could be nice. If being nice was measured by the occasional gifts she showered on us, then she was nice. One thing for sure, she fed us well in spite of her shortcomings as a mother.

A case of mistaken identity

I don’t know how old we were, my sisters and I, when this Nyonya lady came calling one day. At that time I didn’t know she was a Nyonya. Much later I recognized her as one by her dressing. The Kebaya outfit and the embroidery top of sheer material.

Little did we know she was trouble. She was tracking down the thieves of her rambutans. She was told that one of the thieves was a girl. Somehow, she came to my house when she heard of the young daughters of the house. At that time my other sister was still living with us.

My mother called us out and we stood near her and stared at the Kebaya-clad lady in bafflement. She explained her reason for the visit.

We stood there like criminals while she gave us a look over. Then she pointed her finger at my youngest sister. Before she could finish telling that the girl was about my sister’s size and height, my mother had already started giving her swinging blows after giving her disgusted looks.

No, my mother wasn’t the kind who came to the defense of her children. She didn’t even bother to question my sister. She was the judge and jury, all rolled into one. It happened all the time, she would judge the person guilty just because somebody said so or she felt it, without getting down to the truth.

I was freeze-framed. Had the lady pointed at me, I would have been at the receiving end of such humiliation. The complete stranger was no longer in the picture while my mother was beating my sister. When it was all over I couldn’t remember when she left.

However, the next day she came with a bunch of rambutans, very apologetic as my poor sister wasn’t the culprit. The rambutans were sweet and succulent. No wonder she had made such a fuss over her missing rambutans. Such was the price that my sister had to pay in order that we could have a taste of them.

A crying shame

Many a time I wanted to write about my childhood experiences so that my fellow sufferers would know, ‘We are not alone and it’s not our faults that we have abusive parents.’ With knowledge, we would know how to break away from a vicious circle. Most importantly, we should learn from our experiences so as not to start one.

People with abusive backgrounds are likely to be abusive too. It is like, ‘Hey, we are miserable, let us breed more misery.’ Naturally, when children have unhappy upbringing they’ll become disturbed people. Many unhappy recollections will only make them consciously unhappy. If they never break away from that kind of negative thinking they’ll remain unhappy and make people around them unhappy.

When I started this blog I thought under the cloak of anonymity people would find it easier to share their experiences. It is so unnatural to have parents who are abusive, when they are supposed to love you. Does a child deserve that kind of abusive treatment? How bad can a child be?

In my case, nobody in school realized there was anything wrong with me. I didn’t share with my classmates or teachers about my problems at home. Even at a very young age of six I felt it was too shameful to let people know that I got beatings at home.

If I were the only child I’d have thought that there was something about me that made me so unlovable. However, I wasn’t the only child in the family that endured the punishments even though it did occur to me, the fact that my parents favored boys over girls. One time, when asked by the next door kid after she witnessed a beating, my sister
answered, “Oh, she’s our stepmother.”

Some of my friends did confide in me about family matters. Not that I had many friends. I was never the kind to make a first move to make friends. I kept to myself most of the time. I was shy and careful around people. Nobody told me she was beaten at home by her own parents. If only someone had shared a similar problem, then I wouldn't have felt it was such a dark secret.

Obviously, these kids had no ideas that they were so lucky.

‘My Mum loves my sister more.’

‘My father doesn’t make enough money.’

‘My brother says I’m the stupidest in the family.’

I listened and kept what I’d learnt to myself. I was good at keeping secrets. I had plenty of my own. Maybe I was flattered that my friends shared their problems with me. Secretive people, of all people, understand it’s not easy to open up to another person. Ah, was I wise beyond my years?

I would like to think that my parents were the by-products of dysfunctional families which had started a vicious circle. Ha, in my dreams!

I knew my maternal and paternal grandfathers. I had fond memories of them. I loved my paternal grandmother. Maybe they had mellowed by the time I was around. My mother had a comfortable relationship with her father. My father, on the hand, hardly spoke to his mother. From what I’d observed it was due to the lack of practice.

My father was totally a different man when he was with his friends. He was talkative and animated. There were moments when my parents sounded happy but these moments were rare. With his children he was like a clam. Only when he was in a bad mood and felt he was being disturbed by his children he would bark. Better his short barks than my mother’s long, loud barks and vicious bites.