Child Abuse Story of Healing and Recovery From Candace

by Candace
(Bristol, Connecticut, USA)

As a child, I grew up with an abusive father. While enduring it for much of the duration of my childhood, it provoked a great deal of anxiety, depression, and anger. Although I have two younger brothers, the physical abuse was consistently directed toward me. My father displaced the anger he harbored toward my mother onto me. When my mother did something distasteful or bitter to upset him, my father would find fault with anything I did wrong, however trivial it was, and used it as an opportunity to get violent with me. This he termed as "disciplining."

Upon coming home one summer afternoon, my mom saw me dashing out of the house in tears. She needn’t ask what happened; these were common, nearly daily occurrences. Out of all the years I suffered from abuse in front of my mother’s eyes, that day held significance in that she called the police. Threatening to call the police was a tactic I used frequently in hopes that he would realize what he was doing was wrong and would stop. This, however, had the opposite effect. Rather than instilling fear in him, I became fearful of the consequences of making such a phone call. He used my tactic, my only weapon, to manipulate me into believing that calling the police would result in me getting in trouble, in me getting taken away. One day I threatened that I would tell my teacher and he replied that if I did, I would be the one who would get taken away, not him.

It was only a matter of minutes before the police arrived, along with the ambulance. The police officers asked me a series of questions about what happened, while also inspecting the bruises on my arms. I sat in the car and was told not to look behind me as they handcuffed my father.

My mother called the police that day, not out of a genuine concern for me, but with a selfish motive. I was but 11 years old, but I knew. For the past few weeks, my mother had been having an affair with a man she had known since she was a teenager. She knew that calling the police for my father beating me would result in him being removed from the house. He being removed from the house would enable her to have her boyfriend move in. And he did move in, that very night.

After his arrest, my father’s side of the family held much resentment toward me. My grandmother, a kind and loving woman known to call her grandchildren/children on their birthday’s, did not call me that summer on my birthday. In their eyes, I got him arrested. In his eyes, he was innocent. He persuaded others to believe he never laid a hand on me. It disgusted me how he believed his own lies. My two younger brothers witnessed it on a daily basis, as they often were the first to run out the back door and out of my father’s reach. My mother witnessed it a handful of times, while often interjecting a desperate plea for him to stop. I had a drawer designated for my torn clothes, some of which were my favorite shirts, I could have shown you.

During that summer and the years that followed, I harbored much negative energy. Much of the anger I held toward my father I unconsciously directed toward myself, as I slowly began slipping into a deep depression.

After my father was arrested, a restraining order was put on him, which prevented me from seeing him each weekend as my brothers had. This time spent away from him allowed me to confront the anger and negative energy that was gnawing at me for so long. This process was disrupted when a year after the incident, after my mother’s boyfriend was now out of the picture, she told me she was having my father move back in. My whole body was in a state of shock when she told me. That day will never escape my memory. I knew she was being driven by yet another selfish motive—she missed him. And by allowing him to move back in with us, she showed no regard or concern for how this significant change would impact my emotional well-being. I was 12, and we had recently moved to a new home in Bristol. I was just beginning to see the light out of the abyss—I was becoming more sociable at school and less possessed by social anxiety. I felt happy.

The first night he arrived I hid in my basement frightened, avoiding all interaction with him. Thereafter my fragile emotional state began to collapse; I became more reclusive as my social anxiety re-introduced itself. The physical abuse that I endured for the majority of my early childhood ceased. Although there were instances in which he pushed me against the wall or a dresser, it was by no means comparable in severity to what I experienced before. During the next few years, as my personality began to develop, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities my father and I shared. We’re both on the introverted end of the personality spectrum, while also sharing some of the quirkiest habits. Because of our similar natures, he became someone I emotionally confided in. And at some point during those four years he was with us, sympathy for my father began to bloom. During our interactions, I began to understand and feel the emotional anguish and confusion he experienced and how it provoked him to become violent with me. I saw him through a new set of eyes, as I released the negative feelings and emotions associated with him.

As of yet, I haven’t received an apology, for he does not acknowledge the pain and emotional turmoil he has caused me. He occasionally insinuates his denial of what happened by claiming that everyday there are men who are arrested for things of which they are not guilty. When this occurs, I voice my disapproval by walking out of the room. Despite his denial and disregard, I have forgiven him. But by no means did this occur over night; I learned that forgiveness is a process. My father moving in with us, and thus back into my life, served to facilitate the journey down the long road to forgiveness. As Thich Nhat Hanh wisely says in the Power of Forgiveness, "Forgiveness is not possible until compassion is born in your heart."

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