27/03/2022
Since I was a little boy, binubugbog ako lagi ng papa ko, until i was about 16 years old.
Luckily, (or unluckily), I survived it.
I remember the moment it ended clearly.
It was the time when instead of running out of their bedroom and getting dragged back in for more beating, and instead of cowering in fear every time he raises his hand, I just stood there blow after blow, waiting for the next hit to come.
Then he must have realised the beating wasn’t affecting me anymore, and ordered me to go to my room.
And he never beat me again.
But before this ascension, when the beatings were still going on, my mom would just sit and watch.
She was complicit in the abuse.
And everytime I was sent to my room, crying, and traumatised, she never came to comfort me.
I remember sometimes she would come and ask me if I’m ok, and I felt forced to say I’m ok even though I would be crying and heaving, and then she would go back to the room to watch tv and leave me alone.
Then my sister during this time would act as the police.
Whenever I made the smallest infraction, she would rat me out and she would get a reward from it.
She was a snitch, and has been one ever since.
So while I would get a beating, she would get a reward.
I would get beat up for the smallest infraction.
I would get beat up for reasons I didn’t understand.
I was living in terror.
And this gave me extreme anxiety that I still struggle with to this day
I was always afraid of getting in trouble for something I didn’t even realise I did.
It was like he was looking for any reason to take out his aggression on me.
There were times when I would run out of the house into the street and they would chase me and drag me back into the house kicking and screaming because I knew they would beat me even more for trying to run away.
The drivers of our neighbours are witness to this.
I remember the nice driver across the street would console me when he saw me afterwards.
It was the strangers around me that took pity on me and comforted me and made me feel valued.
I remember he and our driver would ask me about my day and everything and I loved talking to them.
I always asked them for scary stories, most of which they probably just made up but I was so willing to believe the fantasy of a fantastical world because it seemed so much better than what i was going through.
Our many maids that came and went were also witness to my beatings, or at least they knew it was going on.
They were never in the room.
My extended family also witnessed my dad’s abuse.
He would often humiliate me in public.
Punish me in front of people in public or during reunions.
He would make me do stress positions while he makes other people watch.
He would use me as a lesson for the others.
After a beating my dad would always force me to say “I love you” to him and hug him,and pretend nothing traumatising happened.
So that affected my view of love and it’s hard to find love because it is associated with trauma, and I find it hard to overcome.
