Let’s learn a new Russian word: Pod-za-tuhl-nik . It is a noun, roughly translated as “under the back of the neck”. It describes a way to hit someone, usually with a hand, and specifically in the back of the head. Russian is a very rich language.
A podzatuhlnik can be given or received. It can be a mild punishment for a child, a slap at the top of the back of the head. It can be playful or a warning. But when applied with skill or enough force, especially if you target the lower part of the head closer to the neck, directing the blow towards the skull from below, a good podzatuhlnik will make your whole head jerk and bob, your ears ring, your teeth chatter. You may even see stars.
There is a memory connected to this word for me. It’s a memory of cold words in my mind, a calmly narrated description of an event. Just a story on a replay. I don’t feel any emotions about this story. And there is a ringing lack of emotion when I re-tell it to myself.
I am 8 years old. Starting 3rd grade in the USSR. I am away from Moscow on a trip with my father. He would have gigs in other cities and would sometimes take me with him. I don’t know which city we are in, but I know that we are far away from my mother and grandmother. It’s just me and him.
We are in a hotel room. There is one bed, a television, a small table and a chair. My father tells me that I need to practice my writing and spelling. This is a big part of 3rd grade. We don’t have a very close relationship, and I can’t remember him trying to teach me earlier, but I don’t object.
He gets out some paper and a pencil, and tells me to sit down at the small table. He dictates a paragraph to me and I write it down to the best of my ability. I don’t remember what it was about, only that it was no more than a quarter of the page.
Now comes the important part. The rules. For every mistake that I make, in the spelling or grammar, I will get a podzatuhlnik from my dad. But on the bright side, I will get to watch some television.
I handed my dad the paper with the dictated paragraph. He turned on the television. I sat down on the bed and he sat down behind me to do the grading.
This part of the memory is words and visuals. I see my legs in front of me, dangling off the edge of the bed. The television, bright and flashing, in the center of my focus. The drab hotel room in the periphery. I don’t see my father. But I know he is behind me. I don’t remember what I was watching, but I remember that I got drawn into it. The rest of the room recedes from my focus until I am not aware of anything else anymore. I am fully tuned into the TV.
And then. An explosion of stars. A blow at the back of my neck makes my eight year old head bob. I forgot about the punishment and I am shocked. My vision takes a few seconds to return.
My father doesn’t say anything. But I remember what it is for, and understand that I must have made a mistake in my paragraph. I am still facing forwards, but I am no longer watching the TV. I tighten up my neck, draw in my shoulders, and wait for the next blow. My focus is on the vibrations of the bed, listening and feeling for him to shift to hit me again. I know that if you are ready for it, it does not hurt as much. Your head won’t bob, you won’t be shocked. I’ve had enough podzatuhlniks in my life. If you are ready for it, it’s still painful, but on your own terms.
I wait for the next blow, but it does not come. Time passes. My shoulders ache. I am distracted by the sounds of the TV. I start watching it a bit. And get slowly pulled into the action on the screen. My shoulders go down, my body slowly relaxes, I lose my defensive awareness and get lost in the TV again.
Another blow. Stars fill my vision. And with them, and I remember this as words only not the emotion itself, a fierce anger at myself. I was supposed to remain vigilant. To wait for the next blow. To be ready for it so that it won’t hurt as much. So that it won’t be a surprise and shock my whole body. I failed. And that’s why it hurt.
Again, I tighten up and wait for the next blow. My neck ready to bend with the blow, my body listening to the vibrations on the bed. I will not be surprised again. I will control this pain. But the TV is still on. Still in front of me. Still flashing. Still drawing me in. It has the same pull. And now there is a part of me that is watching me get drawn into the TV again. It’s raging at me, telling me to remain alert and ready for the blow, to reduce the pain. But I slowly but surely I keep losing to the pull of the TV.
The rest of the memory is an endless loop. The TV in front of me. The blow. The stars. Me waiting for the next blow. My rage at myself for not being able to remain alert and reduce the pain I feel. I keep losing my focus to the TV. Another podzatuhlnik takes me by surprise. More anger at myself. More failure to remain alert. There is no end that I remember.
I know my dad is a part of this. But I don’t remember him saying anything or pointing out the mistakes. The blows just come. So the memory is my struggle with myself. The part of me that wants to be alert, raging at the weakness of the part of me that gets distracted.
———-
I am not sure what to do with this memory. I have so many questions. Is it even real? Or is it some symbolic mantra that is hiding something even worse? Did my dad really do this to me? Why? What really happened between us that day? How many mistakes did I make? Did it just feel endless – but wasn’t actually that long? Was my dad trying to teach me, was this something that his dad did to him, was he just being sadistic, was is all of them together?
I am 42 now, and I have avoided properly processing this memory, this story repeating in my head, or getting closer to feeling the emotions inside of it. Or even feeling emotions about it. Even now, as I write this down – all I feel is a cold silence inside of me. A cold ringing silence with an absence of emotion. No anger. No sadness. I tell the story but I don’t feel anything. Cold, silent, empty… this is what I get from this story.
I know there is much worse abuse out there. There are much more painful and horrible things that others have experienced. I got smacked and now I am overthinking it.
But the story remains in my head. And the parts of it: waiting for the next blow, wanting to control the pain by remaining tense and alert, losing the battle with distraction, feeling rage at myself for my weakness, blaming myself for the pain. It feels very me. Still to this day, it feels very me.
So as always, it comes down to a choice. Do I tell the story and move on – or do I do the work? Do I go deeper? Even if it feels impossibly blocked and overwhelming. Even if I have been avoiding this for 30 years. Even if it makes me feel cold and weird inside.
But most importantly is not just about the 40 year old me. There is a still a little boy out there, in a hotel room back in the USSR, stuck between a loud TV and an abusive father, waiting for the next blow, seeing stars, trapped in a never ending loop of self rage. That little boy has been talking to me in cold emotionless words for 30 years, telling me a story of where he still is, waiting for a rescue that never came.
So I am making that choice for him. It will feel painful, tiresome, annoying, and weird to unravel this. But this is my focus for the next 3 months. Using everything that I have and learned: trauma therapy, dance therapy, men’s group, writing, prayer to figure this story out. To feel something about it. Save the boy. Stop the loop.
So this is, finally, something to work on.
