Child Abuse Story From AJ

by AJ
(USA)

Do you know what it's like to have an abusive father? I'm not only talking about physical abuse, but also mental, spiritual, and emotional abuse. Do you know how it feels to have a father who has never supported you in anything, whether it is a band concert or a volleyball game? Do you know how it feels to struggle to maintain a positive relationship with your father even though he's never given you reason to? I do. Oh boy, I do.

The first memory I have of my father is of him beating me repeatedly with a belt at full force. The reasoning behind this is ridiculous. Apparently I opened up a box of cereal without any permission because I was hungry. I was three years old. Why would a man deliberately cause physical pain to his child? Is it for the release of anger, the power gained, or simply to make that specific child miserable? In my case, I believe it is a combination of all of these.

There was an incident that happened to me on a late Friday afternoon in May of 2006. There I was, sitting at the family computer, my foreign exchange brother, Samer, at my right and my younger brother, Cameron, behind me. We were uploading music to Samer's mp3 player because he was leaving our family in a few weeks. We were putting songs on his mp3 player that had sentimental value to both of us so that he could remember some of the memories we made together after he had made his trek back to the Gaza Strip. I found that what we were doing at that time was more important than anything else we could be doing. We were reliving memories we had built for almost a year.

There he was, my father lying on the couch nearby, resting. Suddenly he spoke. The tone of his voice was very demeaning. "Austin, get your fat, lazy ass off that computer and get me some pizza. I'm hungry!" This was no surprise to me, as I had been spoken to in that manner my entire life. Bear in mind that the nearest pizza parlor was about a mile away and I didn't have a drivers' license or any money. I had been encouraged by my mother to stand up for myself to my father, to not allow him to dictate my feelings.

"No," I squeaked, my voice quivering with fear. The word that came from my mouth surprised me, as if I had never said that word to him before. He suddenly sat up from the couch he was lying on, and the next thing I knew, I saw a shoe whiz past my face and ricochet off the wall. Before I could react, a second shoe grazed my neck and slammed into the wall. I began to register what was happening and looked in the direction from which the shoes had flown. I saw a 250-pound rhino of a father charge at me with full force. I felt as though I was smashed straight on by a semi truck. The impact knocked me from my chair. My mind went blank for a few moments, and I felt a sharp, searing pain at my back. The man was kicking my back again and again. The pain increased drastically after each kick. "STOP! STOP! STOP! DAD, STOP!" I whimpered, struggling to block each blow.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it damn it!" he yelled. I heard mumbles from everyone around me, begging him to stop kicking. My ears began to ring, my eyes glazed over. The next thing I knew he was gone, out to get pizza, I assume. I was in a fetal position on the ground, bawling.

Samer brought me to my feet by. Tears streamed down my younger brother's face. It pained me to see him aching. This was no sight for a nine-year-old to see. The innocent should never have to see such violence. I felt emptiness enter in the pit of my stomach as welts the size of golf balls formed on my back. I ran to the phone to call my mom. She was shocked. My mother's voice began to shake. "Mom, I am going to run," I told her. "I don't know where yet, but I need to get out of here. I'll call you when I'm safe."

The next few hours of that dreadful day have become difficult to recount, but as I entered through the front door of my home later that night, I tiptoed to my room so that he wouldn't know I was there, and so that there wouldn't be any more confrontation.

Stability with my now-divorced father and me has just become more and more distant, even to the point where the man has vocally disowned me. It happened in January when I went to take my younger siblings to his apartment for the evening.

In the court papers, it states that when the children are with him, he is solely responsible for their transportation. My father didn't seem to realize this.
"Are you going to take your sister to seminary tomorrow?" he asked me.

"I don't know. I'm not really sure if I'm even going yet." I lied, afraid to stand up for myself once more.

"How can you not know whether or not you're going to seminary? Either you are or you aren't! I'll tell you what, since you can't make up your mind just get off my property and don't come back! You are not welcome in my home! You are no son of mine! I don't want to see you, you lying, lazy, son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled.

How can I honor my father after all that has happened? Is it possible from this point? Is stability still within reach? Will he ever treat me like a father should? I may never know, but it's important for me to learn from these situations and try to forgive him.

This is a perfect example of the type of father I don't want to be. I want to be respected by my children. I want my children to choose to come to me for advice. I want my children to feel comfortable around me, to rely on me, to lean on my shoulder. I want to be a positive role model for my children.

A child should be treated with love and kindness. A father shouldn't coddle or mistreat his children, but should be firm in expectations. When a father is disappointed in a child, he should take that child under his wing and express his feelings in ways far different from abuse.

Fathers can learn from my experience and come to understand that situations like this are realistic, but they can be stopped. My advice: Don't even flirt with abuse.

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