I never told anyone about my father’s mental, verbal, and physical abuse towards me. I didn’t think anybody would care. I felt alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Going through life having to deal with the darkness of my past was the last thing I wanted to do. My dad told me that he hit me only to teach me a lesson, but exactly what lesson was he teaching me? The only thing he taught me was to fear him, and fear my childhood. I’ve made amends with my past, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a problem thinking about it, or even talking about it. It just means that I’ve learned how to deal with it.

“Get your ass in here, now!” My father’s husky voice sends chills down my spine.

“What did I do?” I said trying to sound innocent. Usually that got me out of trouble, but not this time. He grabbed me by my arm and pulled me into my bedroom, slamming the door shut. I was already crying, and was instantly overwhelmed. I didn’t even know what was going on. He grabbed me by my shirt and threw me against my bed. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t even keep up with what was happening.

“Who do you think you are spitting in people’s faces?” He glared at me, and I couldn’t help but notice how red his eyes were. It was like I was looking at the devil.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!” I cried out to him. Being only four years old, I figured he would understand and accept my sincere apology. I know spitting in my grandpa’s face was wrong, but again, I was only four years old. I didn’t know any better.

“Bull s***! Now turn around!” I jumped as his loud voice rang in my ears.

Quickly, I turned around and put my hands on the edge of the bed. All I could think about was what he was going to do to me. I heard him open up the closet door, and became curious. I slowly turned around to look at him.

“Turn around!” he yelled.

I did as I was told, fearing he would get even more angry. I started to accept the fact that I was completely defenseless against him. I was only four years old, and he was 30 years old, and 30 times bigger. I started to cry even more.

“You better cut it out with those tears boy. This will only take a minute.”

What will only take a minute? I thought. Suddenly, I felt an excruciating sting on my back. I looked up at the window above the bed to see his reflection. He had his belt, and was hitting my back with it. I began to scream, hoping somebody would come in the room and save me. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Finally, what only took a minute, but felt like 100 minutes, it was over. I laid on the floor, curled up with tears pouring down my face. My dad had left the room, leaving me to cry.

I passed out on the floor for a good two hours. I woke up, but was too scared to even get up off the floor. For about fifteen minutes, I stared at the bedroom door, wondering where my Dad was. Somehow I got the courage to even dare stand up. I walked to the door and stood on my tippy toes to reach the door knob. I slowly opened the door, and walked out into the hallway. I kept hearing my brother’s voice, and began to follow it, hoping he would be able to help me. Even though he was only six, I always thought he would be able to protect me no matter what. Finally I found him sitting in the living room, right next to my dad. My dad looked at me with a fake smile.

“Come here and watch cartoons with us, son.” His voice sounded soft and nice, but with the look he gave me, I already knew what he was thinking. He didn’t want me to tell my brother anything about what had just happened. I walked to the center of the living room, sat on the floor, and joined them with some cartoon time.

I could feel the tears approaching my tear ducts, and I tried my hardest to keep them in. If I started crying, my brother would ask me what was wrong, and I would have to lie. But that would just make me cry even harder. I couldn’t take it anymore; I slowly began to let tears out one by one.


I’m now sixteen years old, and I recently just talked to my father on the phone. Of course he left the state to avoid supporting his kids, but I’m just surprised he had the guts to call me. Every time me and him talked about what happened, he always says the same thing; “I did it to teach you a lesson”. Some times I wonder what went through his mind when he beat me with his belt. When you’re only four years old, and you spit in someone’s face, a simple “Don’t do that ever again, that’s very bad!” would’ve taught me to not do it again. Beating me until my entire body is covered with bruises will only teach me one thing; how to be afraid. I spent half of my childhood being scared that my dad would show up somewhere and randomly start beating me again.

Physical abuse will never teach kids how to not do certain things because it’s “bad to do”. It will just teach them to not do it because they know they’ll get beaten if they do it. That is not the way a child should think. Having to live in fear of their own father or mother is the last thing they should be doing. The only thing children should be scared of is the “evil monster” living under their bed. That’s normal, but when a child’s biggest fear is their parent(s), that will ultimately ruin their childhood and possibly their entire life. As a kid, they will fear their parent, as a teenager, they will begin to hate and rebel against them, but not only will they rebel against their parent, they will usually rebel against everybody that tries to become close to them.

Physical, mental and verbal abuse should never be used on kids, no matter what the circumstances are. The word “abuse” should not even be in a parent’s vocabulary.

The only good outcome for victims of child abuse is that they usually become great parents in the future. For example, due to the abuse I experienced as a little kid have affected the way I treat other kids. I am protective, nurturing and very playful with little kids. My family always tells me that I’m going to be a great father, because I’m going to give my kids the love and support I didn’t receive from my father. I don’t hate my dad at all for what he did to me, because he only made me stronger. Getting beaten by the guy I thought I could always trust and love no matter what is definitely the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I learned how to get over it and deal with it, which is why I don’t have a problem sharing my story with people.

Back in the late 60’s/early 70’s, it seemed to be okay to beat your kids. My mom told me that when she grew up, parents would beat their kids in public, and nobody would say a thing. Today, it’s a big deal to witness a child getting beaten. What suddenly changed society’s mind about child abuse? What happened that made the country finally realize that it’s bad. It makes me angry that only up until the 80’s child abuse was thought to be a bad thing. It should have always been considered a bad thing. Childhood should be filled with the best memories of a person’s life, not the worst. Every child deserves to be happy, no matter the mistakes they make. They will make more mistakes, and they will learn lessons on their own. No child needs to be beaten with a belt, thrown against a wall, pushed down the stairs, or any of the things that some parents do to “teach them”. I don’t want people feeling bad for me at all, that is the last thing I think about. Most people who haven’t experienced child abuse themselves just know that child abuse is bad, but they don’t ever understand how much it really affects kids.