Hate in A Childhood Lost

I don’t remember when it was that I began to hate my dad. I think it was somewhere between 5 and 6 years old. I think it was around then because I can remember as a 5 year old, I was in daycare half the day, and I was a talkative, loud, boisterous, fun-loving, outgoing kid. Like any kid. By the time I was 6, I was quiet. I was reserved. I was watchful.
And, it’s sort of funny. You know, when you’re a kid, you never really know why things happen. You just observe them happening. Even the things that I did. I don’t really know why I did them. It’s like I just observed myself doing them. And some of those things I was harshly punished for. Some things I did were completely ignored. Some things I was encouraged for. I didn’t know why. I just thought it was the way things were.
Now, looking back, it is quite difficult to connect the things happening and the outcome of those things. I think, because it was never made clear to me, it was never explained or taught, or I was just somehow expected to know, I didn’t know what brought on the harsh punishments and what would be ignored or rewarded. So I just stopped. I just stopped doing things altogether.
Certainly, I stopped talking. I remember the comments. So many of them, from seemingly everyone I met, and my parents as well. Usually in reference to me as I was standing right next to them. “She’s so quiet.” someone would comment. “It’s like she’s not even here.”
“Ah, just wait until you get her home,” my dad would joke. “You can’t shut her up!” and I’d be confused by that comment. Was I loud? I couldn’t remember ever talking much at all. It was just something he would say to disarm the moment.
“I can’t understand why you’re so quiet.” he’d say to me later. “Don’t you ever talk? What do you think about?” I would glance over at him, wondering if he really wanted to know- and if I was about to say something, anything at all, I would just close my mouth- because he never wanted to know. He was never curious or interested in me. He just prattled on as usual. He was a great talker, you see. My dad was the one that never shut up. No one ever could get a word in edgewise. And he’d grow angry and resentful if he was interrupted.
And if I did interrupt his thoughts- I don’t even remember what it was that he would go on and on about- I would be attacked. Viciously, meanly, put down, yelled at, screamed at, called names. He would yell until I cried. It was like he couldn’t stop once he started.
And another thing-
Screaming, venting, ridiculing his tiny daughter until she cried and was so upset that she’d done anything at all to provoke this monster. This monster that was her father who supposedly loved her and was there to provide, protect, and guide. Who did none of those things. But she didn’t know that. All she knew was that this man hated her.
and so she hated him.