Child Abuse Story From Kristen3

by Kristen
(Australia)

I am 28 years old. I grew up in a very patriarchal family. My father was very much the head of the house. There was an aura of authority about him. My mother was both submissive to him and saw her role as to look after his needs and to train her daughter (me). The roles were reinforced through rules and punishments.

I am bit embarrassed about writing here. I was not sexually abused and I did not have the absolutely terrible life that your other writers had. I do need to let this go and I hope that by contributing this that I will be able to move on.

I was always a fairly quiet and obedient daughter. My whole life my parents were incredibly controlling. I was always expected to behave and to be quiet and respectful. My mom controlled every aspect of my life. Clothes were a really big issue. She would buy my clothes and each day picked out what I was to wear right, down to underwear. She controlled my hair style. I was never allowed to talk back or even ask questions. To ask a question was seen as defiant or questioning their authority. Their authority was reinforced with painful and embarrassing punishment. They controlled what I did and where and everything.

At the time, I did not always understand it. In some ways it was just natural. In some ways I liked I; I was part of a family.

Shortly I will describe some of the rules and punishments but before I do that I need to say a few things. Firstly, I am not depressed and although from time to time I have cried my heart out, I am not about to go and do anything drastic. The next thing is that I did not grow up feeling bad or sorry or even scared. In fact, quite the opposite. I felt very secure. I felt intensely loved. Maybe that is why I do not want to go and get the authorities involved. For although, by the standards of the world, I was abused, I do not want to break up my family.

Why am I writing this? Well...I am lonely. I have this need to off-load, and I am thinking more and more and it goes round and round in my mind. I wrote this and re-wrote it over and over again, thinking I could deal with it on my own. Sometimes it read a bit like a book. I guess this is, in a way, deliberate and sometimes partly because I have re-written it so much. I cannot talk to the people that I know.

I have a couple of fears about talking to people that I know. One fear that I learned very young is that I can lose friends. People get freaked out. Just when you really need support and you talk to someone, they retreat. I need a hug and they are 'outta there'. So I learned not to talk for that reason.

The next reason I also learned young is that when you tell someone something, they will tell others. And I do not want to break up my family, as I already said. Now I could talk to my husband and my family, however, I am still under their authority and I just have be quiet and not bother them.

I am not sure that I should talk much about my life right now, although it is both why I want to talk and why I do not want to talk face to face with a counsellor about anything.

OK...so where to from here?

One method of control was the cane, the rod of correction.

Another method of control was having to ask permission. I had to ask to speak: "Mom may I ask a question?" "Mom may I tell you about my day at school?"

Another method was the bathroom. From as early as I can remember, I had to ask to go to the bathroom. Sometimes she had a schedule of times when I was allowed to go. Other times she would say, "Learn to hold it. You never know when you will need to hold it". This was combined with having to wear diapers. Especially to bed. Even into my late teens, I was sent to bed and once in my bedroom, I was not allowed out for any reason. I was not to call out. I was not to make any sound. Sometimes I was allowed to read. One reason I had to hold it was so as not to bother my parents or embarrass them. If we were out in public, say at the theatre, then disturbing them to ask if I could go to the bathroom was not permitted. Later I would learn that another reason to hold it was so that I would not interrupt my husband's pleasure by needing to go to the bathroom. I had to be ready to respond to his need and not keep him waiting.

There were strict controls on where I was allowed to go and when. My mom would drop me at school and pick me up. School was my free time. I loved it. But even there I had to be careful. I was a bit of a loner. I could not have close friends. If I wanted to go out somewhere, I would have to ask permission to ask a question, and then if it were granted, then ask if I could have a friend over or go to a friend's house. My mother would say that she would ask my father. If I dared ask at a later time, if my father had considered the request, I would be punished for nagging. I would just wait and wait, hoping that they would say yes. The answer would come at the last minute. So I'd get my heart set that I could have a friend over, and then at the last minute they would say no. So I would have to tell me friend not this time. So finally gave up asking.

Kristen

Note from Darlene: 
An error resulted in two pages with the same name. I have therefore had to delete the first posting of Kristen's story (showed up as Kristen2 in the automated notifications and on my blog page earlier today) in favour of re-posting it as Kristen3. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this may have caused Kristen and the rest of my visitors.

