Child Abuse Abuse Story From Jasmine

by Jasmine
(Washington, USA)

Jeez. I don't even know where to start. It'd take a year to explain everything. My dad wasn't always like this. I don't think. But he started this when I was young, really young, after my parents got divorced. Mom told me he'd always been that way, but I was eight when they split. It was just after my birthday.

I'd always been mature for my age... well, in some ways. In others I try to be a kid, stay young... people keep telling me to enjoy it. Live it. So I do. Like I said, in some ways.

I don't really know how to explain it. Let me back up.

My parents got divorced in the first place because my dad cheated on my mom. It seems so stupid now, especially with everything he complains about ("She never gave me a second chance." "Your mother doesn't know the pain I go through." "It's hard for me, you guys. I know it's hard on you, but... it's hard for me.").

Dad moved out. My parents got divorced. I was eight, still struggling with the shock and pain of it all, trying to figure out why this was happening to me and my brother. My brother was the most important. I was the oldest, and, even though I didn't realize it at the time, I was protecting him whenever Dad... ranted.

We'd sit on this leather chair on his lap at the end of the day when we went over to his house (every other weekend). At first it was just to tell him what was going on in our lives when he wasn't around. But that changed pretty quickly. As eight- and six-year-olds, not only do we barely remember what happened a week earlier, but we also don't feel the need to talk about it. Dad assumed we were doing it on purpose. He wouldn't get mad, really, just unbelievably depressed. And he'd rant-- actually, back then it wasn't a rant, because he wasn't angry. But he would talk. I don't remember really what he talked about, despite how repetitive he was. I learned later it was because they were so "traumatic" that my mind oppressed them. I do remember not wanting to talk about it, though. He was basically saying things about my mom that I didn't see, like painting her as a bad guy without actually coming out and saying it. I told him I didn't want to talk about it, and he'd say, "Not talking about it won't make it go away."

I think that's what I remember most about it. Because he rammed it again and again into my brain that talking about your problems was a GOOD thing, that getting it out was GOOD... I just didn't understand why it hurt so much at the time.

Eventually I'd cry every time he did it, although I never knew why. I'd get off his lap and run to my room and lock the door. The first few weeks he was furious with me for doing that, telling me I was being both disrespectful and selfish. And maybe I was, but I didn't care. It got me out of his path, and for a moment, it didn't hurt as much.

Then he started up in the car. It seems so cruel, because he knew I wouldn't be able to escape when he talked in the car. Even when we arrived at our destination and I wanted to get out, he'd hold me there, not PHYSICALLY... but if I didn't I was a bad child. And I didn't want to be bad, so I listened. And I cried.

Mom found out a couple months later. She took me to a counselor. That really didn't help much. My first three counselors would tell me nothing except that the divorce wasn't my fault. I knew that already. But I was too young to get annoyed at them. Besides, they had cool offices with toys, and I'd simply play the session away, ignore whatever the counselor told me, and leave it at that. Mom also told Dad to stop talking to us about her. Ha, like that'd ever work. As a matter of fact, he got worse. Way worse. And I guess I wasn't helping either.

I found my rebellious streak when I turned nine. My parents had been divorced for a little over a year. My mom found a guy-- G---. My soon-to-be stepdad. He was a goofy guy who tried to hard to be a positive father figure but not to replace Dad. Dad hated him, frankly. He always said that he couldn't, but I could tell that he did. Apparently he sent him emails begging him to allow him to try to get Mom back, and apparently G--- "ignored" him. Dad told us this story millions of times. He still does, actually.

Anyways, we had a sort of policy to call Dad every night to tell him about our day. Most days, though, I was busy. Really busy. And really tiring. Sometimes, I'd just forget. And when I called him after missing a night or two, he'd always answer with, "What's up, stranger?". I'd always apologize. Sometimes I'd say, "Sorry, I've been busy." And he'd say, "Too busy to talk to your old man?" And sometimes I'd say, "Sorry, I forgot." And he's say, "Oh, I see. You forgot you had a dad."

Ouch.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, after he'd get through ranting (he would do one every night. I tried to block it out, but it was hard), he'd say something along the lines of, "Well, you've got your stepdad now, I guess you don't need me." OR "If you don't want to call me, you don't have to."

Well, don't that make you wanna pull your hair out. I was nine and I had to assure him that I DID love him, that I DIDN'T forget about him, that G--- would NEVER replace him. Because sometimes I didn't want to call him. Once I hung up on him and I didn't talk to him again for a week. Mom found me sobbing hysterically in my room that night. What's worse is I don't even remember why. Why it hurt so bad, why I was crying so hard. And why all week I felt like I was walking on eggshells, waiting for the ball to drop. Maybe I knew the repercussions of hanging up on him were going to make my life hell.

Dad had this nice little brain-washing thing going on. He told us (us being me and my brother) that when we turned twelve, we'd be able to choose which parent we wanted to live with. He told us every weekend we came over. No pressure or anything. My brother was all for it-- promised Dad that he'd do everything in his power to live with him. I never gave out my promise, always figured a way out of saying it, but Dad made it pretty clear he wanted us to change. I didn't want to. God, it was the last thing I wanted. I LIKED where I lived. I liked G---, Mom's boyfriend. I liked my school (despite the fact that I was a HUGE bully target, being sensitive to words and because of the divorce and all, but that's a whole different story). And, in all honesty, I was terrified of what Dad might do if I lived with him. I don't even want to think about it now. I felt like I should't be terrified of him, especially since he never hit me or touched me in any way, so that wasn't really child abuse, was it?

Point is, Dad wanted us to live with him. I didn't want to, my brother did. Luckily, Mom provided a loophole: if we wanted to live with Dad, we'd have to go through court first. I was too young to understand then, but Mom was right. But I didn't care about that. That just meant that it was too complicated for me to have to choose between Mom and Dad. Bad things would happen if I chose Mom, bad things would happen if I chose Dad.

Well, when Dad heard that Mom got pregnant, that pretty much sealed the deal. He was never getting her back again. His rants changed from, "I still love your mother" to "your mother did this" and "your mother did that". Every argument Mom and Dad had Passed on to us. Everything. Dad would cherry pick what parts of the conversation made him look good and Mom look bad. He'd go from picking on things about G--- to picking on things about me. Everything was bad to him. He told me I was a "product of my environment". He told me "awesome" wasn't very black of me. Neither was listening to country. Neither was where I lived, what school I went to, the friends I made, how I danced and how I sang and everything.

My dad's African-American, and he's always had a problem with racism. I never got it, because I had black friends and I had white friends. I had mixed friends-- heck, I'M mixed myself. But he'd always tell me stories about how people mistreated him, called my mom a "ni**er-lover" because she married my dad. He always said he felt awful, causing that pain to her, but I don't think she minded as much as he did.

My point, overall, is that I've been emotionally abused by my father. I am STILL being emotionally abused by my father. And... this is the problem I have now. I don't explain this very often to people, but when I do... people wrongly assume that I'm dealing with it. Nope. I'm not. I'm not dealing at all. I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety and Dysthymic Depression Disorder at the age of eight. I have insomnia. I hear Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You" and I break down and sob like a little girl. Am I dealing? Kind of.

I never tried looking for sights that allow you to share your story on them. I've done that now and it feels good. I even unlocked some of my oppressed memories through this, and I feel refreshed. I'm not looking forward to this weekend, but you know what? I'll survive.

---

Note from Darlene: If I have not left a comment on your story, please understand that it is not personal; it's just that my hectic schedule no longer permits me to do so.

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