The First Man In My Life

Was my father. He was a religious zealot. x 3 every Sunday, morning evening services and Sunday school in between. He helped build a new church roof over many weekends, leaving me with negligent babysitters, some cruel. All Church people. He had my mother committed to a psychiatric hospital 12 years before I was born. Because he insisted on receipts for all house keeping money spent, after being enraged that she bought herself a bottle of oil of Ulay (Olay in America). The lady in the Bakers shop couldn’t provide a receipt to be in compliance with his new law. It was the 1940’s. My mother kept insisting she must have one, but didn’t get it. I remember him shouting at her abusively on many occasions. The lady in the Bakery complained to him his wife had made a fuss. He had the right to have her “sectioned” for making a public nuisance of herself under some antiquated British law for 30 days evaluation. It was, in short a “One flew over the Cuckoo’s nest” story. She went in a sane woman, albeit abused. He denied her to have anything to do with her family, a sister and parents because they didn’t like him. I never met them. At this time of the “section” he imposed upon her she was 21. Within weeks she’d had electric shock therapy, massive doses of drugs and put in a straight jacket in a padded cell. She was screaming for her release and right for freedom, it was interpreted as “uncooperative” by the so called professionals. They drugged her more, with sedation injections. My father exposed me to weekly visits to see my mother at this God forsaken place, the smell of which I’ll never forget. Once he lifted me me up to the window to see her writhing around in padded cell, in a straight jacket. I also saw her before during and after her electric shock treatment. She was a zombie, already dead. My earliest memory of him molesting me was very youn g, I’d guess 3 or 4. I don’t remember much of my childhood but have hazy memories of him “fiddling” with me, mostly I believe when I was asleep. I clearly remember when he banged my head against the wall when I was 12 because I wouldn’t sleep in the same bed as him at my grandmothers house. He even had the audacity to molest me whilst both my grandparents were cooking dinner in the kitchen inches away, but with their backs turned. He claimed he wanted to feel my breasts to see if I needed a bra. He did and enjoyed it so much, within minutes he told me to sit on his lap again to do the same. I refused. There were sexual inuendo’s constantly, he’d walk about the house naked, I was very scared seeing this thing dangling, it was so inappropriate. I didn’t know what it was. My mother spent my entire childhood in the psychiatric hospital, she eventually died there of renal failure when I was 14, -all the drugs. I came to be because the Dr&#0 39;s and my father decided in their wisdom it may “snap” her out of it if she had a baby. She was given weekend releases. I believe he had munchausen syndrome amidst other psychosis because he’d take me to Dr’s requesting unnecessary surgeries, and succeeded twice. He liked attention, through medical means, it practically guaranteed he’d get it. His co-workers would bake pies for him and admire his single fatherhood, offering babysitting free. He loved to be the center of attention. He had a string of girlfriends during this time. With his ability to masquerade as an upstanding citizen, except behind closed doors (at home) it was impossible and nobody to articulate my horrific life to. I ran away from home twice, age 13 and 14 and was berated by a social worker who asked me “who do I think I am”? He was a jokey goofy man when there was an audience. At home he liked to yell and terrorize. Slap me then hug me, passive aggressive is an underes timation. He was not very intelligent, yet a know it all. A lot of people liked him because of his civic involvements. I enrolled in a psych degree when I was 18 trying to make sense of human (male) nature, I was on a mission to rationalize the irrational. I never will make any sense out of it. I didn’t finish but it helped me understand that my subsequent string of abusive relationships were related to trauma and I’ve had debilitating anxiety, insomnia and PTSD since my teens. One of my professors befriended me, she was concerned I was over doing it with too many classes but I was determined to get to the bottom of it! I cope better now, but still cannot sleep, I’m afraid to sleep. It haunts me every day of my life. I’ll never be “normal”. I can’t get over such an experience and move on. I’ve tried, I’m strong. I raised two children alone with no help whatsoever, financial or otherwise. I’ve been dealing with immense interna l anger, I have fantasies of torturing men of low character. Dead beat dads especially. I found 2. I know I’m capable of it with no remorse. Death would be too kind for them. The father monster died 4 years ago. He had a lot of money. He left it all to my stepmother. He told me she would divide his wealth which included my mothers that he inherited, she was a concert pianist, a musical genius.along with My God Parents inheritance, friends of my mothers died and no doubt assumed it would be passed on to me. But his new wife who was stronger than him, kept him in line and decided his wealth should be split between 3 of us, to include her two children. She abruptly stopped communicating with me after his death. I never got my inheritance and live in poverty with little motivation to go on. Each day is a struggle. I moved countries, it helped but not enough. I’d like to dig him up and kill him again. He never got exposed for the filth he was. He ruined my life. I have two daughters, they aren’t exactly flourishing in life. In fact one became a heroin addict. I’ve battled depression my whole life, hid it as best as I could but have never had many friends. Once I made one, I’d start to pour out too much information, it scared them away. Except for dysfunctional ones. One of the first things I learned in psychology is people gravitate to those on a similar level of functionality. He beat me because I told him I wanted to be a Dr age 11. He told me I had pipe dreams. He went through my diary, embarrassed me many times, told a travel agent once I was his wife, I was 16 he was 49. He was a complete pervert and obsessed with breasts. He was a dress maker. He only made ladies blouses, talked about bust measurements a lot. It has killed my spirit. I never had self esteem and allowed myself to be used in relationships even though I consider myself assertive and a feminist. Looking for love in all the wrong places. And then I’m even madder at myself. They legacy continues age 56. There won’t be any more relationships, I actually only had 4. it was enough. They were all abusive yet didn’t seem so initially. As though I was blinded by the red or pink flags, the quest for love I never got. I’ve thought a lot about my role in the self sabotaging victimization I’ve subjected myself to. It’s all about not feeling worthy. I’m not religious (surprise) but if there is a Hell, I hope he’s burning in it right now. No forgiveness here. I’d like to forget though. Thanks for the documentary. If anyone has any suggestions apart from the obvious: therapy, I’d appreciate it. I tried twice, it simply didn’t help. I started analyzing the therapist. It was too passive a role they played. I need the impossible. For him to be locked up. He still intimidated me age 35, he was abusive to my then 3 year old verbally and instead of throwing him out of my house, I froze. Tran sported back to the helpless child at his mercy. Men abuse boys and girls. I think they’re 90% scum. If not more. This sex drive they have that causes them choose not to control themselves. They’re a flaw of nature.