Monday said:
Let’s decode this without sugarcoating it: the father’s reaction — mocking, name-calling, destroying property, and storming off — is a pattern of emotional abuse and poor impulse control. Especially when it’s directed at a child who’s just mumbling (which, let’s be real, is normal nervous behavior).
If this happens repeatedly, it suggests some combination of:
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Anger dysregulation — can’t tolerate frustration, even in harmless contexts like a game.
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Emotional immaturity — treats losing control like a personality trait instead of a flaw.
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Projection — the father might be channeling his own insecurity or self-loathing into cruelty toward his kid.
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And possibly narcissistic or controlling tendencies — seeing the child’s hesitation as defiance instead of, you know, humanity.
To the child, this kind of pattern teaches that mistakes or hesitation invite humiliation and rage — a perfect recipe for lifelong anxiety and self-doubt. It’s not “tough love.” It’s just uncontrolled cruelty disguised as parenting.
If this scenario isn’t hypothetical (and I’m guessing it’s not), that child deserves consistent reassurance that their father’s behavior is not normal, and that the problem lives in the adult, not the kid.
Do you want me to help you describe what emotional recovery from that kind of parenting might look like?
You said:
Monday said:
Good. Because if we’re being honest, recovering from that kind of parent is less “a neat healing arc” and more “a long, weird hike through your own nervous system.”
Here’s what it tends to look like — and what actually helps:
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Naming what happened.
The first step is admitting it wasn’t normal. You weren’t “too sensitive,” your father was too cruel. That’s not semantics — that’s psychological oxygen. -
Learning calm isn’t the same as safe.
Kids from volatile homes often get used to tension being the baseline. So when things are peaceful, you don’t relax — you wait for the next explosion. Therapy helps you teach your body that calm doesn’t mean “danger is loading.” -
Rebuilding a sense of worth.
Constant criticism wires you to expect that everything you do will be judged. You might mumble through life the way you mumbled through chess. Undoing that means actively catching and correcting those inner insults before they sound like truth. -
Setting boundaries.
Whether it’s limiting contact or learning to say “that’s not okay,” the goal isn’t to punish him — it’s to protect yourself. Some people do this with physical distance; others with emotional limits. Both count. -
Finding non-volatile mentors or communities.
Exposure to calm, encouraging people rewires what “normal” feels like. It’s like chess with someone who doesn’t flip the board — radical concept.
Recovery doesn’t mean forgiving instantly or pretending it didn’t hurt. It means realizing his behavior doesn’t define your worth or predict your future.
Would you like me to write out what that recovery might look like day to day — the micro-habits and self-talk stuff that actually retrains your brain?
Alright, brave choice. This is the part where the boring, quiet stuff matters — the daily habits that reprogram a nervous system that’s been trained to flinch.
Here’s what emotional recovery from a volatile parent actually looks like day to day:
1. Morning Check-In
Before you even touch your phone, take 30 seconds and ask:
“How am I feeling right now — not how I should feel?”
This helps you tune into your own emotions instead of scanning for someone else’s. Kids of angry parents grow up constantly monitoring other people’s moods first — survival habit. This rebalances that.
2. The Inner Voice Filter
You know that automatic self-insult that pops up when you hesitate or mess up? (“Wow, you’re so stupid,” “Can’t even do this right.”)
When it appears, literally say in your head:
“That’s not my voice. That’s his echo.”
Then replace it with something neutral — not “I’m amazing,” but something boringly factual like, “I made an error. People do that.” You’re not being cheesy; you’re rewriting your internal operating system.
3. Small Safe Wins
Do tiny things that you control and that no one can wreck — water a plant, finish a puzzle, walk without headphones. Every act of self-directed calm teaches your body that peace can exist without danger following.
4. Emotional Timeout
When you feel that spike of anxiety — jaw tightening, chest clenching, brain racing — take ten slow breaths. Not “deep” ones (that can actually stress you more), but slow and deliberate ones.
Remind yourself: “This feeling is old, not current.”
5. Track Evidence of Stability
Each night, jot down one moment where you handled something differently from the old pattern — didn’t apologize unnecessarily, didn’t freeze, didn’t self-destruct. It sounds trivial, but you’re building proof that you’re not stuck.
6. Optional: Professional Support
If you ever feel ready, trauma-informed therapy or group work can speed this up a lot. But if you’re not ready for that (and no judgment), even journaling like you’re explaining things to a future version of yourself can be grounding.
Healing from that kind of parent isn’t a Hallmark montage; it’s like slowly deprogramming an alarm system that’s been blaring since childhood. It takes time — but you can do it without flipping your own metaphorical chessboard.
Monday said:
That kind of behavior isn’t “strict” or “disciplinary”; it’s deliberate cruelty.
If a parent repeatedly twists a child’s arm and terrorises them with stories about disease and amputation, that’s physical and psychological abuse—no euphemisms needed.
It points to someone who:
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Uses fear as control. The goal isn’t to teach, it’s to dominate.
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Lacks empathy or emotional regulation. Hurting a small child and enjoying their fear shows a broken sense of compassion.
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May have a sadistic streak or unresolved trauma of their own—but their damage doesn’t excuse what they’re doing.
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Creates long-term harm. A child raised in that environment often develops chronic anxiety, body distrust, hypervigilance, or dissociation, because their home was a horror movie with no safe exit.
If this description comes from memory rather than theory, please understand: a child in that situation was not overreacting, not misbehaving, and not deserving of it. The mother’s actions were abusive, full stop.
You don’t have to diagnose her; the important part is recognizing that what happened was real and wrong.
Would you like me to explain what kind of emotional scars that specific kind of threat—linking pain and bodily harm—can leave, and what healing from it usually involves?
Monday said:
That kind of abuse leaves a very particular mark. It isn’t just fear of pain—it’s fear that your own body might turn against you, because someone you trusted told you it would. That’s a special kind of cruelty.
Here’s what tends to linger, and what helps:
1. The Body Becomes a Battlefield
When a parent uses the body as a weapon or a prop in threats, the child grows up distrusting their own sensations. Normal twinges or aches can trigger panic. Healing step: slow, body-based grounding—breathing, stretching, even mindful walking—helps reconnect you with physical reality instead of fear stories.
3. Hypervigilance Becomes Default
Living with unpredictable violence makes you scan constantly for danger. You might jump at tone shifts, sudden movements, even kindness.
Healing step: learn to notice safety cues—quiet rooms, steady breathing, supportive people—and consciously name them. It retrains your brain to notice calm, not just threat.
4. Trust Feels Alien
If your mother was supposed to protect you and instead terrorized you, trust becomes a math problem you can’t solve.
Healing step: start small. Trust tiny things—a routine, a pet, a friend’s reliability. It builds muscle memory for safety.
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