With Valentine’s day approaching, I am more and more reminded of how dysfunctional and destructive some relationships can be. The only reason Valentine’s Day brings this out in me is that my father did the only nice things for my mom on that day year after year. Their wedding day was February 13th, and with Valentine’s day the day after, I guess he figured he would roll the two into one. To me, this always stood out considering the rest of the year is he was an absolute horror to live with. Using everything to torment my mother and me. Later on, I realized that back in the day, official marriages were only performed on a Friday, which made me wonder if their wedding date was a bad omen to begin with.
My earliest memories are living in fear and spending most of my time hidden in corners or my fort I build behind our couch. I was always trying to be not to be seen or heard for fear of causing another fight. It did not take much to set my father off and have him go into a tirade, which would go from hours of insulting, throwing things around to finally physically assaulting my mother. I could write down so many events it would fill a book so that I will keep it down to only one this post.
One of my first clear defining moments was my drunken dad coming home and starting a fight with my mother. I am not sure about what anymore because I was only around 3. I just remember playing outside with friends and family as we lived on a street with two of my aunts living across from us. I remember seeing him stagger down the street from visiting a bar where he attended his regular Sunday Frühschoppen, which is a huge tradition in Germany where people meet up and have early morning drinks. This usually also meant a fun-filled Sunday afternoon with him either passed out on the couch or a huge long drawn out fight because he was an alcoholic, which made him even more unpredictable some days. You never knew if you got the silly drunk or the violent beast he was most often.
On this particular afternoon, I figured it was the latter due to him not even acknowledging anyone on the street, which he usually did when in a silly good mood. Like a moth drawn to the light, I was drawn to follow and see what would happen. Even though I was always frightened and hiding, I could not help myself from having to be near my mom and make sure she would be ok, which of course, she was not.
I remember her sitting on the couch, as usual, just picking on her nails as he stomped around the Livingroom ranting and raving. This went on forever till finally one of my aunts came over since she could hear his screaming through the open window. She told him to simmer down as everyone on the street could hear him, which enraged him even more.
My mom, who was still just kept sitting on the couch picking her nails bloody, a habit she still does to this day 40 years later, finally opened her mouth and told my father to leave her alone. I think this shocked and, in turn, infuriated him even more just went and picked up a full ashtray and threw it right at her, which hit her right above her left eye. I never forget the shock on my mom’s and aunt’s faces as the blood dripped down my mom’s face.
The next 30 mins are just a blur to me. I slightly remember my aunt grabbing me and pulling me out of the room as she shouted at my father that this was the last time. She took me to her house, where I just sat at the table as more people gathered, and all I can recall is being in a fog.
The next thing I clearly recall is the ambulance pulling up to take care of my mother and the police. I am not sure if I saw my dad being taken away in handcuffs or not because my aunt kept pulling me away from the window. I just knew something big was happening. After the ambulance and the police left, my aunt turned to me and told me that this would be the last time I ever had to deal with this.
I remember being so relieved and happy. I thought I was finally able to breathe and went back outside. Silly as it sounds, I was skipping outside singing, ” My dad is finally gone.” I could not contain my excitement.
Not sure how much time passed, but after playing for a little longer, to my horror, I saw a familiar shape staggering back up the street. My heart fell, realizing it was my father, and I had to face him again.
It took me years to realize why and what happened. But seeing’s this was mid 70’s no one really took domestic violence seriously. What happened in the sanctity of one’s home between husband and wife was private, and the law did not like to get involved. No one cared about the children having to witness or even be subjected to the violence themselves. All they did was take him to the police station and gave him a lecture about a public disturbance and told him to next time keep his window closed if he did not want others involved.
I think this was the start that my father also learned how to hide his true self since, after that, he seemed to lead two lives—one for his friends and one for home. Until the day he died, most people thought he was this friendly, family-oriented guy, not the monster he truly was.
Thankfully we live in a time now where women and children have options, and the law does not turn a blind eye anymore. I hope anyone reading this who finds themselves in a similar physical or mentally abusive relationship with children involved takes something away from this and tries to make a change.
Us children are the innocent victims of domestic violence who see more, hear more, and in the end, are more scarred than the actual person being beaten because we have no choice. Our innocent minds are being forever tainted by every nasty insult and punch. #BreaktheCycle