Personal Narrative: Child Abuse

he foundation of my personal hell was laid that day. I was in absolute terror for the remains five minutes of the trip to my house. I slowly reached for the handle to the car door, but my hand was trembling so badly I missed the handle on my first attempt. The calm tone of my father’s voice was in dissonance with the anger he outwardly displayed. He told me to go straight to the basement and wait for his arrival. I heard my father speaking to my sister in hushed tones. In order to understanding of what they were discussing it was necessary for me to get closer to the two of them, but I only dared to venture to the third step from the bottom. I was close enough to hear what they were saying from that distance while also being close enough to

I figured nothing would happen; she didn’t believe me when I tried to tell her that he really meant it when he said he was going to beat the hell out of me. In her defense, I’m sure the number of child abuse cases that involve the child of a retired police officer and child protective services caseworker are finite at best. She directed me to sit in a metal folding chair across from her desk. Once I was seated I looked up to speak to her and saw the look of horror on her face before she could disguise it. The state law required my injuries be documented; the assistant nurse was my friend’s mother. I closed my eyes as she took pictures of the bruises around my neck, on my back, and my black eye. The second time she documented the injuries was after my father broke a wooden baseball bat on my

Following the first instance, I was only out of my home for a week. The other one required a short stint as a foster child and a longer placement in a group home. Even though my mother’s previous employment entailed being responsible for the safety of abused children, she neglected to protect me. Countless professionals told her that my refusing to return to that environment was the healthiest response to the abuse, she continued to rely on the advice of a psychologist that I never met.

One of the few skills my mother acknowledges my expertise and proficiency in is my ability to act. After all, I’ve been perfecting it for as long as I can remember. In public, I’ve always had to portray myself as a child who adored their parents. I read a piece that I wrote at my father’s funeral. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. I didn’t want to lie about my father, but I also didn’t want to take away from the positive things that my father accomplished. So, I described the way my father behaved until the day after fifth grade