Child Abuse Story From Benjamin

by Benjamin
(Indiana, USA)

Child Witnesses Father Beating Up His Mother: 
I'm in the back part of the house playing with my toys when I hear some shouting, so I go to investigate. As I enter the living room I see my mother laying on the couch, sobbing. I have never seen my mother crying ever before, but this was no "normal" crying. She was sobbing so hard she was having trouble catching her breath. My one-year-old brother is cradled in her right arm and my three-year-old sister is wedged in between the back of the couch and my mother's buttocks. She is peeking over at my father who is standing over them shouting and cursing at Mom. I am stunned. Neither one saw me at first because the doorway was off to one side which put me behind Dad and off to the side. I think because of tunnel vision Mom didn't know I was there at first. Dad is very angry and is shaking his fist and screaming at her. My sister has a look of shock and terror on her face and has begun to cry out.

After a few more seconds of screaming, Dad steps forward and in a rage raises his left arm arcing it across his chest. Mom draws her right arm up and across her face to deflect the blow and to protect my little brother from Dad's fury. There is a scuffle of arms.

What happened next I've blotted out, but I'm sure Dad struck Mom because she screamed out in pain and I remember her lips were starting to bleed. About this time I heard Dad say something about that *&@%$# Jack %)@!%^. Mom said something unintelligible and Dad stepped back.

After a few seconds, Mom straightened up and with a horribly wavering and squeaky voice said that that she was taking the kids and moving in with her parents. Dad said, "The hell you are, you f*&^#%# B*&@#$ and stepped forward again and raised his arm to strike her again. She raised her arm up across her face again and then, (I'm guessing now) I must have cried out at that time, or perhaps Mom finally noticed me standing there (I most likely began crying about that time) because Dad turned toward me and screamed at me, "Get the H E double hockey sticks out of here, you little b$@*&%$^", so I ran off in terror, not knowing if my dad was going to kill my mother. I think I ran outside because the next thing I remember, several hours later, is carefully peeking in the back door to see if Mom was still crying and if Dad was there. I was petrified that he may see me coming back into the house and accost me.

The coast was clear so I carefully and quietly closed the screen door and crept into the kitchen where Mom was standing at the stove cooking supper. Her face was a funny color (I now realize it was makeup). Her lips were all puffed up and her eyes were bloodshot. I didn't say anything and neither did she.

Things were never the same in the house after that, (actually they were never all that great even before this, as I remember.) There was always a general uneasiness in our home, especially when Dad came home.

I did quite well in the first and second grades. I got mostly "Bs" with an occasional "A" and some "Cs" thrown in for good measure. Then part way through the third grade I began having trouble with mathematics. I could add any of the lower numbers together without any problem, but when it came to adding 7 or 8 or 9s with another 7 or 8 or 9 I would have to stop and think. I would frequently get it wrong, so the teacher sent extra homework home for me to do. Mom decided she would "help" me with it, so I sat down at the supper table. This table was in the same room as the above incident happened in. Mom would stand behind me. As long as I did the math problem quickly and got it right there was no problem, but if I tarried too long over it she would slap me across the back of my head and shout, "So what is the answer!" I learned to answer quickly, but usually when I answered quickly I also answered incorrectly, and for each incorrect answer I earned an even harder slap across my head. Soon she began questioning me as to how I could be so stupid when she and Dad came from such intelligent families. (Dad always told us that our family was more intelligent, harder working, better looking, and just plain all around better people than those no good for nothing _____ fill in the blank with every ethnic slur there is.) These beatings went on for months, nearly every weekday evening.

In the spring I took an IQ test. When the test results came back, the teacher asked my parents to schedule a time when we could all get together to discuss the results. The test showed that I was below average in intelligence. The teacher of course explained to Mom and Dad that that is why I was doing so poorly at school. The teacher told them I would never do well in school and to not punish me when I did poorly because I simply didn't have the brain power that it took to be a good student. So Mom and Dad began calling me stupid (to the delight of all my siblings). It was obvious to everyone that school was not going to do me any good so Mom and Dad stopped "helping" me with my homework, and so I simply quit doing any and all homework. I could do pretty much what I wanted to do, which when you are nine years old is usually hunting crawdads or lizards or fishing, basically anything other than that waste of time, homework.

I failed third grade, but due to an "error" I was promoted to the next grade anyway. Each teacher would inform the next higher grade teacher about each of the students, and of course the information about me being below average in intelligence was presented as fact, so the new teacher never challenged or took any interest in me either. After all, they had intelligent students to prod and cajole into doing better.

Life at home was usually like walking on eggs. You had better not cross either parent, especially Dad. He had a very violent temper. I frequently was beat for doing something. Dad usually used a stick or branch off of a tree that would break after he struck me with it five or six times. But one time, all he could find in a hurry was a plunger, so he beat me with it. After the usual five or six blows the handle didn't break so he continued on and on for several minutes until finally he was too tired to continue. I literally could not sit down for several days without wincing in pain and my behind was a mass of black and blue bruises for several weeks.

This was a cut and paste from my computer as I still have a hard time realizing that that little innocent boy was me. He grew up to be a mess. If it wasn't for the grace of God, he would still be a mess; but because of what Jesus has done in my life I am totally free. Praise God.

Benjamin

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