Child Abuse Story From Jason

by Jason
(Texas, USA)

When I was six, my mom died. Very soon after, my father started abusing me. At first, he would come into my room at night, touching and taking, and as I got older it got a lot worse. He also became physically abusive, to the point that I considered bruises that covered my torso getting off lightly. He always avoided my face though, because he wouldn't want anyone to know that we weren't a perfect family. He called me worthless, a mistake, an idiot. I believed him, because why else would he do those things to his own son? He had a friend, that would come over as well. I dreaded seeing him. He was...gentler than my father, but I couldn't stand being touched and his greatest pleasure seemed to be humiliating me. He always told me that I must have enjoyed it, because of how my body responded.
When I was 15, I started cutting. I didn't do it often, mostly when I was numb because it helped me feel something that wasn't panic. I hit or threw things when I was angry, which was often, ate very little, and slept even less. I would wake up screaming when I did, nightmares that I could avoid in the day assaulting my mind.
No one seemed to notice though. I was good at hiding. I made good grades, did theatre, had friends. One of those friends knew something was wrong, but I brushed off his questions. I didn't need to worry someone else about it.
The abuse has stopped now, but only because I'm in college now. It went on for 11 years, more than half my current life. I still have panic attacks, nightmares, don't cope well. But I'm getting better. I hope.

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