My childhood wasn’t one with an occasional slap “just to teach a lesson.” It wasn’t the kind where discipline was mild or easy to forgive. It was a childhood where punishment through fear was normal, part of daily life, part of what my parents called education or love. With hands, belts, or even the rubber hose from the washing machine—sometimes whatever was within reach, sometimes just fists full of anger and disappointment.
I was beaten for the smallest things, things that now seem absurd: being five minutes late, staying outside a little too long to play ball, dropping something on the floor, making a mess, not answering when called, laughing when I shouldn’t, asking “why?” or forgetting a homework assignment or notebook, looking at someone the “wrong way,” hesitating to respond immediately. Simply for being a child.
I remember perfectly the constant anxiety: you never knew what was coming. There was no logic, no proportion. A tiny mistake could trigger an enormous reaction. Sometimes the punishment came immediately; other times it followed hours of oppressive silence, stomach clenched, waiting. The sound of footsteps down the hall, the door slamming harder than usual, a raised voice, a question asked on a tone that promised nothing good. Before you could explain, the hand was already there. Or the belt was pulled out. Or the washing machine hose appeared, cold, rigid, painful, not once but repeatedly, across your back, arms, or legs.
And if you cried too loudly, it was worse: “Stop crying!” But how do you stop crying when you’re a child and it hurts? Crying became an additional reason for punishment. Fear became the lesson.
The pain wasn’t only physical. It was humiliation, the feeling that you weren’t safe even in your own home. That mistakes weren’t allowed. That love was conditional. That you had to shrink yourself, anticipate danger, stay invisible. I grew up with a constant internal radar, reading faces, tones, moods, learning to sense danger before it struck. This doesn’t fully disappear; it only moves inward.
I understand now that my parents carried their own traumas. Perhaps they were beaten as children, perhaps they grew up with fear and shame, perhaps their anger was born of helplessness. But explanation is not justification. Trauma doesn’t make it okay to hit a child for absurd reasons.
Years passed. The scared child became an adult. My parents grew old, hair gray, movements slow, hands trembling. And with age came something the child couldn’t understand: selective memory.
“We never hit you.”
“We only scolded you a little.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It makes you want to scream. Because you know. Because your body knows. Because fear sometimes emerges for no reason. Because you overreact to shouting. Because you avoid conflict. Because you feel guilty even now over small mistakes.
And when they admit something, there are always excuses: “I hit you to make you a better person.” “That’s how it was back then.” “I was hit too, and look where I am now.” “I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”
But no one asks: at what cost?
Ways we were physically and emotionally punished:
- With belts, across the back, arms, or legs.
- With rubber hoses from the washing machine, used as extensions of anger.
- With repeated slaps or punches, leaving bruises.
- With verbal humiliation: yelling, insults, mocking nicknames, words meant to belittle.
- With isolation: locked in rooms without food or toys as “discipline.”
Absurd reasons for punishment:
- A forgotten notebook.
- A mistake on homework.
- A laugh deemed inappropriate.
- Being late or not responding immediately.
- Wanting to play outside, wanting freedom.
These weren’t isolated incidents. They created a constant tension in the household: a child learned that mistakes are unforgivable and that love is conditional.
Trauma that lasts:
- Persistent anxiety.
- Feeling that you’re never good enough.
- Difficulty expressing emotions.
- Struggles in relationships and communication.
- Fear of conflict, avoidance of confrontation.
The child learns to be hyper-aware, to suppress complaints, to hide feelings.
As an adult, facing aging parents:
Relationships become complicated. Distance, anger, guilt, a desire to reconnect, but also to protect the inner child. Denial from parents complicates healing: “We never hit you” – yet you know the truth, your body remembers the pain.
What’s important to know:
- Children do not owe their parents anything for the violence they endured.
- Trauma cannot be compensated with money, gifts, or education.
- Healing is possible, through awareness, support, and sometimes professional therapy.
- It’s okay to prioritize your emotional health, set boundaries, and protect yourself from toxic relationships.
The child inside you still exists. Still gets scared sometimes. Still feels guilty over small things. Still expects punishment. The adult must now protect that child. To ensure the past does not repeat itself. To acknowledge the trauma, even if the parents never do.
Not all wounds close. Some just learn not to bleed daily. But speaking the truth about them is the first step.
Hitting was not education.
It was fear.
It was pain.
It was a childhood stolen.
And no one has the right to erase that, just because they have grown old.