Sincerely,
Darlene Barriere

Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Kristen3" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.

Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 2

by Kristen
(Australia)

I was writing about rules (see Part 1 of Kristen's story). There were a lot of rules. There was a lot of punishment. To me rules and punishment were both important. I both hated it and loved it. It was me. It is me still. I don't know what order I should write in. There are so many things. Rules, punishment, family, everything. Like the reason I do not want to see someone is that I do not want my family broken up. What is normal. What is right. What makes the ways of the world any more right than other ways. I do not want to be the person who is responsible for breaking up the family.

Clothes were a really big issue for me. My mom would choose all my clothes. Sometimes we would go shopping together, but still she would just make the selections. It was dresses and skirts only. No pants ever.

On weekdays I wore my school uniform. The uniform included a dress for class and the choice of a sport skirt or shorts for PE. I was one of the few girls who wore the skirt for PE.

On Sundays we went to church. For church I wore a long skirt. For modesty. On other days, skirts were usually above the knee. Sometimes I wore very short skirts. They were to teach me about modesty. To sit and stand carefully and respectfully.

Everything had to be approved. I would model new clothes for my father. He would sit in a chair in the lounge room and Mum and I would be in the hallway. I would put on whatever new clothes she had bought me. I actually enjoyed the attention. I would twirl and smile. It was fun. Mostly fun. As I write this, I have some memories that are not so good. As I became older, standing there in bra and panty sets was humiliating. There was such an emphasis on modesty, but underwear was seen as OK. "It's just like a bikini," Mum would say. She had lots of little sayings.

It is morning. I am in my school uniform. It is a dress. I stand in the hall near the front door. My school bag is beside me. I am ready for inspection. I must be clean and neat and tidy. My mum is looking at me. She looks at my hair still neatly combed. She decides the style. Some days it is a ponytail, some days it is pigtails. She likes pigtails. I hate pigtails. It makes me look like a baby. Today it is a ponytail. I am feeling good. My shoes are polished. I hold out my hands so she can inspect my nails. They are clean and smooth as required. "Turn," she says, and I turn and she checks that from the back it is still neatly combed and my dress is not creased. "Turn back," she says, and I turn back to face her. "Lift," she says, and I lift my skirt and she checks that I am wearing the right underwear. There are rules for everything, even underwear. Under my school dress I must not wear sports briefs. Under my sport skirt I must wear sports briefs. Under a short play skirt I must wear sports briefs. Under a formal dress or skirt I must only wear white. It is very important to keep to the rules.

Every day I had to weigh myself on a set of scales in the bath room and mark my weight on a chart. My mum and father did that too. It just seemed normal.

I was always hungry. Meals were small but nutritious. There was never any junk food in our house. I also had to eat slowly. I had to not start first and not finish last, but also not finish too quickly. I must not keep my father waiting by finishing last and I must not make him feel rushed by finishing too early.

Speak only when spoken to and sit quietly. I was expected to practice being quiet. Move slowly and quietly through the house. Certainly no running. At the table I sit and eat what is put in front of me. If someone asks me a question, I must smile and answer them. I must keep my answers brief. They do not want to hear my whole life story just because they asked what I did at school today. If we have visitors and they engage me in conversation then I must converse with them but be aware of when they tire of me. One of the effects of this was that I could not ask for things at the table. Just eat what is presented.

I was expected to be a servant to all. Before a meal, I would help in the kitchen. Cooking and setting the table. After a meal, my mum would tell me to clear the table and help clean up. We did this together. Actually I liked it. We worked together. These were less format times than at the table, and usually I was allowed to chat with her. I would go and advise my father that the meal was ready. We would wait for him to be seated before bringing in the food.

At other times I would help with cleaning. Our house was always absolutely spotless and tidy. I learned at a very young age that I had to only play with one toy at a time and to put it away after. Toys left lying around would result in punishment and the toy being thrown away or given to the charity shop.

There were many forms of punishment, and these blurred with forms of control, and in many ways they were both.

Sometimes I would be made to stand with my nose to the wall. Just staring at the wall. Nose just lightly touching. Standing still. If I wiggled or squirmed or tried to look sideways, then chastisement would follow.

