Humanity repeats itself

I am not a proclaimed psychologist. However, I do know how I think, who I am and where I am coming from. The reason for such a debate as this is, the reality of a violent childhood in a sense that the intensity of such a personality can be threatening entering adulthood.

As much my mother denies it, I grew up in a domestic violent home. I’m going to continue professing this not to get charitable sympathy, but a basic understanding where my temperament comes from. Witnessing my own daughter displaying the same temperament causes much for concern. Sometimes, I do ask myself, “Have I been too hard on her?”

If the reality of my behavior is so predictable, could this mean my own daughter will suffer the same fate I did? I am foreign to my daughter’s train of thought, but I do know one thing. She is a very angry person. For whatever reason that is, I am helpless.

After reading the Power of Kindness, it did shed some light that forgiveness brings a whole new meaning to peace; in a sense that reflecting on where I am now in my life compared to my life then. Yes, this is a healthy kind of reflection: the kind that allows one to pat oneself on the back and treat oneself to a good hearty treat. Mind you, it wasn’t an easy road.

I had picked up a book a couple years ago from a library sale: Savage spawn. It’s a book about violent behaviors in children. The person who must have own this book prior to my acquirement had certain issues about psychopathy. Whoever that person was, I hope for their sake the book did give them some informative sense of peace. Regardless, if I had owned the book, I would have kept it for referral reading.

There was a paragraph that took quite an emotional toll on me. The paragraph read, that violent parents seed violent children; not necessarily from poor families, but from hot-blooded, angry families. I was relieved that the author, who is also a professional psychologist, stated that there are not enough studies to show the data as relevant since not every practitioner of the field have the ability to individually observe each family of every household.

I do not know how my mother grew up, despite the stories she told me every moment of her emotional roller coaster came to pass. I do imagine a lot about what it could have been like. She traumatized me emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I am far from psychotic. I do not suffer from hallucinations of the sort. I have a sound mind enough to create poetry and a paragraph of vivid characters.

Considering my past childhood, I barely notice my influence towards my own daughter. The signs were there. I just did not notice until it hit me like a concrete wall. I’m not complaining. I’m just wounded by the fact that I may have contributed to some, if not, all of her repressed anger.

I left the house without a word. Her inability to seek shelter from me drew her to isolation, depression and resentment. I had no choice. I was threatened. I had to leave that place; even though I knew leaving her behind would probably make her hate me for the rest of her life.

Divorces are not pleasant. They will never be. Maybe it could have been the reason why my parents never decided to pursue the idea. Regardless of the impact, the detriment of their constant battering led me to be indifferent to authority and good moral values during my adolescent years.

She never told me in her own words how her father treated her. I heard it second hand from my best friend, who is now my husband and her step-father. I was in the military when she was born. I was working constantly. I was fatigued, burnt-out and spent (mentally). Yet, I took time to read to her, sung her lullabies and played peekaboo. I am certain those times to her were precious. I could not make a toddler understand that my leaving for work was temporary. Even then when she started kindergarten, it was a nightmare for her.

I didn’t understand why. My frustrations must have rubbed on her the wrong way. I was not angry at her. I was upset that I had been married for seven years to her father and was the only one carrying all the weight of the household. I trusted him. I was not aware how much of an enemy he made me out to be. Yes, I was foolish to have not been wise enough to figure it out. I should have known better.

I don’t resent the days of our marriage; just his attitude towards parenthood. His bravado of being a parent first hand was nothing but empty pride. Do I love him still? Yes. Do I want to live with him? No. Never. Period. I’m not angry with him anymore. I could care less what he does to himself as long as he leaves me alone and stays away from me.

That’s not to say the influence of such indifference goes unnoticed. She is as observant as I am. However, I have a better grasp of my well-being than she does hers. She lacks the concept of boundaries and limitations. It’s unsettling since, I raised her to be aware of such things. I am not one to compare, but for the sake of where I’m getting at, I’ll state my claim. My mother would tell her friends how often I would cringe at the sight of people handling objects without washing their hands. I was three then. I do still, but not as obsessive as I was at that tender age.  By age 8, I could tell someone’s mode of intention by how they present themselves to my parents. 

Rebellion is not an act of expressing oppression. It’s a proclamation of defiance. If it were the case, she would have stopped this nonsense a long time ago. Yes, I admit I was defiant; devious even. My defense: I believe the house rules should also apply to the ones who created it. Yes, I do live by it.

Bad habits do get the better of me. Time does heal. She doesn’t understand it yet; let alone know the difference between a learned behavior and a personality trait. I don’t know how else to convince her otherwise. Yes, I do get angry; it doesn’t make me an angry person. Yes, I curse and swear, but I am by far a vulgar person by nature. Everything must be black and white for her. I don’t know why or for what reason. She just feels that way.

My historical background is unfortunately limited since my mother relish on the blunders of my past and my grandmother refuses to talk about it. Other than a resource somewhere down the root of my family tree, there was a rather cynical relative who enjoyed wenching, gambling, ploy shady business schemes and abused certain women in the family. It is not a flattering sense of heritage, if you ask me. I’m sure every family has one. Is it genetically possible to pass such a trait down to the later generations? Maybe so, but its probability could be miniscule on a scale 1:10. I could be wrong, then again, who actually is keeping track of this? How many sons, daughters, nieces, nephews or cousins were incessantly raped or molested by their adult relatives? Whether or not the statistics are accurate on such accounts, it’s almost always not reported. I am not going to think that such a thing would never befall in my family – that’s just asking for a bad omen. I remember being told to yell “Stranger danger”. By the time I was 12, I had to be wary of the men in my family; including my own father. So by the time I was in college, I was not the kindest of all nubile ladies.

Resorting to violence is nothing to be proud of, but it was all I know. I understand the heart-wrenching feeling my mother must have felt when I displayed such an array of defiance towards her. I had my reasons. I’m sure my daughter has one too. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand it as much as I do. We can’t help each other. That’s what’s unsettling.

Have a spawned an evil child? A psychopath, perhaps? By the time I finish reading that book, I hope to God it isn’t so. A child at war in their state of mind, is not a happy child. Whatever war she’s fighting, she’s not actively looking for an alliance to help her win it. We’ve tried talking, reasoning, yelling, spanking, you name it. Nothing is going to change her mind about the way she behaves. If she ends, up in jail, so be it. I will burn that bridge when it comes. For now, I’m going to continue revising, revisiting and reflecting. If I have to be blue in the face until I faint, she better hope to God I’ll still be alive to avert my retribution when she spawns her own children. When that day comes, I will  just sit, relax and relish the phrase, “Don’t say, I never warned you.”