Yesterday was Father's Day and there was a gazzillion posts on social media about how wonderful 'dad' is. Wonderful memories shared with the world - light hearted and cheerful. Those are the kind of memories I don't have. Mine are like, "hey remember the time dad beat me so bad I was taken to the hospital", or "remember how much fun it was for you to be chained to your bed?", "I bet getting thrown out of the house and sleeping on the ground outside our apartment building was like camping eh!!!"
I find it hard to believe people didn't hear the screaming specially when we lived in an apartment building in Toronto. Hard to believe the social workers didn't take us away earlier... years earlier! Harder to believe that people looked down on me like I was diseased because they all stood by, did nothing, watched the abuse and to comfort and live with their hurting conscience, turned the blame on the victim (me!).
So father's day and mother's day to me is memories of being in the bedroom almost all the time, playing quietly and staying away from the parents. Being dressed up and paraded with instructions not to say or do anything to embarrass the mom - everything is beyond good and normal - we're very happy and living the good life (we played your game so well mom).
I wonder how much of these things I carried into my own parenting behaviour with my own kids. Between my own upbringing and a futile attempt for years to fit in and be accepted by the in-laws who hate me, I believe I may have screwed up a lot.
No point asking
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