Life with the black demon: Psychological confession

By Sandra Pasic

A true story about humiliation through abuse and violence by own father from childhood to adulthood. Dealing with the consequences of this horrible experience until the decision to make it public. Emphasis on the relief the author feels through writing this book about her own journey of suffering. The voice of the victim who had suffered emotional, sexual and physical abuse for many years will not leave you unaffected and it should be heard widely, in order to make every one of us responsible and in need to report any suspicions we have about violence and abuse in our surroundings. By actively participating we ensure a healthy and safe psycho-physical development to every child in the community

• Language: English
• Publisher: epubli
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9783754945223

Book preview

My childhood

N

ight, long and cold. Memories penetrate deeply into my soul. Feelings are awakened. I can’t fall asleep.

I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I have to say what hurts me. I have to begin, but, from where? Begin from where? From the deep dark past that haunts me constantly?

It’s in my dream again.

My childhood wasn’t a happy one. Those were the days of sorrow and misery. Perhaps I was marked, maybe it was only fate, or a test or a lesson for others. Who knows?

My entire upbringing and my childhood are marked. There was no joy, no happiness, and if there was any, it was fake.

Already at the age of four I felt, in some way, that I was going to be one sad child. Even though I was innocent, I only wanted, like every other child in the world, to be happy. Ever since I was little, I felt that no one loved me, though my mother claimed otherwise. I had a sense of rejection in every single way. The heavy burden I carry inside of myself is the burden of sorrow, hatred and loneliness. It tears me apart.

At the beginning of the war, way back in 1992, we moved, or better said we evaded, from Orasac to Bihac… due to the state of war.

I remember that period. I remember the grenades falling, leaving children traumatized for life. Residents of the building we lived in would often stay in hallways, ourselves among them. I remember the cries and screams which provoked fear and trembling in my bones. Much like other children, I was not aware of what was happening.

I know that, every day, I went together with my mother and sister to get food that was distributed to the refugees. I remember going with my mother to the river Una to do our laundry. There was no water, no electricity. Coldness and freezing weather outside, mother had to wash the laundry in the cold water for us to have something clean to wear. I felt sorry for her.

Day by day we lived that way… Days, months went by. Our father was not with us that day.

I heard crying, moaning and groaning from the other room. Wooden accordion doors divided the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t understand anything then, I only remember that mum had a big belly and that she was lying on the floor with so much blood, her legs spread in a gynaecological position, while another woman was kneeling in front of her. It was our neighbour R.V. I was looking confound and I couldn’t understand anything. All of a sudden, I saw a small baby in my mother’s arms. My brother arrived to this world. I was both joyful and sad at the same time, because he would get more attention and love.

During that period, the events regarding my sister are all blurry to me.

Night fell. We all fell asleep. I loved sleeping next my dear mummy the most. I loved her scent, her warmth, I just felt protected next to her and I knew that no one could do me any harm. I was a little girl.

My father kept returning home constantly, but he also kept going away somewhere. I heard my mother say that he was on the frontline and that he had to go to war. Even then, as a little girl, I didn’t feel any bond with my father.

That night the doorbell rang, immediately followed by a knock. Mother went to open the door. Father was standing there with two strangers, a woman and a man. My mother didn’t know those people either. I heard my father swearing at the door and hitting mother. The people who were with him did not even say a word, nor did they try to help my mother. I felt tremendous fear. I shook like a leaf. I was cold, even though the heat was spreading throughout the house from the old stove. My mother kept the fire burning so that it would be warmer for us during the night as well. Still, I was cold.

There was no electricity that night either, only two candles on the kitchen table illuminated the room. Mother was cooking something on the stove, prepared the hors d’oeuvre,{1} all by my father’s orders of course. I remember that I had to sit with all of them the whole time that night. Even though I could hardly keep my eyes open, I couldn’t even dream of going to bed. It was all in vain.

I remember my father’s words:

- Come here you fucking bitch!

Who could he address in such a way to but my poor mother? Mum couldn’t even cry. I watched her tremble with fear and obey father’s orders.

I heard my mother anxiously saying:

- Wait, old man, don’t do that in front of other people, calm down, please.

I went to hug my mother, but I was slapped immediately. He wouldn’t let me approach her even. Those people, strangers to us, did not lift a finger to prevent father from doing this.

I don’t even know what happened that night. Somehow the night passed.

It was dawn. My sister and I went to play outside with the other kids. On our return to the house, we saw that our father wasn’t there. I was happy he wasn’t there. Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long.

