I was responsible for so much at such a young age. By eight years old, I was able to make a pot of coffee. By ten years old, I was able to make dinner and by twelve I was able to use the oven and cook full meals. I was the “Mother Hen” to my younger siblings, and I remember taking pride in that, as older family members saw me as an obedient child. I could change diapers, bathe the littles, make sure they had something to eat, on top of doing my homework, doing chores, and the “other” stuff that was going on. Honestly, I really didnt mind this part. I enjoyed taking care of my siblings, and doing my best to make sure that chores got done, and homework was finished. I made dinner most nights because my dad worked.
Eventually another woman would come into the picture. We’ll call her Daisy. She was a babysitter at one point when we were living with DB. I think Daisy used to work with my dad when he did security at the hotel, she was the receptionist, I think. She’d start dating my dad, I believe I was around ten, because Daisy is ten years older than me. She was beautiful, bright, she was so nice to us, and she knew how DB treated us. Daisy was the fun adult we needed at that young age. She loved us like her own… I mention this because things would change over the years.
My dad raised me that actions have consequences, things will be easier if you just tell the truth. That anything he did was because he loved us. How many of us has really heard this growing up, but it was not twisted. Now, since I was very young, I have always believed in God. I didn’t grow up going to church or learning about Jesus Christ. I’ve always just had this in me. I always knew there was “more”, but I didn’t know how to find it. I know now that it was a seed planted from a very young age, and that God truly had a hand in my life, and I’ll elaborate more later.
If dishes were not cleaned properly, or if one dish had a small speck of food, all the dishes would have to be rewashed. If dinner wasn’t done exactly to my dad’s liking, if one hair was found on the plate, or if something as simple as the wrong sauce was placed on the plate, my dad would get angry, call me an idiot, and throw the plate of food across the room. It would hit a wall, a door, ME… It would shatter everywhere, and while my dad would either be sitting on the couch berating me, calling me incompetent, or just nasty comments in general.
it was my fault he threw the plate and wasted food. I would have to clean it up, and he would just sit there like nothing happened, while I felt horrible, crying my eyes out. I’m a silent crier, I learned at a very young age that crying was a weakness, and I would try so hard not to let him see me cry. The tears would just flow, as I’m scrubbing the floor and preparing another plate. I wouldn’t eat most nights because there was wasted food, and my younger siblings needed to eat. I was between twelve and fourteen when this started… there is so much, and it was such an everyday thing, that honestly, the ages just blur together. Like I said, this was my “normal” for a long time.
If my younger sister and I were to get in trouble, and my dad couldn’t get a straight answer from us, one of his favorite things to do was bang our heads together. He would threaten “I’m going to crack you heads together if you…” and it was a continuous occurrence, not every day, but often. I can still hear the sound of my skull crashing against my sisters, probably the reason for my migraines. He would also use the belt, (from a young age to late teens). I would be bent over the bed, bare butt, and he would whip me several times with his belt. A couple times his buckle would made contact. I would be so red and exhausted by the time it was over, and if I screamed, or “made a scene” it was worse. I would have to walk up the stairs to my room and lay on my stomach with nothing but a light sheet. I would be bruised for a few days.
When I got older, he would start back handing me, slapping and punching me. I would have large handprints covering one side of my face. He split my lip, several times. I had a bruised eye, because he’d hit me so hard, open handed, closed fist, it didn’t matter. He was quick with it to, so I wouldn’t realize I was hit until I felt the pain. It would happen so much I started to expect it. I would brace for it. He hit me so hard I’d fall on the floor, and I would have to stay down; or my head would snap to the side so fast. I’d eventually just get so used to it, that when he hit me and my head turned, I’d turn back slowly, and be so angry. I hated him when he was physically abusive, because he wouldn’t stop unless he was tired, or I was crying. I am an angry crier also, so again, I’d be so angry, I can’t fight back, I can’t say anything to defend myself, just take the verbal and physical abuse, and then the tears would start flowing uncontrollably, he would stare at me until he saw me cry. Then I would ask permission to go to my room, or to use the bathroom. He would almost always dismiss me after.
I would go to the bathroom, to relieve myself because I’d be so scared, and my adrenaline would be so high. The fight or flight mode would be active, and so many times I wanted to fight back… so many times I wish I wasn’t so afraid of him, but my dad would have been able to kill me easily, if he wanted to. He was big, strong, and relentless when he would punch someone, I’ve seen him fight his brother, several times. Anyway, when I went to the bathroom, I’d clean up, take a cool rag, gently wash my face. I would inspect my bruises, and just cry.
I would cry so hard at this disgusting thing looking back at me. My lip would be swollen and bloody. My face would be so red, and my eyes puffy from crying. I was pitiful. I felt pathetic. I hated myself so much for allowing him to make me his punching bag. It wasn’t always my face either. I’d have bruises on my wrists, upper arms, thighs, ribs… everywhere. It depended on how defiant I was being with him, as most of the physical abuse was because I was denying him sexually.
