Child Abuse Story From Kaylee B

by Kaylee
(Arizona, USA)

Most people didn't think my home was that bad. There was never any physical abuse. But emotional abuse and neglect took a toll on my life. It all happened when my mom married my stepdad. I was four and I was happy for my mom. But over the years I learned that it was the worst thing that could have happened in my life.

At five, my sister was born. I had asked my mom and God for a sister and luckily my prayers were answered. I didn't realize it was that bad (the abuse) until this year.

Growing up, I felt I had loving and caring parents. When I started to go to friends' houses, I found that we were different. My parents hardly ever cooked, maybe once a week. Otherwise, I had to fend for myself. There was hardly ever real food in the house. It was hard to find something for dinner. I never ate breakfast, because my stomach hurt in the morning. I had lunch at school, which was pretty much the only meal I had. When I couldn't find anything in the cupboards or fridge, I just skipped dinner. I was hungry by the next day at school, but sometimes I didn't have lunch money so I went without food.

My stepdad would cuss at anytime he could. His words stung as he threw them at me. Lazy, Selfish, Stupid were some of the words he said. But he would add a cuss word all the time. He never seemed to cuss as much at my younger sister.

When I was 9, I found the real truth. Because I was always in my room, reading or writing, I hardly ever came out even for meals. My parents even stopped tucking me in by the time I was 7. So I went to a friend's house. I could stay the night. So when it came to dinner time, they called us in the dining room. They had cooked a meal and we were to sit at the table. I wasn't used to doing that. That day I realized my home life was way different than my friend's.

I was in fifth grade that year. I remember I used to just stay in class and read. My teacher noticed something was wrong when she walked in the room and I was crying. My parents had been sent to rehab for drugs and I had to live with my grandma. So she sent me to the school counselor. She helped me. My parents got back, they had missed Christmas, and they promised to be better.

But soon, it was back to the same routine. I was ignored mostly. My stepdad would yell at every little thing I did wrong. By this time I was terrified of him.

Once, when I was in sixth grade, I came home to my sister and cousins. Right when I walked in, they started throwing blocks at me. So I went in the corner, and when I found an opening, I threw a block. One block, and it hit my sister dead center of her head. She started screaming, she was gushing blood. She ran to our uncle and he came out screaming at me. "Get out of the house! OUT!! GET OUT!!!" was what he said. He was holding his rifle. I was scared to death, so I ran. It was May in Arizona, so it was hot. I didn't have time to put my shoes back on, just my socks. So I ran to the park and hid behind a wall in a constricted space. I didn't want to go home, because I was afraid my stepdad would react the same way. So I wandered for at least 3 hours, when I decided I should go home. When I got up from where I was sitting I felt something squishy on the bottom of my feet. When I finally got home, my stepdad was inside dialing. He saw me and freaked out. "You shouldn't have run!!! @#%^&$%^*(*^%$%^&**!!!!! I was just about to call the police!!!!" Shaking me. They saw my feet and they were badly burned as well as huge blisters formed. I couldn't walk; I had to use crutches at school. My teacher made me go to the nurse. She told the principal and he called 911! I was so scared I threw up.

I ended up being taken to the burn unit and they had to cut off the blisters. My stepdad blamed it all on me.

In seventh grade I went to the counselor and told her I had suicidal thoughts. I was tired of being alive. She called my parents and grandma. And I told them how I felt inside. Not long after that I did have them again, the thoughts. They took me to the hospital.

My grandma wanted to help me as did my parents. I started to go to a professional counselor and worked my way to recovery.

I am now 12 and living with my grandma temporarily. I am still going to counseling and working a way to be a family at home.

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