STEPS

CHAPTER SEVEN Violence and Retaliation

"Don't do anything, let it go, please, please!" she begged, tears flowing between us. I understood she feared my retaliation more now.

The madness was back in me though. The love I felt for my mother, the awareness of her sacrifices... Her selfless nature, example after example surfacing in the replay.... When she cut up a watermelon and always gave me the heart - the sweetest part. This single self-effacing act serving as the embodiment of her goodness, a goodness he violated over and over; targeting the most vulnerable member of our evolving household.

I called for an ambulance. I summoned the police. My father was taken away and placed ina mental ward. There to be zombified over time by a cocktail of drugs. Each day I visited with my mother, observing the gradual changes, the growing apathy in his eyes. No more highs and lows, a temperate disposition after a month of adjusting his multiple medications. I took him home, relieved. There would be no future violence. The man was changed, mentally castrated. I felt some peace finally.

My brother remained unaware of the facts, and in continuing denial. I never disclosed the incident behind her fractured spine. I had tried to communicate my fears about our father's deteriorating mental state, his behaviour after the first stroke alternating between violence and attempts at self-harm; the fine lines on his wrists, evidence of when he'd tried to cut through veins, my intervention stopping him...

Times he got up and stormed from the house, heading for the water, aiming to drown. My chasing after him, holding tight his resisting body and guiding him back home. In-between, the continued bouts of tongue lashing, the scowls and the at times nonsensical remarks offered up as defence.

Every ensuing hospital visit, the inevitable request to fill in the do not resuscitate form and my habitual refusal. Each time too, the suggestion he was better off in a nursing home, monitored round the clock. My citing in turn cultural differences, taking him back again. Doctors' professing my decision was detrimental to his welfare? What the fuck?

My brother away from most incidents, situated interstate or overseas. Seeing us on the fly, and always during these brief glimpses - my father taken in in tiny doses - assuming I am exaggerating. I figured it must be difficult for him, accommodating their aging, their deteriorating health. Still, I sometimes wished he'd listen, accept my words. His refusal to face the reality I lived frustrating me, angering me at times.

I did discuss it with my sons; both now mature enough to be affected by what they witnessed. I told them to seek words, always use their minds instead of their hands. I wanted them to understand it is never a single time, a solitary act. The first occasion a voice is raised, a hand is raised and mental or physical pain is inflicted? The moment the action is accepted by the victim? Hell, it is the beginning. Roles defined and roles established.

I pressed on my belief in the power of words. The conviction too, of violence often being the result of one's inability to counter a disagreement using language. Having witnessed firsthand my father's continued battle to defy his failings; his many insecurities. The inevitable stepping over into verbal and physical misconduct when he could source no other alternative with which to counter perceived threats to his masculinity, his honour.

When they were younger, I spoke to them about dealing with bullies at school and on Social Media. I introduced the magical word: "And?" Used examples first then challenged them to try counter this word themselves.

"Mum you are stupid!" This first exchange reluctant, because they had never before insulted me.

"And?" I'd replied, sensing a mixture of confusion and daring.

"And... Well you're dumb, you're an idiot."

Again I countered, "And?"

It became a game, both of them throwing insults, daring even stronger words, my consistent single response overriding each further attempt. They accepted its effectiveness, once they'd exhausted the list of insults I was able to counter in this endless, repetitive cycle.