For those who’ve been reading my blog posts under ‘Lo-Life’ then you will have read my last post part V ‘I’m being groomed’. I have sat back and wondered why I had gotten into such a horrific situation with the narcissistic misogynistic sociopath that is ‘R’, I didn’t really need to wonder, the answers always been there it was just a matter of acknowledging what deep down I’ve recognised since entering my teens. The Truth is I am like many am the daughter of a misogynistic narcissistic tyrannical sociopath who treated the women nearest to him like objects and subjected my sister, mother and I to what I can only describe as living hell. It feels awful to even write that and still a part of me feels shameful and embarrassed but its about time I did because like I’ve said all along, if what I write can help anyone else in similar situations then what I’m doing is working and I should keep going. For me, mum and Annabel (my sister) it was normal to be called ‘whores’, ‘bitches’ and ‘cunts’ by him, it was another word that meant nothing to him yet has resulted in the profound unhappiness of us all for many years but mainly for my mother who was the victim who never got away.
I grew up in a household where screaming matches were a daily occurrence and where every night my parents would both drink themselves into a violent rage or a coma; the latter for my mum which was best because it meant he wouldn’t hit her, he only wanted to abuse people to get a reaction out of them and so I now know why she got pissed to the point of passing out every night. My dad would drink until he was violent, manic and hating on the world that he has always believed owes him a living, he would phone up family or friends (pretty much whoever answered) and either abuse the life out of them for them not helping him or not giving them some of their vast wealth (his only love is money yet he does nothing to make his own) or grovel to them like he was their best friend. If I were around he would direct his anger at me and call me names until I broke down crying or he’d pin me against walls in the house punching holes in them and then blaming me for making him so angry. When I was 9, I broke my arm whilst outside roller-skating, I had tripped over a tree root poking up through the patio and had snapped my wrist in half. I was crying and screaming in pain even though this was the third time I’d broken my arm this time felt like hell, my mum was out which was rare and it was a Sunday. My dad had been left at home to look after me and he’d sat inside getting pissed all day, I ran into the house crying hoping he’d help me and take me to hospital but instead I got screamed at, abused and told “Feed the cats and stop fucking crying”. I did as I was told through fear; he stood over me watching me with a broken wrist desperately trying to open the tin of food that didn’t have a ring pull. Later when mum got home she rushed me to hospital where I had indeed broken it and needed surgery to pin it in place, I woke up in the Jenny Lind ward of the Norfolk and Norwich hospital thinking how lovely and calm the place was; in fact I never wanted to leave.
As I got older I would hole myself up in my bedroom, which I would then turn into a bunker by barricading myself in with books and any heavy objects I could find. Our house was dirty, covered in dog hair and I had little furniture or things in my bedroom that were new. In fact I had the same metal framed bed until I left home that mum had got second hand when I was around 5 years old, the springs dug into my back and my mattress was the same one id had since then too, it wreaked of old piss as Id wet the bed until I was around 10. I don’t feel sorry for myself, I know theres kids who weren’t fed and I certainly was, food was my solace and luckily there was always food in the house mainly because my dad was a fat greedy bastard and loved it too. There was no pride in the house, the furniture worn and the only new items I ever saw them buy was when Granny came to live with us and she bought a new 3 piece suite for my mum. I can truly never recall feeling ‘safe’ and loved in my childhood home where I spent the first 17 years of my life, the only time I had felt safe was at school. Our house felt dark, sinister and unhappy, my mum would cry herself to sleep most nights and I don’t remember a night where she didn’t.
