I realize that I didn't post many details about the abuse I suffered. It is such a long story, and some of the memories are fresh, others are fuzzy. So much of it feels like it happened yesterday, it is right there, and has always been right there... just below the surface, for my entire life.

Warning--- Possible trigger. Story of physical abuse. If you're not in a safe place, and stories of abuse may trigger you emotionally, don't continue.























Well, the physical abuse was rampant throughout my middle and late childhood. Both of my parents were my abusers, and later in my childhood, my oldest brother became my abuser. I have 3 brothers and 1 sister, and we were all physically abused, mostly by my father. My earliest memories of the physical abuse are at about age 9 or 10. This was about the time that my family moved to a larger, but less comfortable house. We all had to switch schools, and there was a great deal of tension and anxiety in our family, due to this transistion.

My father started drinking more, and the economy was really bad (~1978), and my parents were horribly stressed. But their reaction to that stress was to abuse and lash out at each other, and their children. The worst memories are of my fathers abuse. He would come home after work (and then working on my grandmothers farm) at about 7 or 8PM. He was tired and just wanted to sit in peace and quiet. But there were 5 kids in the house, so there isn't a lot of peace and quiet. He insisted on quiet, and as high energy little kids, with little to do in our small town, we were not silent. This would set him off. Our very presence was enough to agitate him to the point where he would chase us upstairs where he wouldn't have to hear us. Trouble was, what do 5 kids who've been chased to bed at 7 or 8 do? We talked and played upstairs... and we made noise. Usually not a lot of noise, just talking and moving around and playing. And he could hear every squeak of the floor, and every footstep, and it drove him crazy. He'd scream up the stairs a few times for us to be quiet, and we'd be quiet for a bit. But slowly, our nervous energy bubbled out, and we'd venture out a bit to talk and move from room to room and play.

It was a calculated risk everytime we took a step, because the floor might squeak, and a squeak might bring him charging up the stairs. And it did many times. All it would take would be a single footstep or floor-squeak at this point, for him to boil over. He was a control freak, and saw any child making noise when he told us to be quiet, as a personal insult and disobedience, and worthy of his rage. And his rage would boil over.

He would charge up the stairs... I still remember the sound... A loud thumping as he bounded up the stairs two or three at a time. We all knew what was coming, so we ran and hid in all sorts of places, and waited. Waited for what we knew was coming. He would charge up the stairs, and go looking for someone, anyone, to beat. And his favorite weapon was a belt... his leather belt.

The drill was, he'd find one kid, barging from room to room looking for an easy target. And he would grab that one kid, hold us by the arms, and beat us on the back or the legs with the belt. The pain was horrible and his frothing and raging made it all worse. A feeling that I was facing uncontrolled, possibly lethal, raw violence. But the strange thing was, he'd usually only find one... sometimes two kids to beat. Then his rage was satisfied, and he'd stomp back downstairs, and we'd not hear from him again that night.

I remember hiding in all kinds of places, and waiting... knowing that if he found someone else first, I'd be safer. If he found someone else first, I would hear the beating and the crying and screaming, and be scarred to death, but soon relieved, as I knew that he most likely was done, and didn't have the energy to keep looking for kids. And he'd go downstairs, and we'd slowly come out of our hiding places, and as quietly as possible, make our way back to our beds, and lay completely quiet until sleep finally came.

There is some guilty feelings there... guilt because of my feeling relief when hearing one of my siblings being beaten... The relief was because I felt safe now that he didn't find me, and most likely wouldn't. But I felt & feel guilty for being relieved at others pain. I remember the screams and cries and can still imagine them.

My siblings and I used to joke about this over the years. Jokes to minimize the effects. A way of safely venting the feelings about it. We no longer joke about it or talk about it. To this day, my dad seems absolutely oblivious to this joking, and has never acknowledged any of it. We'd sit at the table after thanksgiving dinner, and talk and joke about it. My dad sitting in the living room, with the TV set on, completely oblivious to what we were discussing. I'm sure he heard it, but blocked it out. Blocked it out to deal with his guilt. This was our passive-aggressive way of confronting him with it. Talking and joking about it safely, within his earshot.

Even typing this out brings tension and fear and adrenelin coursing through my body. I know that I need to take special care of myself today. I've never written about this before in my life, and what many people told me I would feel, I feel. I do feel good having written it out. Now there is fear and apprehension over the next step. What do I do next. I want to be heard. I will relax, and pray, and ask God to help me forgive, and understand and come to peace with this.

- Steve