Sometimes I would be told that we are going to have a quiet weekend. Or a weekend of quiet reflection and fasting. This meant no food and no talking or noise for the whole weekend. Just water and a piece of paper with the times when I was allowed to go to the bathroom.

Well, that's it for now. I will write more. I need to talk about being submissive and being punished and being married and lots of things.

Kristen

To Darlene: Thank you for letting me write some more. I would really like to thank you for your kind words. I am sorry I did not thank you when I blurted out my request to write more.

Reply from Darlene: You're very welcome, Kristen. And from my perspective, no need to apologize; although I completely understand and appreciate that you feel the need to. I still hold you in very high regard.

Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 2" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.

Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 3

by Kristen
(Australia)

I want to write about so many things (see Part 1 and Part 2 of Kristen3's story). I saw a posting from Vicki2 about how she was a willing participant, and that is me too. I also want to write about the cane.

I am not sure when I actually was caned the first time. I was smacked often by mum and that was from as young as I can recall. I may have been caned a few times when I was about 5 or 6, but the first time I remember was when I had just turned 11 and they told me that when I was naughty that I would have to wear a punishment costume and that I was to be caned. The punishment costume was a one-piece swimming costume. I did not only wear it when I was being caned. Sometimes I had to wear it and stand with my nose to the wall or doing extra chores. It was a symbol of their disappointment in me.

A nice day:

It is 5:30 pm. Father is due. Mum and I are getting dinner ready. We are dressed for dinner. A dress, tights and polished shoes. Just like we would if we were going to a restaurant. We are listening for his car. We hear the car and we move quickly to the font hall and stand at the door. Mum opens the door as he walks up the stairs. Mum and Dad kiss then Dad gives me quick kiss and a smile. He is pleased and I confess, I feel good. I feel loved, secure, pretty.

At other times I accepted things as necessary to make me a better (whatever that means) daughter. A beating may be painful, but necessary to be better. Being made to wear clothes that I found embarrassing was necessary to do away with self-centered feelings. One day I was to be someone's husband, and I needed to focus on others and not on my own feelings.

Another day:

It is 5:30 pm. Father is due. Mum is getting dinner ready. I have misbehaved. I spoke with a nonchalant tone of voice. She told me I am to be punished when my father gets home. She sent me to change into my punishment costume. I am standing by the door in the one-piece swimming costume. For modesty you understand. It would not be appropriate for a man to see me naked. I am shaking, for I know what is to come. I need to pee but I dare not say anything for I am to be quiet. I am shaking. I shiver. I hear the car. My mum comes over and opens the door. We stand there. I feel so exposed. I want to run but I just stand there. My father hugs and kisses my mum. He gives me the quick kiss that I normally look forward to. I feel rotten. I am a bad daughter. I have failed.

My father says, "Wait Here". He and Mum go into the lounge. They talk. He calls me. He asks do I understand what I did wrong. I nod and repeat the words that my mother had said. "I spoke nonchalantly to Mum." I then add, "I am sorry for being rude, please accept my apology." He then says that he is glad that I understand that I have done wrong and that punishment will help me remember for next time.

"Bend over the couch," he says. I am shaking. My legs are like the sewing machine. My lips are quivering. My eyes are watery. My arms are shaking. There is a huge knot in my stomach and my chest is tight. I feel cold and I feel like I want to vomit. I need to pee.

I walk to the end of the couch. I bend over and put my hands on the arm rest of the couch. My father asks, "Do you need your mother to hold your hands?" I hate this question. I nod. My mum sits on the couch and grips my wrists. She looks me in the eye. I look at her. I am not allowed to close my eyes. I must look at her. My father has the cane in his hands. I feel it on my bottom then nothing, then my bottom explodes in pain as the cane hits my buttocks. I let out a small scream and gasp and force my mouth closed. Screaming is not allowed. Again and again. Four, six and sometimes eight times in total. My lip is shivering uncontrollably. I am sobbing. It is over. I turn and hug him as required. I look at him and between the sobs and deep breaths I stammer, "Thank you for correcting my behaviour." I turn to Mum and force out between the sobs again, "I am very sorry Mum for my rudeness." "You may go to your room," my father says. I ask, "May I go to the bathroom." He nods. I go to the bathroom. I squat so that my bottom does not touch the toilet seat and I pee.

