Child Abuse Story From Jessica G

by Jessica G
(New York, USA)

After reading some of the other stories, I felt compelled to write my own story; for what, I am not sure. I do not have to deal with the abuse anymore, mostly in part, because of a restraining order against my father. It prevents any physical, emotional, or verbal abuse for one year, and by that time, I will be out of the house, thankfully to college, which I have been waiting for for years.

I can not complain about my life. I’ve never had to experience poverty; I always had food to eat, clothes on my back, and more than enough toys. My parents never divorced, and everyone was healthy. From the outside, everything seemed perfect. But however perfect anything appears, there is always something hidden in its closet.

Growing up, I was sheltered from my family’s skeletons. The inner turmoil that shook the foundations of my family called my attention, for one can never overlook such things, but it never consumed me.

My parent’s often fought, but how uncommon is that? I loved my father, as any young girl would. He was my knight in shining armor, and I was his princess. But it never lasted. As often as the wind changed, he would transform, from my knight into the dragon, breathing fire and destruction upon everything in his path.

Everyone in my family lived in fear of him. His demands were almost impossible to meet. The house had to be perfect. On many occasions, he'd come home and rage about the condition of the house. We would never have family or friends over in fear of his actions; we were never sure how he would behave. In numerous incidents, he'd throw all of our toys in the middle of the room, often times breaking them, because our room wasn't clean enough, and we'd have to start from scratch. I also witnessed him verbally denounce my mother, and physically abuse my mother and older brother. I could only watch and listen in fear. I was too small and helpless to do anything.

As I got older, the abuse became more apparent, and targeted towards me as well. I had been so sheltered up to this point that I was not expecting it. He would set impossible standards for my grades; above a 90 in everything. My room had to be clean. If I went out I had to tell him: who I was with, what I was doing (for the whole duration I was out), how long I would be there, what parent was home. I literally had to give him a 10-minute time frame of what I was doing (i.e. I watched a movie at {friend's} for 1.5 hours, walked to pizza and back {30 minutes}, etc.) He made my life a living hell. On top of that, he'd continuously break out in rages, destroying objects, and emotionally degrading me. He'd call me a bitch, a cunt, saying I was sneaky and a weasel because I asked my mother's permission to do something, and a slut because of the clothes I wore. I got to school late, and he pulled me out of class and screamed at me. But while all of this took a toll on me, it was the physical abuse that got me the most.

The first time he ever hit me I must have been 15 (I was lucky), and we were in the car. I can't recall the exact reason why, but we got into an argument. I was yelling at him to let me call my mother. He said no, mocking and mimicking me. When I went to dial, he snatched my phone and choked me with it, leaving bruises on my neck. He immediately apologized, saying how sorry he was, and I let it slide. After all, he was my father. How stupid I was.

The abuse continued. Everyone in my family walked on eggshells around my father, terrified of when he would lose his temper next.

As sad as it sounds, the happiest times with my father were when other people were around, because I knew that he had to behave, and his public image was/is very important to him. To this day, everyone thinks my father is an awesome person; so nice and caring, and very funny. All I can do is look at them with a sad nod, and think of how misled and conned they all are.

I grew depressed, and began cutting myself. To this day, it is a battle not to go back to that addicting habit. But at the time it made me feel in control and let me release some of the pain I could not tell to others. There was only one person I could trust, which was my new boyfriend. He was my saving grace, although our relationship was abusive in itself because of our young ages (it was extreme jealousy and belittlement that he constantly delivered to me, and I stayed because I was dependent).

The final straw with my dad was an incident involving me. For a long time I've had guilt over getting my father in trouble, although now I see it was a necessary action.

It started out as a fight between myself and my sister, stupid stuff. As I grew increasingly frustrated, I left the car and went back into the house (we had been going out to eat) when my father came in after me. We began to fight. I announced that I wanted to leave the house (he was always telling me to find somewhere else to live, and even kicked me out at 15 for about a week). At that point, I was so frustrated that I didn't care where I went, as long as it wasn't in that house. I left my room and went to go downstairs. He went to stop me, reaching over the banister grabbing my hair. I slipped through and continued down. He raced around and put me in a choke hold, getting ahead of me and blocking the door. We continued to fight. I tried to push around him. He grabbed me by the throat. He pushed me back. I hit my head on the stairs. I was shocked. I froze. I had my head in my hands. He yelled at me. He smacked me twice in the face. I could see the blind rage in his eyes. Never was I so scared in my life. He yelled at me to get upstairs. I complied.

After, he calmed down. He became the nice father again. He asked me not to tell my mother. He told me how sorry he was. He told me how much he hated himself and he was trying to fix it. Then I felt my head. I discovered a huge lump on the back of my head. I lost it. I said how he'd told me all this before, and that I was going to tell my mother. He told me he would lie; my word against his, and that he would tell them how crazy I was with my cutting and behavior.

To sum it up, I ended up calling my brother and a hot-line to talk about what happened. They both called CPS, who came to my house. The whole time I felt guilty, as my younger sisters and father blamed me. He got depressed, which made me feel worse, but I carried through with the restraining order that my mother set out to get. To this day, he hasn't had one incident, which sometimes scares me. Has he truly changed, or is it brewing beneath the surface, ready to emerge as soon as one year is up?

The whole situation is a hard memory to live with. Sometimes I feel like I've grown up before my time, maturing faster than most others my age (I am now 18). There are many times (almost every day) that I feel like I exaggerate the hardships I've dealt with, feeling like a complainer. There are so many others who've had to deal with worse that I ask myself, who am I to complain?

I want to become a psychologist, to help others deal with situations like mine, and also learn about myself. All I know is that I am who I am today because of my experiences in that house, some of it good, and some bad, but I am going to use it as a learning block. I love my father, who doesn't? But I know that he will never change. There is no reaching out to him. Unless he has the desire within himself, there is nothing anyone else can do. I truly feel sorry for him. How pitiful his life has become. I hope that one day he will be able to see what he has let himself become and what his actions have done to our family.

Reply from Darlene: Our fathers are cut from the same cloth, Jessica. I understand all too well what you've lived with: the abject fear; knowing that no matter how well you do, it's probably not good enough; the comparisons that no matter how hard you try to measure up to, they are impossible to meet; the mocking and mimicking in order to bait you into a fight so that he can exert even more control, and release of explosive anger and hostility; the simmering anger that detonates into rage over the littlest things; the not knowing when you enter the house if you or someone else has done something that will result in a some kind of a beating; the broken and in-a-heap furniture; the countless holes in the walls; coffee dripping off the ceiling and walls after he threw his full cup in a fit because someone even dared to challenge whatever he said in that moment.

Then...all violence is followed by the "honeymoon period" where he is so deeply and tearfully apologetic for all that he's said and all the damage he's done; the acrid smell of wet stucco as he repairs the holes in the walls, then of paint as he wipes away all the evidence with a few strokes of the brush; the melancholy, lump-in-his-throat "I'm so so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I hate that I do this. I hate myself for doing this. I didn't mean it. I'll never do it again" speech that has become so commonplace that we all know it's full of empty promises.

Then...then...those empty promises are followed by yet another, deceptively calm, threateningly sinister speech: "You know, if you hadn't argued with me (or done whatever it was that you were supposed to have done) I wouldn't have had to do what I did." It was always someone else's fault that he brutalized and terrorized; never his fault, never any accountability or responsibility taken.

The remainder of Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Jessica G" can be found below.

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