Child Abuse Story From Koran

by Koran
(Location Undisclosed)

Still in the game today: 
I can't believe I'm writing this, mostly because, I'll admit, I haven't entirely been out of this "stage" of my life. I'm still there, it's still happening to some extent, but if there is anything I am more sure of, it is this: I don't want the help, I don't need the help.

"Abuse" is a pretty simple word, is it not? It's quite obvious what abuse is; on the contrary, not to my parents. If I approached them right now, saying, "Hey, you abused me!", I'm not sure that they would take it well. In fact, I'm quite positive they wouldn't take it well. Similarly, they wouldn't believe it.

In my father's mind, I doubt he questions himself. I doubt he thinks he has done much wrong, and I doubt that he thinks he is doing anything wrong right now.

There was hitting in my family, but I was never a part of that. I have two half sisters; to them, my biological father is their step-father. I never quite recognized this, seeing as I knew them all my life, and their biological father deserted them at a very young age.

My father has directly said that they are "not his." He doesn't consider my two older sisters his children, and that has become apparent with the fact that he has physically hurt them and failed to physically hurt me. When they were young, he made them work. He blamed them for everything. I, on the other hand, was "special"—I was still young and cute. I was not quite the victim.

Time went on. My parents moved me in the second grade nearly six or seven states away, to where I am located now. They did it overnight, without warning; just like that, the home I had known was gone. All my friends, my teachers, everything I knew so well were absolutely gone.

Why did they do it? We didn't have the money to stay there. We lost the house, or we were about to. I don't quite understand it today.

I miss that place, even now, six years later. It feels like a part of me was missing, and the fact that I wasn't even given the chance to say goodbye was worse.

My parents brought me to my grandparents' house. For every summer, I visited my grandparents, 6 or 7 states away. This was completely routine. As I stepped into their house at only seven years old, I had no idea that I was relocated at all; I thought it was only a short visit.

My parents left. It was a bit peculiar that they drove me there, rather than my grandparents making the trip up the country to get me (the usual way things went every summer). I was young and naive, though, and I didn't question it.

Again my parents had lied to me. They didn't come back. I saw them a few small times, but over a course of about one and a half years, I was left with my grandparents to live there and start school there.

I realize I may be taking this personally, but essentially this was a big step in my life; not because I moved, but because I was left behind. My younger sister, only four years old, was the only one my parents took in themselves. My two older sisters and I remained at my grandparents' residence. Ultimately, it was the point in my life where I just became "another bitch" and no longer the precious daughter I was.

One and a half years later, they bought a house in the same town. I didn't have to switch schools.

My dad, by then, had become an alcoholic again. He had drug and alcohol problems from when he was a kid, but I had never seen them until this time in my life.

He drank all the time. He allowed convicts and illegal immigrants in the house to work for his business, making the home a welcome-place to strange, threatening people. I wasn't comfortable at home—how could you be when there were strange heroine-addicts talking to you, peculiar scummy folk giving you weird looks?

I became a victim of not physical abuse, but emotional. He said things to me that still hurt today. I still remember when and where it happened, let alone how old I was—many insults stay with me in such a vivid picture.

When I was in the fourth grade, I raised money for a fundraising charity by walking around and asking people for donations/orders. He got mad at me one day and ripped the checks to pieces; I had to go back to every single customer and lie to them about why I didn't have it.

When I was in the fifth grade, only ten years old, he told me not to bother in life. He told me that I would be shot or mine-bombed by an Iraqi before I had a chance to live life. It's a wonder what vulnerable children can believe.

He had never remembered my birthday once. In the past six years, he must have asked me how old I was, let alone the date, nearly 30 or 40 times. My mother does the same, though I think she knows it deep down.

He called me fat when I was 9; it scars me today. I've lost weight by myself and am now fit, but even now, I look in the mirror and see what he had said. It's rather odd; I know it's not true any longer, but I still see that picture today. It's hard for me to look at pictures of myself when I was little because of him.

I'm a bright kid. I won't lie; I've got quite the talents in art and writing and everything else. My parents have not seized to take advantage of such. When I was eleven years old, my father bought me a "present"—the only thing he had ever hand-picked for me. What was it? Professional, $200 web design software. I never understood the damn thing, nor do I want to. Three years later, today, he still calls me useless and a waste because I have not made a website that has fit his satisfaction...though I have made about 6 different ones, just to please him.

I've designed postcards, business cards, websites, logos, truck designs, everything IMAGINABLE for his little "business". He was never happy. Just about two days ago, I honestly approached him and said, "Dad, everyone wants to please you, but the reason nothing gets done is because you are not happy with anything we do."

He told me that I don't TRY, and that I can "go fuck myself and go to hell."

He would make me sit and read the same how-to web page over and over again, as if repetitive reading would make me comprehend what adults take high school and college courses for.

My mother never defends me, let alone my sisters. She is a victim of his verbal abuse, too.

He thinks he's always right. He says the most vile, inhumane things to us. He threatened to kill me when I was 10. And, worst of all, he thinks he is right, and we are wrong.

He sees us as the enemy, whereas his only true enemy is himself. That man wouldn't know happiness if he ATE IT; misery is his only way. And likewise, misery has seemed to become a way of mine, a way of my mother's, and even a way of my ten-year-old sister's.

I'm afraid of him; not sure why. I'm tired. I'm sick on the inside and I have let people know that. My own grandparents, who have always been supporters of mine, defended him when I told them once that I was having suicidal thoughts. His mother still defends him—I am the lazy, useless, horrible problem child.

Keep in mind that my GPA is a 97.6 and that I have never gotten into trouble in my life.

It isn't fair, but I deal with these problems. I can't go to friends' houses, and forget about having friends over to mine! I don't even have my own BED; I sleep with my 10-year-old sister while my parents get the master bedroom. All these little things add up.

I realize that I don't have it as bad as some do. I'm not beaten to the point of being a bloody pulp. However, inside, I am twisted and hurting every single moment, every single day.

All I know is I will rise above; I will be somebody in this world who will make a difference, and I will prove to all of these people—everyone who ever destroyed me on the inside—that they were wrong. I'll rebuild my inner strength and I'll have what they all failed to get for themselves: happiness.

Though I still go through things today, "help" as in a counsellor or police is not an option. Been there, done that; didn't do a thing.

I can't change my father. I can't change my mother. But I CAN change my life.

Darlene's comments to this "Child Abuse Story From Koran" can be found at Comments below this submission. Depending on system activity, there are sometimes delays in comments going live on my site; but rest assured, they do eventually appear. So if you don't yet see them, I hope you will return later to read what I, and possibly others, have written. I thank you for your patience and understanding.

Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited, and could result in being banned from making further comments on this site.