I go into my room and I lie face down on my bed. My mum comes in and sits beside me and pats me on the back and runs her hands across my bottom. "Time to change," she says. I stand beside the bed and take off the costume. I am nude. Exposed. She holds my nightie. She tells me to turn away from her. I am being inspected. She is looking at my bottom. She turns me back and hugs me. She runs her hands down my back and across my bottom. I hug her. I sob. I am so so sorry. After an age, she separates from me and she puts the nightie on me.

Sometimes I had an awakening. But it was short-lived and half-hearted, and in the end, I would tell myself that I am just being rebellious and then confess to my parents and receive an attitude correction.

I lie on my tummy and push my face in my pillow and I sob and sob. Why. Why. Why. I feel so small. Why me. I have failed. I have disappointed. I am no good. They love me so much and I am so so bad. I fall asleep.

I said at the start that I was a willing participant and I realised that I did not get to that bit. I need to write more but that will have to be another time. Some of what I wrote today I had already written and rewritten and rewritten again as I had tried to work through this on my own, but even so, it is mentally exhausting and so I need a break. Thanks for listening.

Kristen

Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 3" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.

Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 4

by Kristen
(Australia)

I mentioned in my last message that I had not really gone into the willing participant thing (see Part 3 of Kristen3's story; see also Part 1 and Part 2). I do want to write about it but it is quite hard for me because it gets to the core of my identity. For so long, even now, I have believed that women should be submissive. I was proud of being an obedient and submissive daughter and later wife. Other women would ask my advice and tell me how good I was. I would even talk with women's groups about the importance of being obedient and submissive. It gave me identity.

Going back in time, there was a turning point when I was 16. I used to attend a bible study at church. I remember sitting in a circle and the leader read a passage about the roles of men and women and children. There was discussion about being obedient and submissive. Some embarrassed giggles by some girls and comments by others about how old fashioned and sexist it was. I was quiet as always. It was not my place to voice my opinion. They know that and just carry on as if I was not there. I knew that I must sit quietly and learn. I knew that especially there I must sit quietly, for if I do otherwise, word will get home to my parents. The girls treat the discussion as a joke. Some girls talk about how they control their parents and joke about how they can manipulate them and get them to buy things and how they sneak out and lie to their parents. Others talk about how their parents think they are obedient but that they are not. They know nothing about how they should act or honour their parents. I sit there and in my own mind I develop a new resolution. They know nothing about obedience or submission. Quietly, without saying a word, I decide in my own heart that I am going to stop rebelling in my heart. I am going to be that obedient daughter. I am going to accept my parents' decisions. I am going to be the best most obedient daughter and one day be the most submissive wife to a wonderful man that will be provided for me. At the end of the evening, my mum picked me up from the church.

While we are driving, I ask permission to talk about what we learned that night and she said yes. I tell her about the discussion and my resolve to be totally obedient. I apologise for the rebellious thoughts that I have harboured.

When we get home, Mum takes me down the hall and tells me to stand outside my father's study. She knocks and goes in when he calls. After a few minutes the door opens and she calls me in. She says, "I think you should tell your father what you told me in the car." I stand before them and repeat the story. As I am listing off the rebellious thoughts, tears are running down my cheeks. I feel genuinely sorry that I have been having such bad thoughts.

When I finally finish, my father stands and hugs me. "That is such wonderful news," he says. "You are really ready to be totally obedient." I nod. It is true. In my heart I have made this decision. I really really really want to please them and to do the right thing. "You know when we punish you," he says, "that your mother has to hold your wrists, that this is symbolic of rebellion." I mumble. I had not thought of that. I shake my head. He tells me, "To your room and put on your costume and come down to the lounge room."

I don't understand. I look from Father to Mother and back and forward looking for a reprieve. There is none. I turn and I walk in a daze. My head is spinning. I am confused. I remember in my room, on my bed was my punishment costume. What? How? Was I going to be punished anyway for some infraction that I was not aware of.

