The Belt

I am a daughter of a man who has never been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, but who displays all the symptoms.  He was demanding.  He only wanted perfection.  He was obsessive.  He was relentless.  He couldn't abide any transgression, no matter how minor.  He was untrusting and always watching, waiting for something "wrong" to happen.  It was as if he was waiting for that adrenaline rush that immediate intense anger would bring, and once he became enraged, it was hard for him to calm down.  

When I was growing up, it didn't take me too long to realize that my dad's parenting style was not necessarily normal or even legal.  I think going to school and seeing other kids interact with their dads tipped me off.  Some of these kids displayed feelings of LOVE for their fathers!  Besides that, most of the kids I played with were Philippine, so some of them had strict demanding fathers, but no one had an angry dad on the level that my dad was.  

He went beyond strict and demanding.  If I didn't practice piano enough during the week before my piano lesson, I got the belt, and then I was told to practice for 2 hours.  

I got a bad grade on a first grade clock exercise, and I tried to dispose of the evidence at the bottom of the garbage.   I got pulled out of bed late at night and was confronted with the crumpled dirty test.  My dad brought me to the kitchen table and inquired as to why I hid the test.  

     "Because I didn't want you to get mad," I answered.

     "You must never hide anything from me, because that makes me mad.  If you are honest, I will not             get mad." was his logical reply.

     "Okay, I promise I won't anymore,"  I cried.  (And I would admit things to him when I knew I had done something wrong, before he found out.  But he still got mad and spanked me.) 

     

So, he went over the test with me.  He questioned me on each problem.  When I got an answer wrong, he would tell me to lay down on the family room floor, face down.  He pulled his belt off and spanked me.  Not just once.  Several times, maybe ten times, with such anger and hatred behind each swing of the leather.

Then he would direct me back to the kitchen table.  He would ask me the question again.  

     I would say, "I don't know." 

     "Why don't you know?"  He would ask.

     "Because I don't understand."

And he would spank me again.  And again.  This time, longer and harder.  Then he would ask me the same question again.  And I would either throw out an answer, or I would say I didn't know.  So then he would explain it to me, again.  But how the fuck was I supposed to be absorbing this information?  So, he would spank me so much, that I knew, I had to learn the material, or I would never be allowed to go to bed.  So, I would finally answer correctly, and he would say, "That's it.  It is easy."  So, three hours later, I would be allowed to go back to the safety of my bed.  

I didn't know if my mom or my sisters, who were in their rooms on the other side of the house had heard and been awakened by my screams.  I didn't know their level of consciousness, but I had never felt so alone in the world as I did after I got punished by myself.  I felt anger, self-loathing, fear, despair, mistrust, and paranoia.   Yet, after I got punished with my sisters, I always felt guilty like it was my fault that they got the belt, whether or not it was my fault.

One time, I got in trouble, and my father took me into my parents' bedroom to punish me.  I don't remember what I did "wrong".  Maybe it was the time that my dad asked me if I wanted a bagel and I said no.  My big mistake was deciding an hour later that I wanted a bagel, and making myself one.  He told me to lay down on the floor.  As if I needed to be told what to do.  There were numerous sessions of spanking,  of his unleashing of fury, which lasted probably five or ten minutes at a time.  The whole punishment lasted at least an hour, maybe two.  It felt like a lifetime.  

He used the belt that my mom, my sisters and I got my dad for Christmas.  The belt buckle had his initials.  Did I know that he would be using this as a weapon against me when we bought it?  He used the strap part most of the time, but sometimes he used the buckle.   I remember, towards the end of my "punishment" he told me to pull my pants down.  He spanked my little bare ass with the buckle.  I couldn't have been older than ten.  And he used the buckle on my naked ass.  Oh sure, he lightened up on his swing a little, because, he couldn't have me go to the emergency room.  But, he used the buckle.

In my fifth grade class one day, my teacher, Mrs. Apfel, was talking about discipline.  I'm not sure why.  But she was talking about child abuse.  She said that a quick spanking was not abuse, but discipline.  However, if it was excessive, or hitting or punching, then that was abuse, and we should speak to her, or some other adult.  I knew then, that I couldn't speak of this to others.  Sure, some of our family friends had known, but we had the unspoken agreement not to tell.  I had been given the invitation, but I knew I couldn't accept it.