Living with a Psychopath

My story isn’t a nice one.

I am from a family of four. I am the only girl. My brothers name's are Jake, Taylor and Dennis. Dennis is younger than me. Jake is the oldest. My father's name is Ben.

My father is a great guy. He is generous. He is funny. He is charming and considerate and trustworthy. He will always get the job done because he appreciates the importance of the delivery of a service. He will take you skiing in Austria at his cost the year you can’t afford to go. He will make you feel precious and cared for.

However, he only extends these courtesies to you if he wants to. His family are not exempt from that condition.

When I was 13, it was winter and my brothers and me were spending the weekend at my dad's house. Jake and Taylor both lived there with him, for reasons I struggled to understand. One morning Jake accidentally backed into Taylor’s girlfriend, Sam’s, car. Later that day as my dad, Dennis and me were sitting in the living room, in ear shot of the conversation Jake was about to have with Sam, Jake came to apologise to Sam and offer to pay for the damage. Dad, overhearing this, jumped to his feet to flip out at Jake and said "You've fucking backed into her car again!" To which Jake replied, "Oh fuck off dad." Dad was angry. Jake, returning upstairs, was followed immediately by dad ranting and raving as loud as he usually did, not knowing I was also following to go to my room. An action I cannot to this day explain. I felt drawn towards it. I don’t even remember having the thought to go upstairs. While in my room, I listened. I listened to it all. I listened to the screaming. I listened to the banging. I listened to the cries. I listened to my brother asking Amy, my dad's girlfriend, for help. All the while completely paralysed to the stop. My fingers had dug into the edge of the bed so hard they had bled. I was unable to see for the constant stream of tears from my eyes. But what disturbs me most to this day is I felt relieved when I heard jakes voice. Because I knew he was still alive.

It may have only lasted a few seconds but I felt it for a long time. I had so many thoughts going through my head, to get up and walk out there. To run down the hall and down the stairs and get out. To attack him myself. To lock the door, climb in my bed, pull the covers over my head and ignore it. I didn’t know what to do. Or even how to do it. I had no control of my body. His voice had taken away any ability for me to act when I feel threatened. That wouldn’t be the first time I fell victim to only the sound of his voice.

Your imagination is more terrifying than anything even Stephen King could create. But when that imagination has been painted with violence and fear for your life it becomes trauma all on its own.

That’s the first memory I have of my dad's violence. But it was not the first appearance of it.