Father returned again. Alone this time. Usually, late at night, hell and agony begin for us in the house. He placed plenty of alcohol bottles in front of him, he sat there, cleaning his rifle. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he got up and hit my mother. My sister got scared, of course, as well as I did. My brother lay in a brown wooden crib, still a little baby. The beating started, and then the crying, imploring, begging... It was painful to watch my mother defending herself with all her strength, begging my father to let her go.

I will never forget her words:

- Don’t beat me, I beg you. Don’t let the kids see.

My father wasn’t fazed by it. He continued as he pleased. I couldn’t take it anymore and I said:

- Let her go, father! Don’t beat our mum.

Surprised by my reaction, he turned to me, wondering where I found the courage to meddle in this affair. He glared at me, red-faced and wide-eyed, grabbed me and lifted me up, then threw me to the floor with all his strength. At that moment I instantly urinated my clothes. When he saw the wet pyjamas and when he realised I peed myself, he got even angrier. He pulled the belt out of his pants; I remember it well, it was brown, and he began hitting every part of my body uncontrollably. He didn’t pay any attention to me, didn’t even look where he was hitting. The more I cried and begged him to stop, the more hits I suffered.

All in tears, my mother begged him to let me go, saying he would kill me like that, but no! He neither heard nor wanted to hear either my mother or me, nor did he have any compassion for any of us at that moment. Ultimately, my mother’s plea made him even angrier. Enraged, he grabbed his rifle and hit mom on the head with it.

My God, I will never forget how my mother got up with difficulty after the blow, and was totally disoriented, confused, and crying. Blood effused down her face in great quantity. For me, it was - horror. I almost fainted due to the shock I experienced. I was afraid to approach my mother, but I wanted to hug her so much, I wanted to wipe the blood of her face, comfort her, and tell her that everything would be fine, even though I knew it wouldn’t. He sent my sister and me to bed.

I went to my room. I couldn’t sleep. How could I fall asleep when the music was playing so loudly? I could hear him swearing. I wanted to get up, I gathered all my strength, because I was afraid of his reaction. I had an odd feeling, or rather, I felt a strong uneasiness deep inside me. And yet, there I was, in the living room. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything to me, but I heard my mother say to him:

- Put that rifle down, you’re going to kill someone.

He, furious and with a strange look on his face, got up and fired two bullets into the wall. He shot right above the crib where my brother was sleeping. My little brother’s cries echoed throughout the room. That small innocent being did nothing wrong. My father, angered by my brother’s crying, got up and shook the crib as strongly as he possibly could. Brother didn’t stop crying, and father didn’t let my mother comfort my brother, not even to try to calm him down. No, he didn’t want that, instead, he picked my brother up and threw him back in the crib. Mother stood up, covered in so much blood that her face was barely visible. A terrifying sight! Terrible images in front of my eyes. Stomach cramp, pain in my soul. I thought my mother was going to die. I don’t even remember how that night passed.

Father did not want to sleep next to mum. We finally went to our room. He remained sitting in the living room, drinking, smoking cigarettes and listening to loud music. We fell asleep fearfully and with some difficulty. Before I fell asleep, I was afraid he would enter the room and beat us all. Although I was a little girl, I was not afraid for myself, I only wanted to protect my mother from him ever coming close to her...

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A new day dawned... We woke up in the morning and he was still sleeping in the living room. The day passed, night came... and, unfortunately, it all happened again.

I couldn’t understand why those problems concerning my father always happened after nightfall. Alcohol on the table; he’s drinking, and I sense a disaster of some sorts.

Uncertainty again. Fear. I started shaking... His unan- nounced guests arrived out of nowhere. I didn’t know them.

My mother was told that someone from her side of the family was going to war, someone close, I don’t remember well, but I think it was my mother’s brother. She was very sad, but my poor mother wasn’t even allowed to cry. It was too much for my father. He couldn’t stand my mother’s grief. Instead of compassion, he became aggressive. The mother was silent, did not speak, did not utter a word. He would quickly find some reason just to beat us.

It was very cold outside that night, it was snowing. We all had to be lined up next to each other, as close to him as possible. He hit my mother, but she quickly got up and ran to the hallway. I ran after her, but my brother and sister stayed with him. We knew what awaited us. Another night of beatings, pleas, tears, begging, to no avail.

Mother and I ran away from home. We tried to find a place where we could spend the night. We knocked on our neighbour’s door... Neighbour S.Z. let us into her house. I lied next to her daughter who was lying on a mattress placed on the floor. It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang. It was the father. He asked the neighbour if she knew where we were, if we were with her.

