Growing up I was daddy’s little girl until my brother showed up. He took my shine and he could do no wrong. He’s never had responsibilities or the pressures that I’ve had being the oldest. And I’ll always resent him for that.
My daddy used to hit my momma. I was the oldest. So I was smart enough to know. I watched. I heard. I cried for her. Then he started abusing me and my brother. My momma knew. She watched. She heard. She NEVER intervened. NEVER! I resent her for that. She let us grow up in that household. She kept us intrapped in that violence. He used make us strip naked to get whoopings. My daddy hit us with his fist. Kicked us. Threw us. He’d even turn the belt around and beat us with the buckle. I’d go to school bruised up. My momma would clean my wounds. But she could never erase them. The abuse was never ending. I couldn’t escape. I feared my father for years. No one can ever hurt me like he can. His words ripped me apart. His hands scared me for life. I still have scars from when I was young. They come with memories. With pain.
Eventually my momma left. After I was well into my 20s. I was happy. Finally I was free. Yet, I really wasn’t. I still walk around with this pain. Why did she wait so late to leave? Why did she watch him hit me? I’ll never understand the things that went on in that house.
5 comments
You just summed up the better part of 9 years of my life.
I’m sorry.
No need to be it seems like we both gained the experience and knowledge to see it as it was without sugar coating the ugly, abusive truth.
That is a horrible way to grow up. I hope your father got what he deserved, because you didn’t deserve that.
My father was a sadist. We couldn’t see us happy and used to ruin every moment of celebration. Feativals and family gatherings used to be his favorites. He would beat us and wouldn’t even let us cry. *slap* “no, you won’t cry.” *slaps again*. I wonder what a child grows up like when he has such childhood. Oh wait, i don’t need to wonder.