Somewhere around third grade, I sat crisscross on the checkered multi-colored rug in my basement Sunday school room. The teachers were about to take offering, but first, one of them sat on the kid-sized bench in front of us and explained what we were donating the money to. She explained that the money was going to an organization that helped abused children. “Some kids don’t have nice mommy’s and daddy’s,” she said. 

Sitting there on that rug, listening to her explain to my peers what an abused child was, I thought, “Little do they know, I am one of those kids.” (Yes, I actually used the phrase “little do they know.” I guess I was always destined to be an English major).

In my adult years, I have felt resentment that I was spoken to about abuse as a child, but I was never once asked if I felt safe and loved at home, but now I realize that if I had been asked, I don’t know what I would have said. I’m sure I would have downplayed it or excused my dad’s behavior in some way. I knew the way my dad acted wasn’t okay. I knew that other dads didn’t come home from work screaming at their wives, and other kids didn’t hide when their dad got home, but telling people or asking for help wasn’t a thing because the unspoken rule was that we sweep it under the rug. It’s strange to me now that I identified myself as an abuse victim way back then because our excuse for his behavior was that he didn’t hit us. Hitting was the only thing that qualified back then. Nowadays, we know so much more.

It wasn’t until college that I truly accepted that I was raised by an abusive father. Now I’m on this path of healing, and it’s scary. I can’t help but wonder who I would be if I didn’t have to do this, if I didn’t have to deal with the repercussions of his actions every day. There is a version of me in my mind that is free of him and his damage, and I’m jealous of her.