The neighbour answered:

- They’re not here, you’ll have to look for them somewhere else, I’m alone with the kids, my husband isn’t here and I can’t let you in.

Father believed what he was told. We all fell asleep, filled with fear.

New day. My mother woke me up:

- Get up, Sandra, we’re going to your granny’s.

We were on our way. It was freezing outside. We arrived at my granny’s. As soon as we were able to briefly recount what happened, we heard my father entering granny’s house. In terror, we jumped out of the window and fled into someone else’s garden. There was a tractor in the garden. We hid under the tractor and waited to see what was going to happen. We could hear my father’s voice. Granny called our names and said that my father had calmed down and that he wouldn’t hurt us. We believed granny and went into the house. Father was sitting on the couch, his hand was covered in blood. Mum asked him what happened to his hand, and he replied that he hit our neighbour’s glass door and injured himself. A conversation ensued. He promised not to hurt us, neither me, nor my mother, and begged us to return home with him.

Of course, once again, mum believed his words. Maybe she didn’t believe my father’s promise, rather, she wanted to go to my brother and sister, because he left them all alone back in our flat.

The next day mum and dad went somewhere. My sister and I were left alone in the flat with our brother. Father said that they would be back soon, and that we were supposed to keep our house and brother safe and keep the fire burning.

Having this freedom to ourselves, my sister and I went out on the balcony and called the names of the other children outside. When the children noticed us, we hid ourselves. Our brother was sleeping in the crib. While we were playing like that, we completely forgot the task our father had given us. When I remembered my obligation to keep the fire burning, I went to stoke the fire, terrified of what would happen if he noticed. The fire was out. At that instant I felt chills down my spine, and knew immediately that there would be consequences.

- O my God, what should I do now? Father’s going to beat me when he comes back.

I was frightened and shaking, and my sister looked worried. We both cried. Even though we were just little children, the idea came to us to start another fire. I took a lot of paper from a cardboard box used for storing the firewood which was next to the stove. I lit the paper in the stove on fire, and I threw a used match stick in the cardboard box, not noticing that it was not completely burnt. A big flame appeared immediately. We panicked. I was not afraid of the fire but of the consequences that followed for what I had done. I had to find a solution. We took the cardboard box with fire inside of it and dragged it across the hallway, so that we could throw it out onto the balcony. My sister found spare keys on a shelf in the hallway, she quickly unlocked the door of our flat and went to our next-door neighbours for help. The neighbours managed to put out the fire. Traces of ash remained in the hallway, and also, naturally, the smell of smoke.

After about thirty minutes, father and mother returned home. Neighbour R.V. was with us and tried to explain in the simplest way what had happened, but without much success. Seeing his anger and her own defeat, she stopped explaining, simply said goodbye, turned around and left.

I knew what was coming. He immediately started yelling at me and my sister and through all that shouting and swearing, he started beating us. He hit me first as hard as he could, he lifted me and threw me on the couch. I bit my tongue and blood ran out of my mouth. He turned and started beating my sister. My sister was weak and skinny, a gentle little girl.

Our mother tried to calm him down in every way imaginable to make him stop beating us. Somehow, she succeeded. Father calmed down. They told us to go outside and play with the other kids. My sister and I didn’t really like playing with the kids from the neighbourhood because they mostly made fun of us or were afraid to hang out with us, knowing what kind of father we had. On top of all that, they used to laugh at me because I stuttered a lot. I could hardly produce two sentences together without stuttering or getting stuck on some words. I don’t know why, but I felt rejected during that period. Awful feeling.

I was very jealous of the other children who had wonderful parents, and especially wonderful fathers. It pained me when I saw fathers hugging their children because we didn’t have that. The three of us, my sister, my brother and I were unhappy kids.

The next day, mother made lunch, a soup of some sorts. We were all sitting at the kitchen table, while my father was swearing and yelling. Although I got hungry playing with other kids, I immediately lost my appetite. Who could eat in such a situation, listening to all that noise and being under such stress? He was terribly moody and angry because the soup didn’t have any meat in it.

He stood up, lifted the lid from the bowl of soup, spat into it, and said:

- Motherf…ers, now you can eat!

I immediately got the urge to vomit, but we had to eat. There were three scoops left on my plate, which I really couldn’t finish. It bothered him, and my mother signalled me with her look to force myself to eat, just so he wouldn’t beat us. The lunch was finally over. We helped our mother clear the table. His mood swings were so frequent, unreasonable, and unpredictable. He gave us money to go buy ice cream at the ‘Trova’ patisserie, which was located near our building. They had the best ice cream in town. We came back, played a little more just outside the building.

Night fell. By the grace