Child Abuse Story From Amy
by Amy
(Brisbane, Queensland, Australia)
My Life:
Since I can remember, my family has been, to put it nicely, dysfunctional. My father was an alcoholic until I was twelve, and then was really sick and couldn't drink anymore, so he turned to other means, such as drugs. My mother was a severely depressed person who never saw past her own hurts to see that others were hurting too. Both my parents were physically and emotionally abused as kids. I wish that was enough for me to realise and forgive them. But it's not.
As far back as I can remember, I remember fear. It is my most prominent childhood memory. A constant fear that left me unable to move and speak when it gripped me. My father was unpredictable, and would often come home roaring drunk, and pick fights with my mum, most often than not, resulting in violence and brutality. From a young age, my father always lumped me into the equation when he was angry, not my elder sister, just me. He never liked me very much. When he finished thrashing my mother, he would bash me.
I was never cradled by my mother, or told that it was ok and that I would be ok. It was me that ended up doing this for my mother. I remember cradling my mother in my arms as she sobbed. I remember wiping away her blood and telling her I loved her, and that she was ok, secretly wishing she was hugging me and cleaning me up...I never cried because if I did, my mother would become angry at me and tell me I had a perfect life. So I learnt not to cry, not to show pain, not to show emotion.
At first, Dad's beatings where followed by long periods of sorrow and nice things, where he would buy gifts and apologise. It never lasted. Soon, this period didn't exist anymore. He became more violent, more unpredictable. There was no such thing as a nice period. As he became more unpredictable and out of control, so did his beatings. He stopped making sure he would only do body shots so no one would see. He stopped getting the pillow out to punch us in the face. He stopped caring and just began slugging at everything.
The worst memory was when I was 16. My father had my mother on the floor and was straddling her, one hand choking her and the other punching relentlessly. I had been hiding, but I jumped out to help Mum. He knocked me back and I hit my head on the kitchen table, knocking me out cold. When I woke up, I was in a pool of blood where my head had been cut. Dad must have laid into me while I was passed out, because my whole body was welted, and my left arm was visibly broken. I could see my mother, and I thought she was dead. I cried and tried to move, but I was too weak. I just lay there, wishing I too would die. Eventually, my mother got up, without even looking at me and left. I heard her bedroom door shut and her tears begin. I knew I was expected to go comfort her, but for once I didn't. I just lay there. I took myself to the emergency room and told them I had fallen down the stairs. They questioned me over and over again, and social workers came, but I stuck to my story because my fear of my father was far greater than my fear of life itself.
These ordeals became more and more often. The violence became worse. I would go to school and make up excuses for the bruises. I ran into a pole. I fell down the stairs. I even made up that I had been in a fight with some kids my age. Sometimes I would say the same thing twice, forgetting I had used that excuse before. Eventually, the school realised things were not ok, especially one special teacher, who talked to me, and made me feel special and loved.
One day at school, my teacher came into the class and told me to come with her. I didn't object; I had often talked in class times, not about anything to do with home, just about life. Like I said, she made me feel what I imagine parents feel like. But we ended up going to her office, and I was greeted by child safety. I was petrified. I told them about the violence, because I felt I had no choice, but I didn't tell them everything. In fact, I barely scratched the surface. But at the end of the day, we all knew it was too late. I was 17; there wasn't much they could do. They couldn't take away 17 years of abuse. And my parents didn't want help. They yelled at the child safety officers and told them I was full of shit. I moved out shortly after I finished school.
I'm 19 now. Sometimes I just try and forget, try to block it out. My mind is good at pretending I am like everyone else. For 17 years I lived a lie, but now I am thinking I will go and talk to someone. It's a lonely existence being abused. No one really wants to talk about it. It's taboo. Even I find it hard to talk about, and I lived it.
But then this barely scratches the surface, but then such is life.
Darlene's reply: Amy, what you described about your father's violence and then his 'being nice period' is so very typical of abusers. They repeat the cycle of violence (the triggering event {his drunkenness}; the violent episode; then the "honeymoon" period) over and over. But as time goes on, the violent episodes become more intense. They escalate. They happen more frequently. And as the frequency of these violent episodes increases, the honeymoon period becomes shorter and shorter, until it disappears completely.
I am so sorry you were witness and direct victim of your father's unprovoked violent rages. You didn't deserve to be put in such a horrifying situation.
Read the remainder of Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Amy" below.
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