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I Remember…
I remember, as a child,
Hiding in the dark closet with my sisters and brothers,
Unable to block out the sounds of my father beating my mother.
We would cry and pray together, asking God to make it stop.
It never did…..
It never did…..
Now, 28 years later, when I talk about it,
I still feel that helplessness and fear.
I see the house, the closet.
I feel huddled up with six kids in the closet… Crying quietly. My Mom screams… My father yells…
The crashing sounds…
Deep terror… Feeling it was our fault somehow.
We all paid for it in our adult lives. Not one of us escaped.
We paid for it with drugs and alcohol and violent relationships, reliving and acting in our own ways
the script we grew up with.
That was just from listening to it
just from listening to it.
The effect it had on our lives.
What is sad
is that I didn’t realize until the end of my last abusive relationship
That my kids were suffering
as I did as a child
-Anonymous poem found online
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