1 in 4 - When ‘Discipline’ becomes Abuse

Fight-or-Flight.

A concept that reminds us how truly human we are. 

A choice in the most dire of situations - do we fight, or do we flee? 

If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to experience such a permanent, demanding situation. One that could shape the course of your life forever, or destroy any path you were once willing to take. 

Some aren’t as lucky, though. Trying to survive realities that consume them whole - quietly succumbing to the traumatising effects of domestic harm.

Some believe they never had any luck at all. 

I was one of them. 

Was. 

My story is a testament not to luck but to resilience and determination to get out of the situations I was forced to endure at a young age. And by sharing my story, I hope those in similar domestic settings can finally free themselves of their pain. Their torment. Their trauma. 

But before the unbearable pain was a time of complete ignorance. 

Falsehoods

You know when children - usually toddlers or newborns - are viewed as not having a consciousness before a certain age? Not able to remember the previous few minutes of their days, despite them most likely being the best moments of their lives?

Unable to remember what they ate the second before due to their almost concerning lack of attention span?

Well, before the age of 7, I was exactly like that. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exactly remember every moment that happened after that point, but I know that after that age, my life began to change.

I grew up believing my father hated me. And by hate, I mean an unwavering sense of disgust towards me. Before I turned 7, I couldn’t see that. I believed everything he did was in my ‘best interest’. 

Never once did I think he was doing anything wrong. That he was the problem. 

I mean, my mother never really said much in front of us, so maybe it was. To us. To him. 

Especially since I was constantly told that discipline was fine in households like mine.

The church would always preach how discipline was right. 

Even necessary. 

I never questioned the bible, or its teachings, but always thought it to be unfair and quite ironic.

Why teach peace and prosperity, when all it does is bring me pain?

I blamed my suffering a lot on the Bible. On God. 

Supposedly, everything is fated by him, so why was it my destiny to be beaten and bruised by the very man who's meant to love me dearly?

Nevertheless, I attempted to ignore it. 

As a result, my grades began to plummet. The one good thing about being lastborn is that your siblings are expected to do well before you. The bad thing is that if they do well, you’re expected to do even better. I couldn’t be better than my sister.

And because of it, he hit harder. Shouted louder. 

He was obsessed with having prodigy children - mainly due to my 3 older brothers’ success stories, and my sister’s brewing one. I was expected to succeed them. Next in line. But the more and more he craved intelligent sons and daughters, the more the cracks began to show.

Cracks 

Eventually, the end of primary approached. I remember parts of it vividly - the good parts. The end-of-year assembly, the school party, golden time for the last time. I didn’t exactly like everyone there, but I loved my teachers. I remember it as one of the best times in my life.

But I also remember it as one of the worst.

My father’s inner rage towards me began to overflow. I’m not entirely sure what made him so upset with me that fateful night, but I will never forget the aftermath.

I went to my room - upset, in constant pain - surprised to see a forming bruise on my eye. It was a deep purple - clearly showcased for everyone to see, even on my darkened skin.

I cried silently in my room, the kind of silence where you cover your mouth in case your cries could be heard. I was always told that if I continued to cry, more belt hits or slaps would come my way. So I tried not to. Or at least, tried to be quiet.

The sun rose the next day, and I stared at my now swelling black eye in the mirror.

I went to my mother first. Perhaps this was where my mother stopped being blind. 
Perhaps not.

She put foundation on my skin - a shade too dark. A shade that still showed the undeniable plum coloured lump on my eye. I went to school anyway, hoping my teachers would remain silent.

I didn’t want my dad to get in trouble. I was scared of what that would mean for the rest of us. But I wanted it to stop.

My form tutor was the first to notice. My elder sister arrived, ready to walk me home, but couldn’t ignore the sight of me clearly in distress. 

The school got involved.
Questions were asked, and I cried anyway.

I told them the truth. He didn’t.

As soon as we got home, he took me to the hospital. 

Got my eye checked, and when I had to tell them what happened, I told them my father’s fabricated story. 

He was sitting right next to me. 

For the rest of the week, he treated me like a complete princess. 

He did that after every beating, but this time it was different. 

He bought me clothes and jewellery—dresses I loathed. 

He did everything but hit me that week. And, I felt… free.
He never went to that extent again, but from that day onward, I came to a sudden realisation. 

What my father was doing was wrong.

Overflow
With 2 remaining daughters in her home, my mother began to realise that the toxic environment we’ve been in all our lives was beginning to change us for the worse.

I personally craved the academic validation. So revision and tests were all I did — pretend to be a kid every other day by playing games on my sister’s phone. 

11 years old, and 2 entrance exams later, I got into my dream secondary school. 

Spoiler alert, I hated it there - the constant academic pressure, the people who you’d never be better than, and the people who would do anything to be better than you. But I never told my family that. I couldn’t. I was the one opportunity I had to show my father how truly intelligent I was.

I think that was one of the first times I saw him happy. Ecstatic, even when I told him I got in. I got my first phone around that time. It was a hand-me-down, but it was a gift given as a ‘continue being smart’ message.

Somehow, I was given unrestricted internet access, matched with an unwavering desire to be the best of the best.

