Fear can either be damaging, or it can be a useful tool. I can determine good fear and bad fear from what kind of vibes or energy I pick up. For the first 22 years of my life fear dominated my life in the form of fight or flight. When it came to my abusive parents, I was terrified of them. I couldn’t avoid them, because I lived with them up until they moved down to Florida back in October of 1991. I was in college at the time.
Although I would have chosen flight years earlier when it came to confrontation with them, their last night in Kalamazoo I chose fight. I confronted them both about the money they owed me. I had restitution money coming to me from my brother John’s death. My parents also owed me the money they stole from me during the years I worked at McDonald’s Restaurant.
At first when I asked for it, my parents didn’t take me seriously. My father only laughed in my face, and said sternly, “Never mind. It’s not your money anyway.”
I got so mad, I slapped him across the face, while taunting him like he had done to me throughout my life leading up to then. I had enough of putting up with abuse from him and my mother. I slapped him on both sides of his face with both hands. I was so angry, I had voice of thunder in my voice. It felt good to stand up to him. He soon realized I meant business. My mother came inside the living room, walked up to me, and tried to grab a hold of me to protect my father from me. I turned around and shoved her. She fell backwards into a chair.
I realize a person is supposed to treat their parents with respect, but people who beat on their kids don’t deserve respect. I fought hard for the money they stole from me. I smacked my father around so much, he begged me for mercy with tears in his eyes, yelling, “Don’t holler at me. Don’t holler at me. Don’t holler at me.”
I only got more angry the more he spoke, and taunted, “What are you, a woman? You’re less of a man. You always have been. A real man doesn’t beat on his children. A real man provides for his children when they are growing up. The don’t make demands for their children to provide for them. I will not show you mercy. All my life you beat on me. You struck me with the skillet multiple times. You spat in my face as a sign to humiliate me. To you, I was nothing but garbage not worthy be alive. You told me you and your mother should have had me aborted before I was born, because I was no good for anything. I was a twelve year old little girl when you told me that. Good parents don’t say such things to their children. Now it’s your turn to get the beatings. I will show you no mercy. You will give me the money that rightfully belongs to me. One way or another, I will get the money you stole from me.”
He yelled to my mother, referring to me as a b—-, and he told her to get their checkbook and write out a check to me for $2,000. They owed me more than that. But, I was lucky to squeeze the amount of money I got from them. It was my money to begin with. It felt so good to chose fight, instead of flight.
The only way to teach abusive parents a lesson is for the child to give them a taste of their own medicine.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015