“…a child feels the need to justify their parents. Children love their mothers and fathers to the point of madness and feel they must protect them. Whatever my parents did, it was for the best.”
— Carlos González, Kiss Me!
Carlos González led me to a number of topics I have long wanted to write about. One of them is corporal punishment. As I was reading his thoughts on the subject, I could feel something tightening inside me—a mixture of resistance, grief, and my own memories resurfacing.
Зміст
Speaking Openly
One of the things I appreciate most about the present moment is that people increasingly dare to speak openly about what was once unspeakable. The most painful experiences, the deepest fears, the darkest nightmares are brought into the light for others to see and acknowledge for what they are. And when light enters the darkness, it becomes a little less frightening. Sometimes, it even becomes a little easier to breathe.
People speak about rape, about learning to accept bodies that are considered “imperfect” or damaged, about losing children, and about countless other experiences that have always existed but were often buried beneath shame and fear.
I have often wondered what exactly that fear is. I eventually came to the conclusion that, more than anything else, it is the fear of judgment—the fear of not being understood. People who are trapped within rigid ways of seeing the world often judge what they do not understand.
Of course, I am no exception. How many times have I said something carelessly, only to have someone point out how limited my perspective was? Perhaps that is precisely why speaking openly matters: it broadens horizons and deepens understanding. The important thing is having a place where those truths can be received.
How many times have I thought I had finally let something go, only to discover the same stone still sitting in the same place inside me? When you bring your experience into the open, there is always the possibility of hearing someone say, “Me too.” And suddenly you realize that you are not alone, that others have walked similar paths, and that you have the right to feel what you feel.
A Sect
Many years ago, when I turned eighteen, I decided to leave home.
For a sect.
I understand why people fear sects and why discussions about them are often so difficult. The word itself immediately evokes images of manipulation and control. It is natural to panic when someone you love becomes involved in such a group. Yet there are several things worth considering.
First, Christianity itself began as a sect within Judaism.
Second, when we try to save someone from a sect, we rarely stop to ask why they went there in the first place.
Third, saying that someone “fell into” a sect rather than “joined” one strips them of their agency.
If your child joins a sect, it is often a sign of a deep unmet need. And that points to a failure somewhere—in the family, in society, or both. People join sects, above all, in search of belonging. They are searching for the sense of community that humans would naturally receive from their tribe. Even if a group truly manipulates a person’s mind, it may still succeed where society has failed.
And the only thing that can genuinely help bring someone back is a willingness to listen and the ability to hear.
Both are surprisingly rare.
House Arrest
What people usually do instead is explain, persuade, pressure, impose, or even try to physically prevent someone from leaving. That is exactly what happened to me.
I was taken to a psychiatrist, who said there was nothing wrong with me. I was taken to an exorcist, who also said there was nothing wrong with me. I was taken to a fortune-teller, who finally said what everyone wanted to hear. Then I was placed under house arrest.
Cut off from the outside world and deprived of any meaningful emotional support, I was left alone with my thoughts. Eventually, those thoughts turned to suicide.
There is no doubt in my mind that my family loved me and believed they were protecting me. But their inability to listen—and their refusal to recognize my agency—destroyed any possibility of dialogue before it could begin. When people experience coercion, their natural response is to defend themselves.
The paradox of a sect is that it listens to you. Sometimes sincerely, sometimes only in appearance. Yet either way, that can be enough to create something a person may have been missing all along: attachment. And once attachment forms, people rarely give it up—at least not until a deeper need emerges.
Escape
For three weeks I sat alone, crying, cut off from the world and contemplating ways to end my life. In the end, I managed to escape.
I tried to soften the pain my departure would cause as much as I could. What mattered most to me was making sure they would not suffer.
Only later did I realize how distorted that logic was. A child who experiences violence often assumes responsibility for the emotional well-being of the adults around them. A child who needs protection tries to protect those who should be protecting them, sincerely believing that this is what love requires.
That was how I separated from my family—torn between the pain of hurting them and the need to become myself. At the time, I did not yet know the word individuation. I only knew that something inside me could no longer survive as it was.
My legs trembled with fear as I ran away. I wanted to run, but mostly I dragged myself forward. My life has contained many adventures, but that remains the most terrifying moment of all: a child fleeing from her parents to join a sect, walking along a bare highway, throwing herself into snowbanks to avoid passing trucks.
Only now do I understand that something in those relationships was profoundly wrong—and that it was not my fault. For years, however, I carried that blame entirely on my own.
Experience
The next few years were full of adventure and invaluable experiences. I am grateful for them, even though they brought their own share of pain. The difference was that this pain was chosen. I would not trade those years for anything. Eventually, circumstances changed, and that chapter of my life came to an end.
When I returned home, I found far more gray hair on my parents’ heads than I remembered. That realization pierced me.
All those years, I carried pain for them, for us, for our misunderstandings. And that pain remained with me for many years afterward.
They expected an apology. But I had nothing to apologize for. A free person had made a choice.
Honesty
I had always been honest. I had always been willing to talk, to explain myself, to share what I was thinking. Yet again and again, I ran into a wall. Then, more than ten years later, a different realization struck me. Perhaps there was someone who did owe an apology.
And suddenly something collapsed inside me. I realized that I did not really know these people. I was no longer sure what connected us. The ground beneath my feet shifted. Images flashed before my eyes: my father’s slaps, sometimes leaving bruises. My mother throwing me to the floor and kicking me. These were exceptions rather than everyday occurrences, yet they existed.
And for years I felt overwhelming guilt about moments like these. After all, children are supposed to be obedient. Parents have such a difficult job raising them. Isn’t that what we are taught?
We Are All Human
But no, children do not owe obedience. What they need is understanding. I hurt too. I am human too. Yet my pain was never heard, never acknowledged, never accepted. I was never granted the right to feel it.
Today, I am reclaiming that right. I do it by listening to myself, I do it by writing.
My parents were not tyrants, they tried their best. I do not tell myself this for comfort; I know it to be true.
Now that I am a mother myself, I understand them better than ever. I know what helplessness feels like. I know what it is like to lose control of your emotions, to be unable to manage them, to have no idea what the right thing to do is, and to discover that you cannot rise above your own limitations by sheer force of will.
There are no villains in this story. There is only a story that took me many years to decipher before the pieces finally fell into place.
Today I sometimes wonder what my life might have looked like without violence. And I am terrified of directing aggression toward my own child. God forbid I raise my voice. God forbid I ever raise my hand. Because sometimes it is hard. Sometimes it is incredibly hard not to lose self-control. It is hard to listen. Hard to allow a child to make mistakes. Hard to know where the boundaries lie.
But there is one thing I know for certain: If I ever fail, I will apologize.
I no longer remember where I first encountered this idea, but it has become one of the most important principles of my parenting: children do not need to be raised, we need to raise ourselves. And even that is a lifelong journey.
“If we lose our temper with a child, let us respond exactly as we would if the person in front of us were a colleague or another adult relative:
- Try to ensure it does not happen again.
- Acknowledge that we acted wrongly and feel ashamed of it.
- Ask for forgiveness.”
— Carlos González, Kiss Me!
And I would add one more thing:
Listen.
