Growing Up in an Abusive Household

Where does it start? When does it end?

I’ve always read stories from other survivors, wondering how they have healed — or have they healed? Just when I think I have left my abuse behind, something reminds me and I start all over again. My story began the moment I was born. I was born into a large family. My parents secretly married when my mother was in high school because she was pregnant. They eventually had six children, with me being number five. My siblings are very spread out, which created isolation for my brother and me who are the youngest. One of my first memories was when I was three, watching my father beat my mother. He broke her nose. I remember blood all over our kitchen — so much blood. My sister, who was only 15 at the time, drove to my grandparents’ house to get help. My paternal grandparents arrived to assist. My grandmother cleaned up the blood and gave my mother ice, telling her that she needed to be careful not to make my father mad. Of course, my mother didn’t seek medical assistance. The endless cycle began. There are so many stories just like this one. But I don’t need to rehash them all just to explain to you that violence was normal in my home. So was fear. None of us felt free to talk about anything with our parents. We all knew that the tone of our entire house relied on my father’s moods. And we all knew better than to incite his anger. One of my older sisters received the worst of the beatings, because she never backed down. She ran away from home when she was a teenager. She made it to my maternal grandmother’s house. However, my grandmother had to tell my parents where she was. I remember my father pulling my sister from the car by her hair and dragging her through the house. She was hit with a belt, punched, slapped, kicked, and even stepped on. That was just one of the many beatings she took over the years.

We all knew that the tone of our entire house relied on my father’s moods. And we all knew better than to incite his anger.

My physical abuse started when I was a teenager. The first time my father hurt me it was because of my mother. I had received a low grade in a class. My mother was furious. She raised her hand to hit me, and I blocked her with my arm. She became furious, and told me to wait for my father. He came to my room and without giving me the option of speaking, threw me on the bed. He then took my head by my hair and beat my head against the windowsill. I blacked out on the second blow. I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but I could tell the sun was in a different location when I awoke. Neither parent checked on me. I stayed in my room the rest of the night, terrified to leave. I could have been dead and no one would have known. I was very angry at my mother for years. I blamed her because she didn’t protect me, and I also blamed her because she sometimes led us to slaughter like little lambs. I didn’t  realize until I was grown that she was a victim herself. A victim of manipulation, fear, pain, and violence. She sometimes sacrificed us to avoid the violence herself. And although as a mother now myself, I don’t understand how she could do that, I also believe she did the best she could at the time.I don’t know how any of us survived our childhood years. We were constantly criticized, verbally abused, and beaten. I was told I was stupid. My father’s nickname for me was “Fluff” because he said that’s what my brain contained. I was always a good student, but when I received a C on a college midterm, I remember him saying that he always knew I was stupid. He was also abusive to our pets. I didn’t realize all that he had done until my sister’s funeral. My siblings and I began comparing stories, realizing that the compilation of his abuse was much more insidious than any of us knew. At the time it was happening, I didn’t realize I was a victim of abuse. I thought this behavior was normal. I didn’t know that men don’t always abuse until I met my current husband. But to find him, there was still so much I had to go through. Through the years, I learned that my father had sexually abused at least one of my sisters and that he was a very sick man in many ways. How did I survive? I can tell you that part of me didn’t. I lost a sister because of his abuse, and I lost my innocence. Actually, I never had that to begin with. I grew up knowing how to speak quietly, apologize, placate, and make peace. I never experienced a true childhood. Instead, I knew anger, manipulation, mind games, and pain. The abuse didn’t end with my father. I seemed to seek out abusers in my adult relationships. But through it all, I persevered. Some of my siblings couldn’t. I dedicate my life now to helping survivors, and that gives me focus. I am now middle-aged, and use my experiences to lead my compassion for others. The truth is I even have compassion for my father. He has been dead for over 15 years, and I don’t hate him any longer. To hate him would take up too much time. I understand he was ill. I understand that he made choices he wished he could take back. And I understand that I can let him go.