I’d never underestimate the struggles of being a parent,
because I haven’t yet been one. However, I do believe that no matter the
hardships a person may be obligated to go through with their children, extreme
violence towards that child is unacceptable and unnecessary. It solves nothing;
it only leaves that child to be broken in the end, especially when they
justifiably did nothing wrong.
My
dad isn’t a normal man, but then again, he is. He has no addictions to anything
other than coffee and cigarettes, which wouldn’t give him the powerful outlook
he has on himself. I can see right through him, but I’m unable to determine why
he is the way he is. He honestly believes he’s better than everyone else, and
what he says is right. There’s no talking to him; he may just be the most
stubborn person I ever met, and fully realizing this, I unintentionally stepped
into the beating of a lifetime.
I
wasn’t a good student in my early years of high school. I always attended
class, but what good does that do when you don’t do any work? Anyway, I had an
afterschool commitment that I attended, against my will. I had to go to Grade
Recovery, a program that brought an F on my report card to a D. I wouldn’t
consider Science Leadership Academy to be a normal school, which explains why
on Thursdays we got out of school at 3:50 PM. Grade Recovery started at 4:15
PM, and was over at 5:45 PM. My best friend at the time would always suggest
going to Papa John’s after long advisories and Grade Recovery as a way to cool
off and just hang out. That Thursday, I got home around 7:30 PM, which didn’t
seem to late to me. However, my dad felt differently.
I
came inside and tried to explain to my father why I had been so late, but he
didn’t want to hear any of it. He threw me off though, because his tone of
voice seemed so far from violent. I figured he didn’t mind, so I went upstairs
to my room. I was sitting in a corner on my laptop, playing a game. When I
looked up, I saw my dad. His face was redder than my face would be in a few
minutes. I knew what was coming though, because as he came closer to me, I kept
asking him to calm down. He picked my laptop off my lap and threw it at me. It
hit me in the arm and bounced onto the floor. I was furious, because I didn’t
have $1,000 to fix a laptop that wasn’t even mine, but before I had a chance to
make that clear, he did something I’ll never forgive him for doing.
As
soon as I saw his hand coming for my face, I tried to duck, but he was too
quick for me. He punched me in my left cheek, right below my eye. I could feel
my skin being forced off my face, then coming back to my bones, much like how
it happens in boxing. I was hysterical. I kept trying to get up and leave the
room, and every time I would he would grab my ponytail and throw me backwards to
the floor. My stepmother was in the doorway, watching as if she enjoyed what
she saw.
“If
it were your kids you wouldn’t be standing there watching. You’d be going after
him, making him stop. You’re really just going to stand there and watch this?”
She
had nothing to say. She just shrugged her shoulders as if it were nothing.
Typical evil stepmother move; I felt like Cinderella, except with a father who
was on her side.
I
didn’t care if my hair got ripped right out of my scalp; I was getting out of
that room. I got up again, trying to leave, knowing I’d have to push my
stepmother aside, which would only land me in more trouble. I tried to run, but
this time when my father grabbed my hair, instead of pulling me backwards to
the ground, he pushed me forward towards the steps. My stepmother moved out of
the doorway, as if they’d planned this out precisely for weeks. Although I
almost fell down the stairs, it was better than being in that room.
I
ran down the stairs, looked for my schoolbag, and headed towards the back door.
I saw my little brother sitting in a chair, crying, asking me not to leave.
“I
have to buddy, I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I love you,” I said to
Storm, as I kissed his forehead reassuringly.
I
didn’t have time to put on and tie my shoes, so I decided to skip looking for
them. With my schoolbag and jacket in hand, I ran out the door and through the
cold, muddy yard. I got to the graveyard, which was unfortunately locked. I
didn’t have time to go around, which would give my father time to find me, if
he even tried. I hopped the graveyard fence, and then swerved in and out of
gravestones. When I got to the other side, I climbed over the fence and ran
about 20 feet to my house. I ran inside crying, asking for my mother or brother.
My stepdad said my mother wasn’t home, so I ran into my brother’s room. I fell
on the floor, spilling out every detail of what had happened.
When
I went to school the next day, a teacher had noticed a bruise on my face. I had
been late to class because I was covering the bruise up with makeup, or trying
to at least. The teacher kept asking what had happened, but I kept denying
anything. Finally, I told him I’d gotten into an argument with my dad. I tried
to make him swear not to say anything, but he told me he would lose his job, so
he brought me to the office, where they called DHS.
DHS
had come to my house a few times, interviewed me at school, taken pictures of
my brother and I, making us all feel like criminals. The last time he came to
my father’s house, I was present.
“You’re
daughter keeps defending you, and we realize this is most likely a mistake, and
something that didn’t mean to happen. However, hitting your kids, especially
hard enough to leave bruises is not okay. The next time we get reports on you,
your children will be taken away from you,” said the man from DHS.
As
soon as he walked out the door, my father said something that caused me to live
in even more fear of him than I already did.
“Don’t
think because DHS came, I wouldn’t hit you again, because I would.”
He
never hit me again, but we aren’t on the best terms. We hardly see each other,
because I dread going to his house to visit him. When I do go, it’s to see my
younger brothers and sister. I live at my mother’s house full time, which can
be very hard at times, considering my father contributes nothing. Him being the
violent, demented man he is left me broken inside, striving for a relationship
with my father that will never exist. It wore me down inside, leaving me with a
destroyed self esteem because my own father doesn’t try having anything to do
with me. For this reason, violence from parents to children is a mistake. It’s
wrong, and ruins more than it fixes, and should be viewed as unacceptable in
all societies.