My hygiene was pretty much nonexistent, too. A lot of people say “mental health matters until extremely gross things happen”, and I was living proof of that.

Nevertheless, my mother decided it was finally time for a divorce. But before it could be finalised, my father kicked her out of the house.

2 weeks.

2 weeks of my sister and me being stuck there with him, with no other adult to help us. 
2 weeks of not seeing my mother. It was agonisingly long, being away from her for that long.

Surprisingly, I avoided getting hit even once, although I did get shouted at a few times. My sister wasn’t as lucky. 

I remember her getting him tea and spilling it on the floor by accident. That didn’t stop him from hitting her hand and berating her into making another.

In the final few days with him, I was walking home from school, oblivious to the person behind me, waiting for me.

My mother.
Once I realised, I didn’t spend even a second before embracing her. She spoke to me, saying how she planned to get my sister and me out of the house.

All I could think about was how long it would be before my father came home. 

Every car looked like his.

I went home happy - almost too happy. I told my sister what had happened, and a few days later, my mother kept her promise. She brought my uncle and auntie, and we left in the dead of night with some of our clothes.

I still had school the next day. And time never showed me any mercy.

Spills
As the years went by, my situation didn’t get any better. By situation, I mean my mental health. I didn’t realise how bad it had gotten until I had a panic attack in front of my sister. 

I couldn’t breathe.

My sister being there was the only reason why I calmed down, but after that, I came to realise that I would panic a lot. Over the smaller situations, too. 

Suppose my phone wasn’t charging. Something I was meant to keep safe went missing. 

Being upset made sense. The panic didn’t.

Eventually, my social standing in my school came back, but I was still bullied to some extent. Most people would see it as banter, but because my BMI was considerably higher than that of most people in my class, that apparently warranted the harmful fat-phobia. 

And unfortunately, it only made me eat more.

When my parents divorced, my dad tried to keep the house, but since it was in my mother’s name, it had to go to her by law. Our childhood home was finally silent. 

But that didn’t stop my dad from trying to re-enter our lives.

He would send my sister and me money every month as ‘pocket money’.

 It was £40 each time. 

But I suspect he got broke, and that's why he eventually stopped. Either way, it didn't help with my binge eating. Neither did the corner shop right next to my school.

…

My family never knew how bad it had truly gotten.
Never knew how far it had gone.

Not really.

But eventually, as all hope seemed lost, as my faith disappeared, my life began to look up.

Repair
Eventually, I found the courage to block my father.
And leave that part of me behind.

I moved homes, building a quiet life somewhere far removed from who I used to be.

No longer bound by the heavy burdens of my past. Not entirely.

Some days, I still find myself crying in the dead of night - reliving those same moments, trying to find answers. But to no avail.

Before, I believed I had no future - that I wouldn’t make it to graduating age, or have a prom. I thought that it was pointless.

Now, I think everything but that. 
I have passions. 
I’m living a life I never thought I could have.
Never thought I deserved.

All because I spoke up.

Fight-or-flight is a response we are constantly taught at school. 

Our bodies’ response to danger. To fear.

To pain.

I always thought it was either or, that you couldn’t choose both. 

But I had to fight for my life before I could fly. 

To challenge those ideas of discipline, before achieving freedom.

I thought the abuse I suffered from was my father’s way of teaching us. 

Teaching us to obey and be good, honest children. 

It was nothing more than a façade.

And although I’m now in a chapter of my life I could never be unsatisfied with, I cannot pretend to be happy whilst other children just like me still suffer with the same abuse.

1 in 4.

1 in 4 children experience physical abuse growing up. 
Forced to mature too soon to please those sworn to protect them.

Yet, it’s still seen as a discipline. 

The only way to rid the world of this stigma, this ideology, is to speak.
Many victims choose not to speak to anyone, suffer with their pain longer than they ever could. 

It’s painful, to get help even if you fear the effects of speaking out. 

It’s more painful if you don’t.

Speaking Out
There are organisations across the world that can help. Ones I wish I had when I was younger, but that others can access, too.

Refuge is the UK’s largest specialist charity - offering accommodation, advocacy, and support services to women and children escaping domestic abuse, trafficking or modern slavery. It operates a 24/7 Domestic Abuse hotline (08082000247) for domestic abuse victims and survivors. They campaign to change laws and raise awareness of violence against women and children. 

ManKind Initiative supports male victims of domestic abuse - operating a confidential helpline (01823334244) and freephone (08088001170)  for not just male victims, but affected family, friends, neighbours, work colleagues and employers. They provide information and a signposting service for men suffering from domestic violence.

The Metropolitan Police (UK) also allow victims of any form of violence to report on their website, whether it’s an emergency or not. 

Speaking to someone was one of the best things I did for myself. I’ve been able to gain new hobbies, meet new people, and learn to love the small things in life. I can never take anything for granted, but knowing my privilege, I hope others in similar situations can get the help they need, too. 

We are all human, and we all deserve to live fruitful, pain-free lives. 
The line between discipline and abuse has been blurred for too long. 

Together, we can reiterate what they both really mean.

We can fight.
And finally, we can fly.

— A survivor of Domestic Violence.