All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Based On A True Story
At the time, I didn’t know what was going on. I thought that it was normal for a parent to treat a child like she was little less than nothing. I thought it was okay that at every chance he got, my father would pick me up and throw me against the fireplace.
But it was not just me. My father used to beat my brother when he made even the smallest mistake during piano practice that my brother would teach himself. He would throw poor Maxie, who at the time was about 4 and one half years old, down the stairs just so he could go and terrorize my mother in the kitchen.
This is the true story of the life of a little girl. If you think it is fake, I only wish it was.
My father stood about 5’11” but very strong and powerful. He knew all of our weaknesses, and he knew how to break our strengths. He would intentionally hurt our entire family just to get his pleasure. He would never try to apologize. Every day when he would come home, he would slam the door behind him, and shout something to my mother in the kitchen. She, of course, not wanting to get hurt, would do whatever silly task he would ask of her. The things that he would make her do were countless. Things that he could have done for himself. For example, he would have her take his shoes off hand shine them every day (kind of Cinderella-like.) He would also beat my dog because he thought it was funny to watch her whimper in pain. Nobody could escape the anger of this man.
I did not consider him to be my father, just some man that was living in my house that would eventually leave and let us be a peaceful, normal, and happy family. But little did I know that that dream would not come true for at least another 12 years.
When my mother broke her leg, I was scared out of my wits that I could be home with my brother and my dad. Luckily, my across-the-street neighbors knew about my father and how he abused and scared everybody in our household. They said that they would take me and my brother in their home for the time that my mother was at the hospital. No matter how long it may be. For about 3 months, I was not allowed home in fear that I would be killed. At the time, I did not know the neighbors, and I did not know that I would learn to trust them, and that I would come to know them as my second family.
They were my saviors. Literally. My dad did not dare come to hurt me there, or hurt any of them. The father was about 7’4” and could snap him in half, and my father knew it.
When my mother came home from the hospital, but was still not fully recovered, I was allowed back at my own house. As soon as I saw my mom, I started to cry in happiness. I ran up to her and gave her the biggest hug that a 3 and a half year old could hug (which is about the length of one adult leg.)
When my mother was better we decided that to celebrate her good health, we would all go down to her old college for the alumni party. We all thought it was a good idea. At the time.
In the car ride there, my father would turn around and yell at us for no reason at all. If I knew then, I would have immediately told my mother to turn the car around and go back home. At this point, I was about 4 years old but still completely oblivious to what my father was doing to our family. As soon as we got there, we were all hungry, so we went to the food court to get bagels and cookies. I never knew, nor will ever know what irked him on to do this, but when I had asked my father for a cookie (twice) because my mother was paying for her bagel, he picked me up, took me by my ankles, and smashed my head on one of the circular wooden tables.
The other people who saw it were crying, some dialing 9-1-1. But all were shocked.
“Oh my God!!” one lady shrieked.
“What just happened? Did anybody see what just happened?” another lady had just entered the room.
“Sweetie, are you alright? What happened?” she knew very well what just happened. My mother was talking to me in a very serene tone; like nothing just happened.
“Somebody bring her to the hospital!! She’s gonna die!”
One lady from the crowd of people offered to take me and my mother to the hospital. Three men helped me into a dark blue mini-van. I was half-conscious.
Not even half-way through the car ride I was already knocked out by the loss of blood coming out of my head.
The next I knew, I could not breathe and I was in a stranger’s car with my mother by my side, on the way to the hospital. My head had split almost perfectly in half down the middle of my skull, and the next I knew I was in the intensive care unit. They were going to staple my head together. It was (call me dramatic) the only way to save my life. I stayed in the hospital, my mother still by my side every second, for 1 day after I got the staples. My “get better” medicine was a teddy bear, half red, and half blue with the newly found name -- kitty-bear (I did not know if one side was a kitty or it was bear.) And a whole lot of Elmo and Cookie Monster stickers.
Needless to say, the stickers and kitty-bear did not help the pain. I had extreme head-aches and pains in the back of my head. Luckily, my mother let me stay in bed and rest for about 2 days. That was all I needed to get better, plus some Tylenol. After that, I was fine.
But it did not stop with the incident at my mother’s college. Weeks later “daddy” would try to drown me in my own bath water, or hit my head against the hearth numerous times. Everybody said that my father was horrible -- that they had lost all of their childhood, or happiness. While I was stuck saying that I had lost at least 7% of my blood supply in the first year of abuse.
In the end of this story, there is not happy ending for the little girl. Her father and mother separate for obvious reasoning, and the girl lives her life to the fullest.
WHATEVER DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU
Today the girl is growing up and living just like any other girl out here with one parent. She has indeed tried multiple times to make contact with her father, but has not succeeded. Her father has just recently been fired out of his job as a lawyer. He has also found a new family. We do not know if he is happy with his life. But let’s hope he is.
The little girl is happy with her life, and is living it to the fullest.
There has been a lot of pain, scars, blood, and tears. But there have also been some changes for the better. And no. This story gets no “and they lived happily ever after.” This is real life. Real time. This is based on a true story.