Breaking Chains

When my father was born, there were knuckle marks across his tiny pink forehead. They were there because his father had punched his mother in the belly in an effort to kill the brat that was growing inside her. He was premature and injured. Amazingly, there was another son born after him!

Some things I will never understand about being Catholic. This is one of them. Birth control - bad. Giving birth to babies that you hate before they are even here and intend to destroy physically, spiritually and emotionally - good. Now before anybody gets their panties in a knot - I am personally against abortion, BUT I will fight for the right of each and every woman to make that decision for herself. That makes me, by definition - PRO-CHOICE. That's right - I said it. I chose to have my children. As I get older I realize that my choice to continue my pregnancies was in response to that same still small voice that tells me that abortion is the wrong choice for me. I also want to make very clear that I do not believe that all Catholics hate their kids, abuse their kids, neglect their kids, or anything of the sort. In point of fact, I do not believe that ALL of Anyone will be or do Anything. It's stereotyping and it's disgusting. That was simply my grandparents life. When I asked why they had 3 children they didn't want I was told it was because they were Catholic.

My father grew up alright, but he always had a violent temper. A tiny vein on the left side of his forehead was often the only warning we had that things were about to go terribly wrong. He would line us up in the living room and whip us with the buckle end of his leather belt. He never gave a reason. It wasn't his responsibility to let us know what we had done - we should already know that. I got it, as the oldest, first and last. First for not stopping it to begin with. After all, as the oldest, I should know what my younger brothers were doing. Lastly I got it again for not telling on my brothers. My mother would be sent from the room, as she objected to this type of treatment. The two times I remember her intervening on our behalf, it went very badly for her. I've seen my mother struck, stabbed with a fork and with a screwdriver. To this day I cannot stand to see a child hit.

Having said that, I have to admit to smacking my own kids. I don't think I was ever abusive. It felt like it to me every time I did it though, not because there were the bruises or blood I had grown up with, but because of the rage I felt when doing it. It is an unreasoning rage that builds up and explodes. Awareness of the abuse I had suffered probably kept me from doing any real damage to bodies. But I carry that guilt with me every single day of my life. It's like an old backpack strapped to me and filled with canned goods. It's heavy. It wears me down. I feel like I can never atone for it.

Being Christian I know that I can be forgiven for these things. I truly am sorry. But I cannot seem to forgive myself. I pray every day that my children, who are now grown, do not hit their kids. I haven't seen any signs of this ghastly behavior so far. I thank God for that Mercy. I also know that my children, now grown, are at greater risk of being in abusive relationships themselves. Other than being a kind support and an open door, there is nothing I can do about that but watch and pray.

It is my hope that the chain of familial violence ends with me. I would happily take all those beatings again if they could be the last.