I Won't Let Them Have the Same Fate as Me — A Childhood with an Abusive Parent

I was born in the mid 1960s, a time when children were to be seen and not heard.

Things were different then — there was one phone for the family, it hung on the kitchen wall and permission had to be obtained to use it. Children never "called the cops" on their parents for a beating.Over 50 years ago and I still remember the endless beatings by my mother — not a spanking with her hand — but anything she could grab in her rage: plastic baseball bats, kitchen brooms, Hot Wheels tracks, but the worst was the wire-handled fly swatters. The spiral welts were as painful as they were intricate.The only way to avoid these daily fits of rage was to hide. I spent many days in the dark in the basement of our old farmhouse, built around 1900. It was cold, damp, mouse-infested, but it was safe. In the winter, when I was locked outside for the day, I learned to use a butter knife to pry off the door trim, trip the latch, and sneak through the kitchen into the basement. I was about 8 when I learned to break into our house. If I couldn't sneak past her there was a closet in the unheated porch or sometimes a snow drift I could hollow out to get out of the wind.I learned my father would accept my help, handing wrenches or holding the light as he worked on the farm equipment. I spent a lot of time working on anything he needed help with, that was the one thing he taught me, how to work. We didn't fish or hunt — we didn't have that kind of relationship, only work. I was too small to reach the clutch when I started to drive tractors without sliding off the seat, but it was a welcome change from the beatings, although the hate she had was always there, always felt. Now, rude hurtful comments have replaced the beatings, but they are now also directed at my wife and two children. My children are grown now and try to stay in contact but there is no love from a bitter hateful grandmother and a grandfather who won't or cannot stand up to a spouse such as this.My mother was treated harshly growing up but instead of learning from it and changing the direction of her own family, she took the same path.On one visit, she went on a screaming rampage, yelling at my youngest child. We decided to limit the exposure of our young children after that visit when my youngest asked me "Daddy, why doesn't Grandma love me?" My heart broke. How can you possibly explain to a preschooler that grandma chooses not to love them. We limited our visits to holidays and birthdays, choosing not to expose them to the hurtful remarks and possibility of beatings.The course was laid by her parents, and she chose to stay the same path. I've tried my best to change direction for my children. Hopefully, I can seal the hate inside and let it die with me as my children have good and loving hearts.