Child Abuse Story From Violet

by Violet
(New York, USA)

My earliest memory is that of my dad giving me a bath, both of us laughing and splashing and having such fun. I don't know how young I was, what time of year, nothing. It's one of the only good memories I have of him. Things went downhill from there, really.

My dad has severe bipolar disorder, something which he blatantly refuses to treat. I'm sixteen now, and as far back as I can remember, he was swinging back and forth between manic (hyper, overtly aggressive, violent, super-happy sometimes) and depressed (passive-aggressive, needy, suicidal, and utterly miserable). These mood swings would come on like a bolt of lightning; when he was manic, he would go from happy and laughing to furious and screaming in ten seconds flat. When he was like this, there was his way, and the wrong way ("his way or the wrong way" seems redundant to me now, but he honestly believed his way was perfect).

Back then, there were a few "shames": Shame on ME if I didn't agree with him on everything and anything possible (including his opinion that my mom was a bitch); shame on ME if I didn't allow him to dump all his problems on me; shame on ME if I didn't forgive every other insensitive and diminutive thing he did on the basis that he was "ill". His medicine was a matter of whim to him: the side-effects made him feel "yucky", so he refused to take them, and then demanded sympathy for his "plight". He also decided that I would make a good mother, and went about switching roles with me, acting like a child while I had to take on all the adult responsibilities.

It got arguably worse when he was depressed. He would call ten times a day, crying and begging forgiveness for everything he ever did. Not that I could choose not to forgive him; he ever so subtly hinted that he might not survive me "rejecting" him. I was to accept every hollow apology, every forced hug, on the grounds that he might just drop dead if I didn't.

Forget about him taking responsibility. He would either rationalize, shift the blame, or oh-so-conveniently "forget" the event. I, by they way, wasn't allowed to have feelings. He complained that I was boring and wimpy "like your mother." He complained that I was more fun when I was younger, why couldn't I be like that? If something he said upset me, I was immediately labeled a "drama queen" and taunted for it relentlessly by him. For he was perfect and therefore could not hurt anyone in any way. He begged for, then demanded money, only to use it up on his manic shopping sprees. He even once or twice took MY money out of my piggy bank, when I had close to $100 saved up (my allowance, by the way, was $2).

My mom didn't help matters much. He had his claws even deeper in her than he did in me, and it showed. She would force me to see him, give him (an obviously mentally-unstable, sometimes violent person) hours alone with me, force me to see him in the hospital (on the grounds that "it would tear him apart if I didn't, and it would only be a little while anyway"), as if I MYSELF was his medicine. She was dead-set on cleaning up every single mess, and when she inevitably failed, I had to step in and help. He was especially good at pushing her buttons, and they would get into terrifying screaming matches—he threw things at her, too, and even smashed a family heirloom. Whenever I tried to confront my mom, out would come the excuses: "He's sick, sweety, try to be more understanding." As if his problems were thanks to my inability to be perfect. He threw things at me, too, and did things like yanking hard on my arm. Luckily, it didn't go farther than that, at least physically. But he wasn't the only issue.

Family friends were going through a divorce, too. Actually, looking in, the mother was fairly emotionally dysregulated, and the father was just horrible. The father was violent, and the mother would scream. I was friends with their kid, who became my "boyfriend" early on (at like 8 or 9 years old). He desperately needed to talk to someone, and that someone became me. His parents were playing tug-o-war, and he was the rope. I don't know when exactly he started in on me, asking for sexual favors, but neither of us were more than 9. I dreaded seeing him, because he would always make me go to his room, and start pressuring me for kisses and sex. When he was pressuring, he would act so sweet and understanding, but that sweetness would dissolve in public, where he acted like I was worthless and annoying. He bullied me, not like calling me names (the main bullies took care of that at school), but instead by isolating me from him—he didn't want to be associated with the school looser. I wasn't about to give up on him, though, because he was all I had. I literally had NO FRIENDS AT ALL.

Things are finally better, now that I'm in high school. I've finally figured out that I'm not responsible for my dad’s moods, and that I have no control over him. Therapy helps, as does the fact that he's in self-imposed exile from me, waiting for me to call up and grovel to him (he's not talking to me because I got angry at him because he blew me off for a whole week and then acted like there was nothing wrong with it, and I dared to suggest that there was).

I'm not going to call up and grovel, and I can only hope that his massive ego holds out and he doesn't call before I can convince my mom (or, more likely, find outside help) to do something to stop him from coming back when the impulse hits him. My mom is better. She's gotten over some of her denial, too, and has admitted that she didn't do the right thing, although she still holds that she had no other choice. I still have things to work out, like my issues with trusting people, but I'm better than I was. For the first time in my life, I've tasted contentment, and I can be thankful for it (and deal with the bitter taste of my fear of my dad).

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