I Was Mentally Abused And It Is NOT Okay. (Kavita Sarmah)

 

It was an afternoon, last year when I sat between my father and his third wife on our light blue couch, while I tried to confront him about the horrible childhood that he subjected me to. “But what did I ever do to you? Am I that bad a person? I know, I will always remember that one time I hit you when you came home late in the evening and I am sorry about that; I always will be.” He had said to me in our usual mix of Hindi and Assamese, while he stroked my back lovingly.

People often are surprised when I let them know that I suffer from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). I have never been in an actual war; I have not been (sexually) violated or subjected to any serious, physically damaging violence. Then what affected my mental health till the extent of such a behavioral disorder? Dear reader, it took me a long while to realize and accept that I had been in a state of constant mental abuse as a child, and that it caused me as much harm as it would have, if I were physically mistreated.

Mental abuse is something that is hardly considered, acknowledged or even understood in our society. Unlike physical abuse, psychological abuse is so silent and elusive that you could have been dealing with it for years, without even realizing that it is happening. This toxic creeper can keep growing and feeding on you disguising itself as an overprotective spouse, an always restrictive parent with all of life’s experience, an ill tempered friend or your charming coworker who cracks those jokes at your expense, “in all good conscience”. My childhood was a never-ending black hole that I could not seem to get out of. To the world, my father was the beautiful, charming man who managed through his divorce and brought up two lovely daughters by himself; my caretaker was the extra help that my father hired from Assam to take care of us while he went to work and my sister and I, were two spectacles wearing-creative girls who were doing quite good for children who were separated from their mother. Our reality was way different than how the world around us perceived it.

My caretaker was repeatedly, sexually used by my father and was denied of any emotional or financial support. I watched a pornographic film for the first time when I was about four years old, when my caretaker found one in my father’s drawer and showed it to me and my elder sister as an attempt to explain what he was doing to her- almost as if she was trying to seek help. My caretaker was not allowed to step out of the house much; she was only made to do household chores and later physically and mentally tortured. I still remember, one night after dinner, my caretaker went up to the terrace to catch some fresh air before she went to sleep and unfortunately, my father realized that she was not in the house. He then picked up a butcher knife from the kitchen, ran to the terrace and dragged her down the stairs by her hair. It was no surprise when she grew mentally unstable with time, especially during my early teenage years. She would wake me up in the middle of the night by yanking my hair and crying. She would say to me- “All of you are sleeping so peacefully, at the expense of my sanity and sleep.” And after all, where was she wrong?

My father had always been a dormant volcano. Living with him was like walking on eggshells – anything could upset him. I remember, every time I laughed too hard as a child I was either called a prostitute or had my face shoved in my plate of food. Around him, you could not be too happy or too sad; could not express yourself, make mistakes, serve too much/less food or ask for more love. He did not physically hit me at all times and that somehow, made it okay for him to threaten to throw me out of the house every now and then, toss all my clothes and books in a dusty balcony because I forgot to submit a form at school or call me a slut because I put an extra piece of chicken on my plate. Just because he did not slap me till he slit my lip, it was “no big deal” when I was subjected to constant mental torture, day after day.

I started to develop odd behavioral patterns eventually. I was a reserved girl in school who never did too well academically. I remember this one time, my friend came to me in the lunch break and told me that a teacher told her to “stay away from Kavita because she is bad influence.” I was often bullied in school and bullied at home, which made both places unbearable for me. When a school day was over in the afternoon and everybody cycled home- I was the only one who dragged her cycle and walked all the way home so that it takes longer to reach, because the time between home and school was the only peaceful time that I had to myself.

Emotional abuse is more common than you think and it can potentially cause as much or more psychological damage as physical abuse. There are a couple of reasons why:

Even in the most violent families, incidents tend to be repetitive. Early in the abuse cycle, an outburst or a dramatic overreaction that leads to physical violence may be followed by an instant but temporary over showering of remorse, attention and affection (but not genuine compassion). Emotional abuse, on the other hand, tends to constantly take place day after day, making it more harmful because of the frequency.

Another reason that makes emotional abuse more devastating is that victims are more likely to blame themselves. When someone physically hits you, it’s easy to see that they are the problem and are to blame. But when the abuse is subtle- implying that you’re incompetent, not good enough, useless, ugly or not worthy of love- you are more likely to think that it’s your problem.

As a child, I blamed myself for the mental abuse that I was subjected to on a daily basis. I thought it was because I was not good enough at certain things, I deserved to be treated the way I was. It was only during therapy, that I realized that what happened to me was abuse and that, it is not normal for a person to live in the constant fear in someone’s presence.

I hope that you, dear reader, are aware enough to identify the signs of mental abuse that are or might be around you, and make sure to address the issue and get away from such a situation. And to my younger self, I’d like to say-

Kavita, you are more than the insensitive remarks of your abuser. You are sunshine, rain and the starry skies that create the Universe. I’m so proud of you and I promise, that removing yourself from an abusive situation and telling your story is both brave and healing. Go change the world, little girl.

 

Kavita Sarmah.