Abuse

Child abuse does not go away but ninety percent of child abuse is preventable, so why was mine not? I found myself asking this more and more. Questions filled my mind, “why does he not love me, what am I doing wrong, will this ever end?” I began to realize I was only an object in the eyes of my father.

As soon as I heard the door of the Bronco shut, I was up out of bed sitting in the closet with my blanket and baby doll. The ostrich cowboy boots crept on the floor outside the closet door. Pop! A hand hit my mom’s face. Daddy was home and he was drunk. I squeezed my doll as hard as I could, praying he would not hear my cries. The sound of whimpering and obscure Spanish filled my ears. Oh, how I dearly wanted to scream mommy, but she told me that the quiet game started once I went into the closet. I did not want to disappoint her so I sat there for hours listening to the cries, grunts, and yells right outside the door. Footsteps moved closer. Guess who was next.

I began to become like a rag doll to my father. One day at the pool, my dad threw me in the water and watched me struggle to stay afloat while holding my mom back and laughing. This pattern of abuse continued for the years to come until one day it was taken too far. My dad held me up in the air at gun point. My four year old body dangling in the air, trembling with fear hoping my mom would save me. Why was my dad doing this, why did he not love me?

One night while my dad was out drinking, my mom packed up all our belongings in the car and off we went. We ended up moving into a trailer across the street from my grandparents in the middle of nowhere. My mom and I camped out in the back room for days at a time. She would send me into the kitchen at the other end of the house on my tricycle to fill up a basket with food for the next few days. She would make me a list and I would ride as fast as I could into the kitchen. I would get everything on the list, throw it in a basket, and hurry back to my mom. I...