Haunted ChildhoodMy father was loving, funny, and kind to me rarely. He'd allow other adults to talk him into hitting me or being mean, acting as though the nice treatment had been a form of me taking advantage of him.? Often he was kind of "wising up" and treating me lousy emotionally, physically, and mentally, which was what i really deserved. the nice treatment had been him being weak and "too nice".
I am 26 now, female. My mother played no role in my life before I turned 18. She contacted me and convinced me to meet her. Upon doing so, I met a drugged up, washed up, alcoholic, 41 year old teenage girl. She subsequently committed suicide. i didn't go to either parent's funeral. i was brought up overly strictly in general and my father was a rage-a-holic who would get so "nerved up" by me that he would slap me all the time, on the face, head, arms, back, legs, anywhere he could reach in rage. My hair was pulled or he'd pinch the back of my neck hard. I was made to kneel on raw cornmeal grits for hours into the night as punishment. Or stand with my nose in the corner for hours in high school as punishment for a bad grade.
Children had no rights in the world i grew up in and i was laughed at derisively all the time. my father was a sadistic abusive alcoholic jerk who loved to bait and torment his girlfriends emotionally, then would hit me for being inadequate. their constant fighting, drug use, and my father's rages when he left for work every morning, and came home in the evenings, from as early as i can remember, kept me in a constant state of fear. When i heard his truck pull into the driveway i instantly ran to my room and hid. adults and other kids would make fun of me for being so "nervous" - a child was supposed to be happy and carefree all the time.
He would throw around pots and pans very violently most mornings, sometimes at me, which was terrifying. he would laugh scornfully at me when I cried or showed signs that I was hurting. He threw things and screamed so hard that he would lose his voice some days. as a tiny toddler i was supposed to not have any reaction to this. sometimes he would lock me out so he could rage in peace, if that makes any sense. He would continue raging till he was exhausted, then take a nap and act like nothing had happened. i remember walking up and down the street while being terrified that i was locked out and that he was out of his mind back at home.
I felt utterly alone. finally one night when i was 16, i just ran away and went to a friend's house. I was so afraid of him finding me.. But he never came searching. my friend, who had witnessed my father's rage when she came over sometimes, immediately knew why i had shown up at her door, and i was terribly embarrassed by her pity. i tend to go off on tangents so i will now skip to the present for a moment.
I suffer from depression and anxiety and am on no medication. i've been in therapy but there's something about the rigid mindset i was raised in that keeps making me think i have no right to "complain" about anything that happened to me because other kids had it so much worse. which is true, but i'm suffering so much, and have all my life.
In my teen years, the abuse had been plenty bad enough to bring me to the brink of suicide. I used to sit on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night and quietly slash my arms and legs up. Or hold my breath til I got dizzy. i started developing physically way too young and would get leers from the men in my neighborhood as my 7 year old self walked down the street.
One night, when i was around 13, my father was so angry (drunk) that he picked me up off the ground with one hand, his huge fist around my tiny neck, and effortlessly tossed me across the room. I landed far away on the dining room table, and rolled onto the floor. I was always made to clean my own blood off the carpet. if you asked my dad, he would say i had a very wholesome upbringing with wholesome people around. anyone who was catholic like us was to be trusted implicitly.
In actuality, we were so poor (i wasn't allowed to refer to us as poor) that our neighborhood was very borderline as far as being safe. We sometimes had no electricity or running water. My father would spend all his winnings (prize-fighting) on drugs, and force me to go with him to steal food.
I would walk to school a long way, sometimes i don't think it was light out yet, wearing a thin little skirt, inadequate coat, and cheap knee socks that would fall down to my ankles after the first washing. i could have been grabbed or murdered a hundred times over on my way to school but my father had this huge denial system going on. He had to believe i was safe in the environment he could afford. i was just a tiny child with no rights about what was being done to me, so I remained a silent shell of a girl. Being picked up by the throat by a raging, spitting, monster can really stay with a person.