The Definition of ‘Normal’ – The Consequences of an Ill-fated Relationship

I realise there are others worse off than me, but please, have a read if you’re interested. I’m not after pity, but I want to point out that there is more to people than we really think.

When we are all young children under the age of seven, we all have a fixed definition of the word ‘normal.’ We all think that our dad is stronger than Billy’s dad, or our mum is a better cook than Jenny’s mum. But as we get older, we begin to care less about how great our parents are in that respect. As you grow older, you realise that there is no such thing as normal.

I was eight years old when I saw for the first time my father hitting my mother. My little brother and sister, two youngsters out of four children had done something wrong. I do not remember their exact crime, but my father got so angry that he tried to get at them with his belt. My mother stepped in and tried to reason with him. And because she was in the way, my father whipped her on the thigh with his year-old leather belt. We scurried to our rooms.

As a young child, all I had ever known was fear and hurt, physically, psychologically, and emotionally. I grew up in that environment, with the mentality that because my father was head of the household, he could do exactly what he wanted. I seldom cried poverty to others. In fact, we were quite fortunate, but not always better off.

As years went by, we, the children, were told many times whenever my father was angry, that we were useless, hopeless, you name it. We believed we were those things. We were the reason that there was not enough money in the house, that it was our fault he got angry. Our mother always comforted us after the torment. I was sorely afraid of my father, and built a relationship with my mother. I confided many things in her, such as my interests, my likes and my dislikes, and my friends and who I had a crush on and everything. We had known plenty of occasions of happiness despite our adversity. I seldom spoke to my father. I was so afraid of him that I’d be too scared to ask him anything. And one day my mother told me that he was crying because I was scared of him. I do not understand why, as it was his fault that I was scared. Naturally, being young and naïve, I felt pity for him and we gave each other a hug and told each other “I love you” and all that. Not many days later, my fear of my father returned.

It was so terrible. From age eight to twelve, whenever I heard him returning home in the car, I’d run off to my room. I had done it so many times, it became habit. Even then, I knew it was getting ridiculous. But he always hated it when there were too many people in the room, so he’d tell us to “piss off.” This I do not understand, as this did not bother him when we had so many visitors at a time.

We moved house when I was twelve. More years rolled by and I still spent as much time in my room as possible. I liked being a solitary person. My room was my personal space away from the outside world, and away from my father. Except of course, when he came in to talk to me for two seconds and then leave.

Sometimes things in the house would be so calm and you’d forget the violence. Until one day my father would get into a rage and complain. When I was merely fourteen years of age, he got so angry at something that he was going to thrash us all for it. I had done nothing, yet I too had somehow earned it. My mother once again got in the way. He beat her and then left. My mother told us to pack our things and that we were going somewhere. She drove us to an acquaintance’s house and he told her that we should leave him because we didn’t need this. How true his words. But would she heed them? We then went to my aunt’s house and stayed there for a couple of days. My father called and said he had calmed down and everything. We went home, and not long after that, he was in a rage again. I was so frightened that I had broken down in tears. It’s ironic that I am the eldest of four children, but have cried more than they. For years I had asked my mother, “Why did you marry him?” She always replied that she wanted a family. I didn’t understand, and I still don’t understand. I can understand her wanting of a family, but a family with him? It doesn’t seem right. People get married for lots of reason, seldom for love. But she obviously loved him, and he her. She wanted kids, but he didn’t.

My mother told me that he had first begun to get violent shortly after I was born. At the time I felt like it was my fault that I was born, but then was I there to say, “Oi! I wanna get born so I can wreak some havoc!”? No, I wasn’t. I did not ask to be, nor did anyone else. If an embryo could decide upon their own existence, and if they knew they would be born into a world of hurt, fear and rage, would they choose to be born? Of course not! That’s just ridiculous! The only ones who the finger should be pointed at should be the parents. Once you decide to have sex, it is your responsibility, and no-one else’s, to be prepared for the result. If you conceive, then that’s it. If the baby stays, it’s the parents’ responsibility to take care of Junior. Children are meant to be loved, cherished, nurtured… Not abused, ignored, etc. Children are a gift from God; therefore we must take care of them.

I left that situation at the age of fifteen and a half. My father had placed the straw that broke the camel’s back. He had hurt me for the last time. He had nailed more verbal abuse into our heads and then I bit back. I told him to stop hurting people and to start calling us by our given names (as he called us profanities too disgusting to repeat) and at the end of the argument kicked me really hard up the back side with steel capped boots. I called the cops and they came and took him away. I was questioned at least three times before they went. The only thing they saw which made them take it to the court was the pair of steal-capped boots.

My family blamed me for the unrest that had transpired after that. Twice I ran away from home to get some space. Of course, I came back because there was nowhere else I could go. As days went by, I felt more and more like an outsider. And one day, my mother packed my bags, drove me to my aunt’s and didn’t tell me where I was going. I found out that I was going to stay at my grandmother’s farm for a few days. On that same day, I met a young girl two years my senior, who later became a close friend and has since been like an older sister to me.

I made a decision to stay at the farm longer. Before I had been sent away, my father had pleaded guilty to the assault charge against him. I had permitted the police to charge him, of course. Through the whole ordeal, I had gone pale. I looked like crap. And only while I was at the farm did my complexion begin to ease back into a slightly darker tone like it was before. I found out two weeks later on the phone that my father had changed his plea at the next hearing. He had a different magistrate to the one who had previously tried him. This one had taken my father’s side and let him go. The next trial would be in September, a month after my sixteenth birthday. I had just about gone pale again. I gave the phone back to my grandmother and walked back into the kitchen, where my friend was. “He… changed his plea… to not guilty…” I said in a mildly soft tone, showing trace of shock and sadness. My friend assured me that everything was going to be okay. She gave me a cuddle and while I leaned against her shoulder, I had all these thoughts racing through my mind. Why did he change his plea after admitting to the charges? I nearly broke down in front of my friend and my face showed lots of evidence of it. She was on my side in this one. Her mother had been rotten to her. My friend had lived away from home for nearly four years.

I was given a summons to appear in court to give oral evidence. I had found out so many things about my family. My parents didn’t get married until I was nine, and my mother had been a rebellious youth at sixteen. If I had acted in similar ways, I would have inherited those traits from my parents. As of now… I have no idea what to think of my family… Like, I never really knew them. My father had a bad history of violence before I was born. But how my mother came under his influence, I have no idea. I don’t understand.

I received the Lord Jesus Christ as my Saviour and am currently an office worker for the Christian ministry Aerial Missions Inc. I am also their unofficial reporter at only sixteen! I and my close friend Heather are secondary secretaries to the Aerial Missions Secretary who is my grandmother.

Dedication: Judy Pearce, Chris Dodoff, Heather Anderson and her dad Karl, Lorraine Legg, Fiona Kinsmore, Travis George, Hamish Kinsmore, Megan Kinsmore, Megan Merrifield, and the Lord God, for getting me out of that situation.