brighteagle39 said:Self-respect and self-confidence are two things that are deeply intertwined. I'm struggling to understand how one could be missing while the other remains intact. Usually, they move in tandem; once you build a healthy sense of self-respect, you naturally become a confident person. Conversely, where self-respect is lacking, confidence tends to vanish as well, and if someone does possess confidence without that underlying respect, it usually isn't built on very solid ground.
I couldn't disagree more.
It looks like I am one of the few here—perhaps the most isolated by time and experience—who was a victim
of an abusive father (everything except sexual abuse).
All the advice and explanations offered by those who share similar views are utterly worthless unless they have lived through it themselves.
There is no magic recipe, no "smart" advice; every victim is unique in their own way, just as every instance of abuse carries its own specific nuances.
And every single survivor must find their own personal path out of the abyss of low self-esteem and lack of confidence!I’m going to share a piece of my own story here; perhaps it might offer some direction or at least provoke some thought for other victims.
My father hated me from the moment I was born simply because I wasn't a son.
He was a primitive, uneducated brute who solved everything with profanity and physical violence.
My mother was weak—completely incapable of standing up to him.
From the age of six, I began to feel this intense rage, defiance, and hatred toward my father,
and there was absolutely no one there to guide me or explain things properly.
To me, my parent became a forbidden subject.
I used to read books in secret so he wouldn't catch me, often borrowing them from relatives.
By the time I was ten, I realized my only way out as a girl was education and escape!
Of course, if it weren't for the law, he wouldn't have even sent me to elementary school.
He would burden me with heavy manual labor just so I wouldn't have time to study—because in his eyes, only "trash" goes to school. To him, women were only meant for domestic chores and sex. He believed women and horses both needed to be beaten to be useful, and so on. Despite all that, I was an excellent student.
My mother's only support was: "He's your father, you just have to endure it!"
The support from my educated relatives? "Just get a job somewhere. Why bother with school?"
I started hating them all, because books taught me that life doesn't have to be this way.
That hatred became my engine;
it gave me confidence, but certainly not self-respect.
I saw myself as ugly, worthless, finding a thousand different flaws in my reflection...
but that rage and defiance kept pushing me forward...
At 15, I fled the hellscape that was my childhood home.
I went out on my own, sought social services to help with my schooling, and worked every job I could find...
I managed to finish my education, but it wasn't until my thirties that I truly learned how to value myself.
I finally let go of the hatred.
But the scars remain; there is no way to erase them. You can only learn to dull the edge.
I never forgive betrayal.
That cost me my marriage.
But I have never—never—raised a hand against my children or belittled them.
On the contrary, whenever I saw them struggling, I made sure to build up their confidence and
their self-esteem. I teach them that within every mistake, there is a path to doing better and being better.
Yet, even now, though both of my parents are dead,
there are still shadows from my childhood that strike like venomous snakes, catching me off guard. I can still hear that abused child crying, waiting for someone to come to her aid!
And I will not back down from my opinion: all child abusers should lose their heads!
