Kids who are physically abused grow up into human armadillos. Beating up your kid is a super-common practice in West Bengal, India.
Apparently, there’s some kind of saying, “Spare the rod and spoil the child”, which these parents take very seriously.
Like their lives depended on it.
I remember my Mum, burning my bottom lip with a hot iron, while she pressed clothes, because I was scribbling on the walls in crayon. Age two.
I remember Mum dislocating my shoulder. Age five. Thank Goodness that left no permanent damage. It would have really sucked because I’m right-handed.
I remember my Dad lashing at my arms with a leather belt when I was seven. Because I’d spilled water on my homework. Or maybe because I didn’t really finish it and spilled the water on purpose to cover up the unfinished homework.
I remember my Dad picking me up and hurling me bodily at the glass fronted wall cabinets filled with showy crockery. Because the nine year old me had flunked a math test.
Smash. Smash. Glass splintering.
Fast forward to my late teens. I got beat up because I fell in love with people who were not doctors. I got beat up because I didn’t do well in med school, where they pushed me into. I got beat up and called names by my own parents.
My Mum would ask me to go prostitute myself because I’d worn lipstick and apparently people who are doctors, in India, don’t wear lipstick. She still says that. Sigh.
Slap. Slap. Hair pulling. Bruises on my arms from trying to protect my face.
Liar. B-words. Mum throwing me to the floor and stomping on my throat trying to kill me. I, the survivor, (oh what a b*tch, she is ruining our family’s name, she’s embarrassing us, why can’t you go hang yourself?) – survived.
It sucks when your parents don’t want you. It’s better to do your kids a giant favor, dear lovely abusive parents, and NOT have kids at all. I would be at least look-at-able without my scars.
I will always survive. Alone.