Most people never realised there was a problem in our family, in fact many people thought we were affluent, happy and a very normal ‘middle class’ family. Both my parents were teachers, my mum taught primary school kids and was fantastic at her job, dad taught media studies at a college and was head of department he spent his free time sailing on the broads with his beloved boat and impressing others. My dad is your stereotypical bull shitter; charming, funny and in his younger days women would swoon over him whilst I’d watch him flirt outrageously at some bull shit dinner parties he’d drag me and mum to, he just had no regard for my mum’s feelings at all. Now I look back I wondered what she saw in him because she was so pretty with cheek bones to die for and long jet black hair standing 5ft 4 inches tall with a petite frame and cracking legs. I heard rumours that her own father had been a nasty intimidating bastard but he’d died when she was 24 so I’d never met him, though that would explain the reason’s she’d picked my dad, repeating a cycle that is all too common when women have grown up with tyrannical narcissists as fathers. To the outside world we seemed perfectly happy and normal and as I mentioned we appeared affluent, but now looking back we had no money because dad spent it all on ridiculous things such as sailing boats, cars that were converted to LPG and even though the first two blew up he never learned, lavish holidays and booze. I never saw him spend a penny on mum but he did get me a horse, though again I see that like the other status symbols it was a way of appearing richer than we were. A man with delusions of grandeur and a belief that he was some sort of member of the aristocracy all because my grandad (his dad) had been a doctor who was loved and well respected in the pit village he had his surgery in, in Staffordshire. My mum came from a council estate in south London where she grew up with her 2 sisters and won a place in the local Sydenham Girls High school so she was certainly a working class Londoner. We were normal, normal working class people but my dad couldn’t accept that and instead truly believed we were a rich family from ‘good stock’ and those are the actual words he used often when on one of his vile rants.
I grew up in a hamlet in Norfolk in the beautiful countryside though it was very isolated; perfect for my dad to further isolate my mum from her family and alienate us from any ‘real’ civilisation, perhaps maybe why I now know I could never settle down in the middle of nowhere, I love people around me. Dad wouldn’t have gotten away with his vile behaviour on a housing estate; oh no someone would have picked up on his outrageous crazy manner and challenged him on it, and something he cannot handle at all. So we lived in an ex council house; semi-detached normal 3 bedroom house that was attached to the most meek, kind decent couple named Alan and Christine who lived their with their beloved English sheepdog and 2 cats who were fed fresh fish daily. They too were perfect neighbours for my mad dad to be attached to as they rarely said a word even when they probably sat there wondering if we’d all been slain by him (he often threatened to kill us and on many occasions held knives to mum and I and even had a gun upstairs in his sock draw that was easily accessible to anyone including myself who found it aged 6.
I remember being 14 and him taking me to school, I was wearing mascara for the first time and he looked at me and said ”you look like a fucking whore like your mother, take it off now!” We were two minutes away from school and I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my cheeks, I was a good student and always tried hard, teachers liked me and they noticed when I wasn’t what they knew as ‘myself’. My teacher asked me if I was ok and I burst into tears telling her what my dad had said, I was taken to an office in the school I hadn’t been to before when a kind lady asked me some more questions. I later learned it was a social worker, she had asked me why I was crying and I told her the truth too, she’d asked me if it was a regular occurrence and I told her the truth about everything my dad called me and my mum on a daily basis. My mum and dad were then called into the school and I was placed on the ‘at-risk’ register. When I got home that night my mum was crying hysterically and my dad was going mad saying he’d lose his job and my lies and ‘teenage fantasy’ had caused him hell. Dad rang everyone who would listen and ranted down the phone telling them what an ungrateful shit i was and that maybe I needed some psychological help for my pathological lying. Truth is, the years of abuse eventually led me to create a fantasyland that I now know as ‘dissociation’ but at that time I had told nothing but the truth to my teacher yet I was now manipulated by my dad so much so that I even went back and said Id made it all up. Just like women who drop the domestic violence charges because they are scared/intimidated or now so under control that they even questioned their own mind into believing that they had made it up which is what I did and continued to do for years as did my mum.
I realise now that my dad only ever bullies women, and never would bully a man because he’s a typical bully when it comes to real men, as deep down he knows his own inadequacies. Most men like this are so insecure they need to seek constant reassurance from mainly women that they are wanted and are seen as masculine.
Its all clear to me as to why I ended up allowing myself to be bullied intimidated and ruled by ‘R’ as its all I’ve ever known when it comes to men, that is until I met Robbie. My dad has successfully isolated himself from every family member as they simply had enough of his bullying cruelty, his venomous insults and his disgusting poisonous rants that hit everyone where it really huts. I have been the scape goat child, the golden child and he has managed to fool me over and over again into believing his lies and mistaking his manipulate techniques for genuine kindness and fondness of me. Every time I tried to mention my dad’s behaviour growing up people would look at me shocked like I had made it all up, those who did believe me were family and close friends who i then shunned when he got me in his grips again, feeling a huge sense of loyalty towards him because at the end of the day after all that’s been said and done he is my dad. These feelings are exactly what they want you to feel, they play on the weaker ones and I was certainly one of them. For years I have watched him successfully ruin friendships, family relationships and yet none of them ever being his fault, he rinsed his own mother of her pension and will and then when she died he really hit rock bottom; Granny wasn’t there to save him anymore.
