Child Abuse Story From Phyllis

by Phyllis
(Michigan, USA)

Old woman and still haven't forgot: 
My earliest abuse memory is when I was 3 years old. My dad came home drunk and put me and my 2-year-old brother out of the house late at night. My mom did nothing to protect us. I took my brother, still in diapers under the house to the chimney where the fireplace was and we stayed there until daylight, huddled to keep warm. Even as young as I was, I knew we had nobody to protect us or to go to for help. Even after I heard my dad get up and leave for work my mother never came to check on us or help us. Yet to this day I cannot depend on anybody to protect me or help me. I won't let my guard down enough.

The horror we lived through is unbelievable. My dad cursed and damned every bite of food we ate each and every day. I tried not to eat but my stomach would hurt so bad I couldn't hold out more than 3 days at a time. He never bought us clothes. We barely had one outfit at a time. If people gave us clothes he would burn them. They would buy my brother clothes but not me. If I cried because I didn't get anything they would whip me for being jealous. I never thought to begrudge or be jealous, I just couldn't understand why I didn't deserve to get clothes. I would put cardboard or rubber from a tube in my shoes to keep my feet dry in winter. And I was only 6 or so. I became very self protective and independent. Somehow I was able to build a self protective shell around myself to help me handle the violence, abuse and physical hurts.

I can remember telling myself if I worked and studied real hard I could get away from them and be safe. I taught myself to read before I started school. I was one determined little girl. By the time I was 10 or 11 I started working for people and neighbors, sometimes for 10 cents a day dusting furniture and all those stupid little what-nots. I would save and save just to be able to buy a pair of panties, or a skirt at the used clothing store. Even bought used shoes at a shoe shop.

By the time I was 12 or so my parents began to call me dirty names like whore, tramp, slut. In the small little town I lived in people believed my family's lies, never judging me by my behavior or character, only by my family. I hate to admit it, but my family was a bunch of liars, thieves and a drunk. Yet to this day I hate being judged by what my brother does.

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