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So many
things are going through my mind right now, like a million voices all wanting
to talk about their life experience. Almost like having a million personalities
all talking at once, wanting to tell their own stories.
I’ll
try to keep it simple for now, and maybe sit down and write out my entire abuse
case to you later. As I’ve never seen a shrink for it, so, I guess I need an
outlet for the last 32 years I’ve kept it to myself.
Over
the years I’ve realized that there are different types of abused people, and
the different outcomes of those abuses. The three major ones are physical,
mental and verbal. Of which all three I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing.
Some people walk away from these abuses with better knowledge of them, and some
go to the exact extreme and want to punish the world for the pain they had to
suffer.
As far
back as I can remember (lots of black holes that I think my brain has purposely
blocked out for my sanity) my parents and grandmother abused me in all three
ways.
My
father would come home every night and just beat us for whatever reason he had.
We just got used to the routine. During the day my mother would beat us for
some of the stupidest things.
On top
of our refrigerator, we had a stack of lumber that my father would bring home
from work that was used as beating utensils. My father went as far as to create
his own types of paddles. One had holes in it, so it would cut through the air
faster. One had small nails in it, pushed through just enough to puncture the
skin, but not cause bleeding.
He even
had one that he could beat my brother and me at the same time standing side by
side.
Looking
back now, I realize that our beatings were extreme. But growing up, I believed
that all kids must go through this.
My
parents wouldn’t hit you with your clothes on; they wanted to make sure that
you got the message. So we would have to strip down naked.
One
particular beating that I remember the most was the time that our parents
locked us in our room, and beat us night and day for 4 days. They would take
turns. And it was all because my brother ate one spoonful of ice cream while
they were at the store. We were so bruised that we couldn’t sit or lay on our
backs for a good week.
Over
the years, my parents would invent new things to punish us. My mother would
give us tablespoons of Tabasco and make us sit in the corner. Or sit us down
with a jar of jalapeños and make us eat them till they decided we had enough.
My
father even knocked some of my teeth out over the years. I’ve also been thrown into walls, almost through, but not quite.
Choked
till I almost passed out, luckily at that time my mother had enough sense to
realize that my father was about to kill me to stop him. And ended up with a
broken nose for stepping in.
I could
keep going, but that is enough for now.
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