My dad used to play so rough with my brother & I, that we ran, hid, & tried to lock ourselves in a room, to get away. For context, this started when we were probably around 3, & lasted until we got too big for it to be fun for him anymore- I might’ve been around 10.

My dad was big on tickling. The problem with that, was that it HURT. And he never believed us when we told him so. I remember being pinned on the floor, yelling & screaming “No! “Stop it!” “That hurts!l “It REALLY hurts!” Crying, & begging him to stop, begging my mom for help, & watching my brother over my dad’s shoulder, as he tried to help me, by punching our dad in the back. Eventually he’d either lose his grip enough that I could wiggle away, or he’d turn to grab my brother. If he managed to grab my brother, the roles switched- I would beat on my dad with my tiny fists, until once again, he reached to switch children.

If he didn’t manage to grab the other kid, we’d both bolt for my brother’s bedroom, as only his door had a lock on it. But we were small, with little legs. Our dad’s legs are long, & he’d often get his foot in between the door & the frame, before would could get it shut. Then the tickle torture continued in my brother’s bedroom, until we were able to sprint away from him, together, again. Then we were running laps through the house, trying to get away from him & make it back to my brother’s room before he grabbed one of us again.

When we did manage to shut & lock the door in time, it wasn’t much help. It was a simple push lock, that was easily picked with a wire hanger. And once he unlocked it, my brother & I would grip the doorknob over each other’s hands, the best we could, to hold it from turning. When it eventually turned enough, in spite of our efforts, we flipped to pressing our backs against the door to try to keep it shut. But it didn’t take much at that point, for him to make it into my brother’s room.

If he at all acknowledged us telling him it hurt, he’d mock us, using a whiny voice to say “That hUuUUuuuUurts.” And in his regular voice say “Quit being so sensitive!”

I remember this tickle torture ending 1 of 2 ways- but my mom offered a 3rd that I didn’t remember.

The first: when we were beating on my dad, one of us would genuinely hurt him, & then suddenly it was serious. He was pissed. He’d lecture us about how dangerous that was. We’d be sent to our rooms as a punishment (he had no idea what a relief that was!). And he’d milk his “injury” all day & night- ESPECIALLY if we were around family or friends. He loved to tell people how his stupid kids nearly blinded him. (One of us pushed his face away because whichever one of us was on the floor, was going to be drooled on. And the face pusher had a finger close to his eye- so he almost had his eye touched, & therefore nearly lost an eye or was nearly blinded. Definitely not an overreaction…) Just constantly reminding us how foolish we were, & how dangerous that was, & how wounded he was. The worst part about that is we had been bruised & were sore all over, & that didn’t matter, that didn’t stop the “game”. Only his one little boo boo counted, & only his “injury” was worth stoping the “game” over.

The second: when I threw up (I don’t remember my brother puking from this, but I have a more sensitive nervous system, so this tracks). When that happened, I would always be blamed, & asked “Why didn’t you say anything?!?” Mf I cried in pain for 40 min while you had FUN doing it! And now it’s my responsibility to predict I’m gonna vomit? Right, let’s say I could predict that- you sure as shit weren’t gonna believe me. I was always trying to hold my puke in my mouth for as long as possible too, because the whole house had these cream/white carpets (I know🙄 who does that??), & I was afraid of getting in trouble for staining them with my vomit. I still sometimes think about the opportunities I had to puke ON my dad, & wish I had taken them.

The alternate ending offered by mom: she didn’t always ignore me/us begging for help, but when she stepped in, he got angry at her for “interfering with him bonding with his kids.” She tried to tell him to listen to us because we were telling him it hurt, but he’d just get pissed & then he was even rougher. So she eventually decided to just ignore her crying kids, because she knew we’d be crying harder if she tried to help us.

He had other “games” that I’m not sure if mom knew about, but dad sure had his fun! The one I remember the most, besides the awful “tickling” was when he’d trap me under a folded blanket (so it was thick with 4 layers), or a bean bag (they were leather- so the only air was in the gaps where it didn’t touch the floor). He’d make sure I was all balled up as small as I could get under there, so I couldn’t wiggle around. Then he’d tell me to escape. When I was starting to panic from the hot air getting thick with CO2, the darkness, & him talking about having nowhere to be, so to keep figuring it out- he’d suddenly change his tone from lighthearted, to serious. “Calm down. Ca- CALM down! Listen to me.” Then he talked even slower… “You can’t see anything, can you? Hmm… It must be pretty dark in there. It’s probably getting pretty hot under there, too? Starting to get hard to breathe… huh?” He claimed he was training claustrophobia out of us with that one- a fear neither of us had prior to that “game”.

He had a similar one to that, too. Let’s say my brother is at a friend’s house- tickling just me gets boring when my brother isn’t here to free me. So when he got tired I guess, he’d collapse himself on top of me. As a small child, a grown man’s weight on top of you, is enough to make it almost impossible to breathe. With me thoroughly stuck where I was, & audibly struggling to breathe, he’d tell me “Uh oh! Somebody just died on top of you! Now you have to get out!” And as I was starting to make my way out from beneath him, suddenly he’d lock all his muscles up, as rigid as he could be, & tell me “Looks like rigor mortis has already set in. Now what are you gonna do?” If I had one arm free, my usual way out from that point was to give him a wet Willie (it was my last resort, as I always tried to escape, but I think I only got out without “cheating” a few times). He’d flinch & I’d get free & take off. But if I had both arms trapped when he told me rigor set in, then all I could do was wiggle like a worm & try not to cry, until he wasn’t entertained anymore. Sometimes I didn’t have to wait for him to get bored though, sometimes I was set free because I had a swim lesson I had to get to, or something. Swimming lessons gave me huge anxiety, but I was always THRILLED to go, if it got me out of “playing games” with my dad. I would have happily gotten a physical exam & an eye exam done back to back, to get out of “playtime” with him. I would have happily gotten shots, or even surgery if it meant getting away from my dad. I HATED “playing” with him.

As I grew up, I learned that because most of my experiences being tickled were at the hands of my father, I never learned how to tickle others properly. You have to get the pressure right, for tickling to tickle & not just feel like nothing, or pain. So I stopped trying to tickle others when I was still a kid, & I quickly learned I wasn’t missing out on anything. I only wished everyone else would stop tickling me too. As I got older, & kids giving each other “jumper cables” became common, I realized just how much I hated being tickled by anyone under any circumstances. Someone could bully me to my face when I was a teenager, & I’d just hope their day got better- I even offered one bully one of my birthday cupcakes. I was trained since the age of 5, to be unbothered. But if somebody gave me “jumper cables” I suddenly found myself filled with rage to my core, & had a nearly irresistible urge to break every bone in both their hands.

Children should always be respected when they withdraw consent. Kids are people too, & they’re always allowed to take back the consent they gave to you.

And on that note, my next post is probably going to be about my dad’s lack of concept for consent when I got older. I’m debating between that & something else about my dad, that I want to get off my chest… I’ll make both posts, I’m not trying to bait anybody into persuading me which thing to post about. I’m just not sure what I want to get off my chest first… thanks for reading.