I remove my clothes and put on the costume. As always, I am shaking. I walk downstairs. Holding the rail. Willing my feet which feel as heavy as lead.

In the lounge my father and mother are sitting on the couch. "Do you know why you are to be caned," he says. I shake my head, "No, I am sorry." He then tells me it is to cleanse me. To start again. If I am really ready to be submissive then I must never resist my parents in any way. This is to be part of my training. Now that I have vowed to be submissive I must be willing to accept this. I nod. It makes sense. It is like an athlete training. An athlete must run until it hurts. A daughter must submit through the pain. "This time your mother will not hold your wrists. Bend over."

I bend over. The cane whistles down and lightning bolt of pain sears through my bottom. Again and again. My legs are shaking. I am gasping. The tears are flowing but I do not scream. I am breathing heavily. I am holding my breath. Finally he stops. "Stand up," he says. I stand. I am still shaking. My legs are like jelly. I step towards him and collapse into his arms and hug him as I have been trained to do. When I have regained some strength I turn and hug my mother, who is now at his side. She helps me walk back upstairs. It is slow and I am shaking.

We remove my costume. My bottom is black with bruising and the welts of raised skin are visible. I stand there naked while she gets my nightie. She smiles at me. She puts the nightie on me. She hugs me. Then I lie on my bed. On my front. She dims the light and leaves. I bury my face in my pillow. I cry and cry and cry. I am so confused but there is no thought of rebellion.

So now for the first time I had been beaten not because I had done anything wrong but to demonstrate submission. They knew that I could pass this test and I passed it. Many others would not pass. I am strong. I am good. This is not the last time. There are more times when I have to be beaten. It is weird using that word. I never used it before. Other words would be used. Demonstration of submission. Test of obedience. Reminder of a quiet heart. Help to develop a submissive nature. I remember knowing that I could not tell others because the world does not understand and the police would get involved and at the same time talking with girls who were just so rebellious and yet they were talking about wanting to be submissive and me just thinking they need training. They need to feel the pain to understand submission. I lived it. I loved it. It was me. I was the best. I do not recall ever asking to be beaten but I do recall being told that I was to have a correction and just quietly accepting it. No longer feeling sick or shaking the way I had before. Just quietly in a sort of detached way not really being aware of anything other than walking or changing or obeying instructions. I do recall feeling relief after the pain had died down. A feeling of starting a fresh. A feeling of being new and totally without any burden. Like watching the sun rise from a mountain top.

So here I am now. I am married and I am questioning my identity. I am questioning me. Am I wrong? I am submissive to my husband. I try to do what he asks. I know he loves me. I do not want to get authorities involved because I do not want to break up my family. I will be all alone. I have read many stories of horrible abuse on this web site and the one difference is that in all the other cases, the bad things were done for the pleasure of the perpetrator that was their motivation. In my case, my parents loved me and believed that they were doing the right thing for me. How can love be abusive? Love is painful. In my case, physically, and for others love can be emotionally painful. Pretty mixed around hey.

Anyway, that is all I can write for now.

Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 4" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.

Child Abuse Story From Kristen3 Part 5

by Kristen
(Australia)

I am now 30. I am up and down. I love my parents. I love my husband. I love my children. I have a big beautiful house. I have lovely friends. I don't have to work but I do work two days a week. I love my husband but he is in charge.

He lets me work those two days. It provides so well for the family. Sometimes I disapoint him. Sometimes he corrects me and I am torn. I accept his chastisement but at the same time I know that it is not seen as right.

He told me recently that I was frigid, boring. I do what he asks everything he asks. Always. I try so hard. I wear the clothes he wants me to wear. I do the things he wants me to do. I never resist him. sexually or any way. Even if it hurts. I want to be a good wife. His wife. To do the right thing. I keep the house clean and tidy. Pretty dumb hey. What am I to do. I do what he asks but it is not what he likes. I used to be so proud that I was a good wife and that my sacrifices, my pain, was a demonstration of my submission to him and that he loved me unconditionally and completely.

Anyway thanks for letting me write.

kristen

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Note from Darlene: If I have not left a comment on your story, please understand that it is not personal; it's just that my hectic schedule no longer permits me to do so.

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