As I said, he would accuse me of sleeping around. Call me a whore, and all kinds of derogatory names. As I got older it was worse. I’m about sixteen when this would start. I hated looking at myself in the mirror for the longest time. I had real bad body image issues, and I always felt, no matter what I wore, if I wore something that showed to much skin, I was looking for attention. Even now, I am more comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt. I am not comfortable in causal/business/formal clothes at all.
A few hours would pass, and my dad would want to talk to me, to apologize for what occurred. He’d have me sit in his lap, as he would tell me that it was all my fault that he reacted the way he did. That he didn’t mean to hit me so hard, and he would ALWAYS apologize with “I’m sorry, I love you, it won’t happen again” or some form of that. Meanwhile, I would feel like I needed to apologize for everything, even if it wasn’t my fault, or wasn’t something I needed to apologize for, I would. I still do. It’s been better these last few years, as Jesus continues to heal me, but I STILL catch myself apologizing for things I don’t need to. And it’s nothing anybody around me did… I actually get told NOT to apologize, because I do it so much… I don’t mean to; most times I won’t realize I apologize until someone points it out to me.
One time, I don’t remember exactly what I did, but my dad had me bent backwards at the kitchen sink, holding my wrist, and a lighter to my hand. It was lit, and he was threatening to burn my finger. I was so scared, I started screaming out of fear. He smacked me in my face and told me to shut up, because I was making too much noise, and that I was trying to get the neighbors attention. All I could do was whimper and pray he wouldn’t set my hand on fire.
Another time, I was in bed; as I mentioned, my sister and I shared bunk beds, I had the top and she had the bottom. It was dark, and no light was coming through the window at the time. I had a bottle of “girly” perfume, and I don’t know why, and I wasn’t trying to hurt my sister, but I sprayed the perfume in her direction, and she started screaming bloody murder. I had accidently sprayed her in the eyes, and I really, truly didn’t mean for it to get in her eyes. I still feel bad about that.
My dad came in, and figured out what happened, Daisy took my sister to the bathroom, to rinse her eyes out, and my father dragged me out of the bunk by my hair. I landed hard on the floor, and he pulled me back up and was pushing and beating me all around the room, and it was a small room, so I couldn’t even try to get away. I didn’t go to school for a few days, he beat me so bad… It was horrible. He didn’t even give me an opportunity to apologize to my sister. He dragged me to the bathroom where she was, “to see what I had done” as he had me by the hair, shoving my all around, and pushing me into the counter. I had bruises for a few weeks. Had some hair torn out… cuts and scratches, and welts. Of course he apologized for that also, said it wouldn’t happen again… until the last time…
Daisy moved in with us, around this time, I think. My dad never really abused us in front of her, this is probably the earliest account she witnessed. When I was twelve, Daisy took me to get my ears pierced for my birthday. It was something I really wanted, and I didn’t really get much on my birthday as it was so close to Thanksgiving, we would end up celebrating it then, or my dad would get the days mixed up… I had some good birthdays, and (my childhood) wasn’t always horrible, there were some good memories, which makes this more heartbreaking for me… Anyway, when Daisy told me dad, he was furious. I didn’t see the big deal; it was something nice someone did for me. My dad was so mad, it’s like a switch went off in his head. He punched Daisy, she went down on the floor, and he grabbed her by her hair and started dragging her across the floor. I’m trying to get my dad off of her, pleading for him to stop. He pushes me off him, and Daisy yells for me to go and stay in my room. Which I did. He dragged her down the hallway, to their back bedroom, slammed the door and I heard him beating her. She was screaming, saying she was sorry, begging him to stop…
This was the first time I’ve ever seen him do this to someone else. I don’t think he even did this to DB. He would abuse Daisy off and on, and it was a typical abusive relationship between them. She would leave, he’d apologize, give her gifts, tell her it wouldn’t happen again, beg her to come back to him.
I remember Daisy left for a little bit. I had started to care deeply for her, she was something I haven’t had in a long time… she genuinely cared about us. My dad was so depressed, and sad, and he missed her… said he loved her. I remember him sitting on the couch crying, sobbing. I’m standing in front of him, consoling him… (I’m still in my early teens) somehow, he convinces me to call her and talk her into coming back. Him making promises to her, that I am relaying. I remember feeling like I didn’t want to do this, I was lying to her, and I felt bad. He knew it too. In his sick mind, she’d come back because she cared for us, because we were basically best friends, she would come back, for me. For my sister… I was extremely mature for my age. Brought into things a child has no business being a part of.
She came back. They would eventually get married. She would become my stepmom, give me too little sisters… and she had (and still does) a spot in my heart. She would also be abused physically by my dad, and he would eventually bring her in on the sexual abuse, like he did DB…
There is still so much for this time period, I don’t want to seem like I’m rambling. I’ll post again soon.