Inside My Pain

My father divorced my mother when she was 5 months pregnant with me. I only saw him a few times throughout my young life. At the age of 12, I went to live with him, my step mother and their 1 year old daughter. 

After only being there a few days, 

I realized he was an abusive drunk. I was not even permitted to eat when I was hungry, and would get hit when I did. I was allowed to eat when he told me I could. 

Keep in mind, I was a straight A student in school. Honor roll, Beta Club, Honor Society, all that. The worst thing I ever did was leave my light on at night after falling asleep reading a book. But my father always found a reason to beat me. It was if he took delight, even pleasure, in it. 

I remember being held against the wall, my feet dangling off the ground, by his hand around my neck. Why? Because I had not washed the dishes well enough. I still vividly recall the horrid smell of his breath as he told me he couldn't stand the sight of me. 

I found no love from my step mother, either. She couldn't bear to even be in the same room with me. I began to despise myself. I couldn't understand why they hated me so much. It had to be because I was a horrible child. I would soon learn why they hated me. I will save that for another blog post. Another glimpse inside my pain...