My Childhood
“Every day of my childhood, I held my breath, never knowing if I’d ever break free—
or if my father’s violence would end my life.”
“You’re USELESS!” he shouted, his voice rising and falling with anger. “Why can’t you do anything right?”
I sank to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. My stomach was tight, my head buzzed with a loud, disorienting noise. The world felt upside down, and I could feel the terror in every muscle, every fiber of my being. The carpet scratched against my legs—I barely noticed.
I often wondered if anyone outside our walls knew what was happening. The neighbors must have heard the shouting, the crashes, the desperate cries. No one ever came to our door. Perhaps they were too afraid, or they chose to look the other way. Either way, their silence deepened our isolation.
I didn’t just fear for my mother’s safety—I feared for my own life. Each night, I lay awake, straining to hear the softest creak of the floorboards or the murmur of voices, wondering if this would be the night when things would go too far.
My father met us at the hospital, his face displaying worry and anger. ‘Why didn’t you take him to the other hospital first?’ he hissed at my mother as we entered the emergency room.
“I… I didn’t know,” my mother stuttered, her voice trembling. “I brought him to the closest hospital.”
“USELESS!” he muttered under his breath.
My father’s fury enveloped the sterile hospital corridors. “That’s my son!” he bellowed, his voice a harsh echo that sent shivers through the medical staff. “You better take good care of him!”
Months later, upon my release from the hospital, my parents had a party to celebrate my homecoming. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I retreated to my room, seeking solace in the familiar comfort of my bed.
My father, furious that I wasn’t at the party, stormed into my room. His eyes were cold, filled with anger. Without a word, he slapped me hard across the face. The slap stung, but what hurt more was the realization that nearly dying hadn’t changed how he treated me.
Beyond the fire that had scarred my body, the constant fear and pain at home left the deepest burns. The physical wounds healed, but the emotional ones remained raw, leaving me clinging to one thought for survival: “I’m not crazy; he is.”
