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Child Abuse Story From
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 This child abuse story from Michael was created September 29, 2006. Michael's first, second and third installments were originally posted to my child abuse stories page. The first installment on September 12, 2006 as story #33. The second installment on September 24, 2006 as story #37. The third installment on September 25, 2006 as story #38. Michael is from Hopewell, Virginia, USA The following child abuse story from Michael depicts extreme physical abuse, sexual abuse, and emotional abuse. Michael did not share the child abuse effects that his childhood had on him. Michael did tell me that God is his salvation.
I was the only child. My mother was 39 when I was born. She had only a fourth grade education, and my father was a house painter. I self-published a small book to share about what I went through with others; and there was so much abuse, it would not be enough space of course to put everything here, so I will just post some. My father was a quiet man until he started to drink. Alcohol made him very violent, and no one could stay around him. He would beat the windows out of the house and even run his own mother with a knife. One day my father came home drunk, and told me that GOD had spoke to him at work, and told him to kill me then himself. He told me he had something in his pocket, and was going to cut me to pieces with it. He ran me with a knife, and I barely escaped by crawling under the house, which was low enough, he could not get under. Any escape route that could be found was used. This event would repeat many times. My father, sometimes when coming off a drunk and in a foul mood, would beat me with a fishing rod. "It hurts, doesn't it," he would say. We were very poor. HIS week long drunks took the little money he made. Now my mother was insane, and as time went on, seemed to get worse. She spent many hours verbally and physically abusing me. She would say things like: "I wish you were never born." "When you grow up, no woman will ever want you." "I would have killed you when you were a baby, but trash like you are not worth going to jail over, if I happened to get caught." "You should be put in a mental institution for life." My mother would hang red peppers up on the wall, let them dry, which she claimed made then hotter, throw me down, ram one in my mouth, or smear the pepper over her hand and beat me till I licked it off. Sometimes I would crawl under the bed to get away. She would go get a broom, lay down, ram it in to me till I crawled over and licked the hot pepper off her hand. "This is the way it is going to feel when you go to hell, and there will be no water, for in hell you get no water," she'd say. Sometimes, when my father came home from work, I would take his hand and place it on the knots where she had beat me with a broom stick, thinking as a child, Daddy is sober, maybe he will stop it. He never did. Several times, when I would go to the kitchen, she would grab a knife, hold it to her throat. "If you come any closer I'll kill myself," she'd say. I would run and crawl under the bed. I had hot water thrown on me out the window while I played in the sand. I quickly learn to not go by that window. One of my grandmothers, who was the only one I could say cared about me, could sense something was going on, and took me to social services to get help. Social services chose to believe my mother. Over 30 years later, my family says, "Yes your father was a drunk, but they never did anything to you." They chose to believe the abusers and not the victim. My mother is now dead, and my father took a gun and ended his own life years later after marrying another woman who also was an alcoholic. I know one thing for sure, when they stood in front of GOD, there was no denying it then. The following child abuse story from Michael is the second of three installments. The house looked the same, a dismal grey. There were cars parked outside. I wondered what the people that lived there now would think, if they knew of the evil that once walked their floors. It was 1969, I was 13. My mother and father had split up and I decided to stay with my father. The old car pulled into the driveway. Would he be drunk tonight? I soon got my answer. I leaped back from the window I was looking out as it shattered to pieces. My father saw me looking out and threw the jack out of the car at me through the window. It was once again time to run, for when he came in the house, no one could stand against him. Some nights when he got drunk he would walk the floors with a bible in one hand and a knife in the other. If I begged him to go to bed, he would say, "don't make me hurt you". Soon a fishing rod would come down again and again across my shoulders and back. Sometimes there would be blood from the wounds on my bed when I woke up the next day. My grandmother came over to check on him one day, and he knocked her out with a pair of crutches. She went and got a warrant. The sheriff department put him in a mental hospital for 30 days. [There} he met an alcoholic lady, declared his love, told me he could not take care of two people and moved in with her. He would take a gun and end his life with his new love a few years later. Social Services said I had to go back to live with my mother, who lived alone in a small house. It was mostly verbal abuse now. She would lie awake in her bed and curse me for hours till she got so hoarse she couldn't talk. I began to get sick; I saw her putting mice poison in my food. When I told my grandmother, she said my uncle was moving out. I could finally come live with her. My uncle lived with my grandmother, got a disability check and paid half the bills. My grandmother only got $65.00 a month Social Security. My uncle stayed drunk and was so mean he would put bread between my grandmother's toes so the mice would get on her bed. The house was old, and she would put out traps for mice. Once I started to live with my grandmother, my mother began to write threatening letters to her. One day my grandmother found a brush full of grey hairs at the back door--my mother had pulled out her own grey hairs and put [them in the brush]. [I know this] because her letters said she was going to pull my grandmother's grey hair out. But finally peace came. Michael The following child abuse story from Michael is the third of three installments. I would just like to finish with a few things. During the years I was abused, Social Services didn't help children like they do now. When my grandmother took me, she offered to take off my shirt for the lady to see the wounds. Feel his head, feel the knotts on it. The lady said, "I see all I need to see". At that time when company came over a child had to go in the back room, not seen not heard. It is good to know finally society is paying attention to child abuse now. I would like to say one final thing about my father. My grandmother went to a local bar where my uncle drank. My uncle sent out a man who claimed to be the baddest in town. He said he would go over and talk to my dad about his behavior. My grandmother gave him money. Within an hour, he too was running for his life. My father had broken a chair over his head, beat him in the face and ran him down the street with a hammer. In his rage that day he beat my pet squirrel to death, [the squirrel] that fell out of a tree and I was raising. The little squirrel would crawl and sit on my shoulder. It was my friend. After my father killed himself I stood at his grave and said these words: "You can no longer chase me anymore with your knives, nor beat me with your fishing rods. I have a strong feeling inside [that] the demons of hell are now chasing you." GOD sees what we go through and maybe one day he will explain why. There was a famous man in Israel who was shot in the chest in a meeting with his peers. He died. The Bible speaks of this: Michael |
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