Trying this again ... a repost from my blog. Apologies to those who read both -- which I think is up to 4 people now. LOL
Today I was thinking about how what happened to us as children shapes who we become as adults. Of course, I began to think of this in the context of spanking. Some people find this topic extremely squicky … for me, it’s kind of matter-of-fact.
I was spanked, mostly by my mother (only once by my dad that I remember — but I remember every detail, oddly) until I was around 9 or 10. I was a good kid, really. I didn’t lie, didn’t cuss, didn’t *pick* fights with my brothers (though one of my brother’s and I fought almost constantly). When I grew into a teenager I NEVER smoked, drank, sneaked out … In fact, the only really big thing I did was have sex. I’m pretty sure if my mom thought a belt whipping would work to stop me from doing that again, she would’ve. As it was, she yelled for awhile and then said “You’re going to get PREGNANT!” and she almost passed out when I said, “I am not. I know how to use a condom properly.” Ah, memories. LOL
But some of those spankings I remember in great detail — what I had done “wrong” (some of them were just downright un-fucking-fair), where I was spanked, what I was spanked with, etc. And I remember, too, how broken I always felt afterwards. You know how you read M/f or M/m stories and there’s often a hug at the end, and the parent or adult wiping the tears away and stuff? Yeah … never happened to me. As soon as I was let up from her lap I would usually be yelled at again to go to my room — or I’d run there of my own volition — and I would bawl. I don’t remember crying because it hurt — I’m sure it did, but I don’t remember the physical pain at all — I cried because I thought she hated me when she spanked me. I never had some warm, fuzzy, “this will hurt me more than it hurts you” talk with my mom before; and there was never a hug after … I ALWAYS knew that she was angry when she spanked, and I often wouldn’t even look at her the rest of the day.
I don’t think my mother was a bad parent. Not for a moment. I don’t think she abused me or my brothers — not at all. I think, though, that she had no clue what else to do. I think, too, that she didn’t know how to wait until she was calm and then reason/rationalize with her children or find other methods of discipline that didn’t involve pain. For a very long time she was of the belief that children don’t reason — and I think it’s only been my many diatribes about the ineffectiveness of corporal punishment in child-rearing that have made her see it may not be the best thing … I don’t know. She did explain it to me once like this, “My mother used to hit us with switches until we bled. I knew I never wanted to do THAT to you guys. But I didn’t know what to use besides spanking.”
So, how does all of this play into what I have become? I don’t think that my mother MADE me a spanko. Eww. I think I actually was one from very, very early on as I remember avidly watching shows with spankings in them. But being punished by my parents in that way was NEVER a good thing — I couldn’t turn it into one if I tried. And knowing as an adult how easy it was to break my heart when I was a kid — I was more concerned with letting them down than I ever was with the belt — helps me to understand why I would always just assume that I was HATED when I was punished. But I’m easily heart-broken NOW, too … and yet it’s an integral part of my relationship with M. It’s up there with Trust, Laughter and Sex in the list of “important parts of Us.” And I never feel hated when he punishes me …
I do, however, still feel heart-broken when I’ve let him down. I asked him about a week or so ago, when I’d broken my major rule, “Are you mad at me?” and his response was, “I’m disappointed in you.” Ooof. Right to the gut … I said, “Can you please just be mad instead?” I can’t stand disappointing him. We keep a spreadsheet of my rules and I mark, each day, a color code in the box for each rule — Green means I did well; Yellow means I have *not* done well and I’ve been given a warning; but Red … Red means I’ve exhausted all warnings and I’m going to get spanked. The first time I had a Red … oh the fit I threw. I was upset that I had disappointed him and broken my rule, yes … but I was also so upset to see that HUGE RED BOX that screamed, “Angie is not GOOD.”
The major difference, however, between Angie Not Being Good as a child and Angie Not Being Good as an adult, with M, is that I don’t ever believe I’m hated when he punishes me. I don’t ever NOT believe that he’s doing it because he wants what’s best for me. And if I *were* in that state of mind before a spanking, there would be a long talk with a lot of reassurance — and with my full submission to what was coming — before he would proceed. I guess that’s the other major difference — I chose this, and continue to choose it, and I submit to it (mostly) willingly.
And at the end there are always hugs, and cuddles, and kisses and whispers about what a good girl I am to reassure me, once again, that it’s all coming from a place of love.
I know there are people who do This Thing We Do who were never on the receiving end of cp as children; and there are those who were absolutely abused; and there are ones in the middle, like me, who had it used sparingly, but it was always a threat. I’m fascinated by the journey we all take to get to being a spanko as an adult — especially when that spanking life involves real punishment for “real” things with an end goal of changing behaviors.
Really, someone should do a documentary about us. We are some damn interesting people.
