I read my last post. Two and a half years ago now, and I’ve started writing since, and abandoned it, because how do you convey this journey to the world and hope for no judgement, but instead for compassion and understanding? How do you describe domestic violence, when the police don’t even class it as domestic violence, and yet still hope for the good to be seen in your children?
I found out this morning they stole money from my purse yesterday. And actually, probably not just yesterday, because I’m so forgetful recently due to my hormones, that when money has been missing I’ve assumed I’ve spent it. So the £5 they’ve admitted to is actually I think several times that. At 10 and 11 years old.
I want to try and explain what it’s like to live in a home that doesn’t feel safe. I’ve just finished reading It All Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover, mostly because of the film and everyone’s been talking about it. I’ve always believed that if I was in an abusive relationship, I would somehow find the strength to leave, to not let someone hurt me again and again… to become a survivor rather than a victim. Though I’m well aware of the fact that whether a person stays or leaves, they’re still both.
What do you do, then, when the perpetrator of the violence, or in my case, perpetrators, plural, are your own children? How do you leave then? The simple answer is, you don’t.
It’s a situation unlike any other I can imagine. I would say at this point, on a daily basis, at least one of my children swears at me. Not near me, not dropped into a sentence, but actually AT me, with the intention of hurting me or making me angry. When the standard basic swear words don’t appear to have the desired effect – if only I knew how to play poker, because my poker face would win me thousands! – they ramp it up. Racism. Homophobia. Sexism. Death threats. It’s a little hard to sleep sometimes when someone who lives in your house has threatened repeatedly to stab you in your sleep.
When the words don’t work, the physical violence can start. It’s always there anyway, hovering in the background as a “what if”. So to be clear, here’s what I’ve been through: I’ve been punched. In the face and on the body. Kicked in various places – my least favourite is in the stomach, that really hurts. Headbutted in the face – that one split my lip and made me bleed. You name it, if you can find it in a ten or eleven year old boy’s room, it’s been thrown at me. Broken Rubix Cube in the face hurts. I’ve been threatened with a knife. My ex wife has been bitten, as well as similar things to me. My home has been damaged; broken doors, broken walls. We made a safety plan with social services, which was to report the physical violence to the police. Only they don’t do anything; the early intervention team will, apparently, only accept a referral if they’re convicted of a crime. Which would require me to press charges, which even then, I’m told, will unlikely result in conviction. It’s not domestic abuse, they say, as the perpetrators are under 16.
The physical bruises only last so long… the emotional and psychological effects unfortunately aren’t as quick to heal.
The thing is, when children behave a certain way, we apportion blame to the parents. We’ve all done it. You see a child behaving in a way that is “socially unacceptable” and you assume the parents haven’t taught them better. So that translates in my mind to “Where am I going wrong here? What am I missing?” You try and stop yourself from doing the things that will trigger them. There’s a constant battle in your mind between parenting, teaching the right lessons, trying to raise nice human beings, and the desire to keep yourself safe. Safe from the words, safe from the missiles, safe from the fists and feet. You have to choose carefully which battles are worth fighting and which aren’t. Especially as the fists become bigger, the feet become stronger, and the words become meaner.
There are places for abused partners to run to. Refuges. Charities for domestic violence. But child to parent violence isn’t spoken about in the same way. Isn’t treated the same way. Isn’t understood the same way.
Adoptive parenting comes with a certain status, a view of you being a special person for “taking on” these children. No. My main reason was that I wanted to be a parent. I thought I could be good at it (an illusion that was shattered a long time ago). We weighed up our options and made a choice. I’m not the same person I was before. I feel nervous and anxious, defensive. I put on a mask and tell the world about the good things, the achievements they make, the funny things they say, and look how handsome they are… when I’m broken. Sometimes physically, always emotionally and mentally.
Some days I can’t function, even basic self care seems like a mountain. The smallest of tasks can make me panic. Escalating behaviour from the boys, even worse. Being around other people, other adults, when inside my head is swirling and my body aches and I can’t seem to slow my thoughts down. It’s a million times worse in the days when I’ve been clobbered, on those days even forming a sentence can feel like too much. “What if, what if, what if…” And then the fear of the future… if it hurts now, what about when they’re 12, 13, 14, 15… I have to write myself lists to work through so I can get basic things done. I have to prioritise the things that absolutely have to be done today, and relist the things I don’t manage. I have to plan everything around minimising triggers for them.
But, you know, it’s not domestic abuse. They’re too young.