People like this can seldom be helped, often refusing to ever truly acknowledge, accept or take responsibility for the damage, hurt and pain they cause to those around them. I have recently read an online article called the ‘Tyrannical Rule of the Narcissistic Father’ and every single word of it made sense and applied to my own father. My poor mum bore the brunt of his nasty evil manipulative twisted ways which I to this day truly is the reason she developed early onset dementia, it was almost a good thing for her because she’d have never left him, he bullied, beat and treated like scum for the duration of their relationship and now I am old enough, have had enough therapy I have learned that this is something I will never tolerate and nor should you. I believed for so many years that it was all my fault, that perhaps it was me that was mad, I believed I was a whore and that by wearing make up it meant I was a slut like he told me. During puberty I used to pray I would stay a child forever, because I didn’t want to stop being daddy’s little girl who he was so proud of in front of people. The older I got, the less he acknowledged me, and Annabel had been long gone in his head, at 13 years my senior, she’d managed to escape his wrath and cruelty and has since done wonderfully for herself, living a happy life in New Zealand with her husband and kids. Sadly, in a period of me being the ‘golden child’ I turned against her because I believed all the lies he spun me about her, I think a part of me believing it was because I also felt so abandoned by her, desperate for her to rescue me and save me from the toxic unit we were. I haven’t spoken to her in years and one day I hope we can get together and chat like sisters do.
There are many incidences I remember where he was vile and did outrageous things especially when he was drunk but certain things remain ingrained. One of the awful things that sticks out in my memory was how dad called mum a “French whore” every day without fail. Her ‘loving husband’ reminded her of something that would have profound effects even on the most strongest of women; when she had been a teenage girl she’d been on a school trip to France (a huge deal back then) she’d gotten pregnant to a French bloke who had forced her into non consensual sex, he had raped her. It was long before she’d met my dad and she’d confided in him as most normal partners who love each other do, my mum had been so scared so frightened and hadn’t been able to tell her mum or dad through fear and shame. Like most teenage girls finding themselves in the similar situations she felt so alone and ashamed and so as my mum has always done when faced with horrible situations she put it at the back of her mind and tried to ignore it. My mum carried that baby to full term only confiding in her older sister Janet who was doing her nurse training at the time, she delivered the baby still born in her childhood bedroom, I cannot imagine the trauma she went through and all I can say is thank god she had my auntie Janet there and didn’t have to face it totally alone. This story was all too common back in the 60s and 70s, and my mum feared she would end up in a home for unmarried mothers and be banished from the family. Back then for my mum there were little options, the option of an abortion was questionable too as that too would have bought shame and snide comments as sadly we still see today. I am passionate about campaigning for women’s rights because of things like this, no woman should ever feel the way my mum felt and there should always be someone to turn to for help and non-judgemental help at that too.
This has been a heavy post and as I’ve mentioned the things I saw and heard and witnessed as a child until even very recently have affected me for sure, It would be lying to deny that they haven’t yet one thing I do know is that actually I am strong, resilient as fuck and that just because someone is my dad it doesn’t mean I can excuse them for their vile behaviour. If you are in a situation like this be it with a parent or with a partner then please do something to get out of it before its too late like it was for my mum. You don’t have to live that life, life is to be enjoyed and without sounding cheesy it’s a bloody gift! I will never forget when splitting up with my ex husband (guy who left me for skinny blonde, see part 1 of ‘Lo-Life) what my mum said to me after explaining he’d been dipping his wick in anything with a pulse “don’t get divorced my darling, I really think that deep down he’s a good man and i believe in the sanctity of marriage”. That said it all really, and by god from that moment on, though it took me a long time and some serious lows I knew that I would never accept that in a partner and now I will certainly never accept that in a father either.
You can’t choose your parents, but you CAN choose who to have around you and you must my darlings ensure it is always people who love you and want the best for you; those who when you succeed look at you like Reece Witherspoon looked at Nicole Kidman at the Emmys this year! You can love your family members but that doesn’t mean you have to respect them, keep them in your life or feel compelled to help them just because they are family.
Love Lo xox