We'd been to a beach party and it was dark by the time we arrived home. I was still so excited from all the fun I'd had.
I recall walking into the front room and seeing an empty beer can lying on it's side on the table and my father standing there.
I looked at up him, so full of glee and then all hell broke loose.
I have no idea why they began arguing. I have no idea if this was a set pattern between them.
What I do remember was the screaming and my oldest brother and my sister running down the hill to the sheriff's station.
I remember Mom being in some sort of cast - her arm injured, when next I saw her.
I vaguely recall a time before that when I realized I lived in fear, even as a toddler.
We'd been to another party on the beach, and I was pulled away. The grown-ups all looked so agitated. When I whined about having to leave the party, I was slapped and told that my paternal grandmother had passed away. Not knowing what that meant, I had no idea why I was being punished for having a good time!
I think I learned early that fun and pain go hand in hand.
We moved away from the island and my father.
My mother tried to raise four children on her own. She did what she could. But she was absent, even when she was there.
I was quiet and shy. I was the baby of the family and no one heard me. I had no voice.
The older siblings took over much of the child care. Mom was tired and worked too much. I don't recall her ever having a life of her own, although I do know she had male companionship. I saw things no child should see.
When I was eight years old, I was sexually molested. I can close my eyes today and still see it all. Feel the fear and confusion and see his mouth move, but I don't know what he said. I don't hear his voice.
I have no recollection of how long that went on.
When I grew into my early teens, when my body began to develop, I remember men looking at me in such a way, it made me shutter. I had no idea why.
My first sexual experience was at thirteen; he was seventeen. He took me in my own bed, and showered the blood off afterwards. He was angry because I was still a virgin. I knew nothing about sex, about the first time or the pain. I though we were just having fun!
As I entered into High School, the male teachers looked at me in that way and I was so uncomfortable in their presence. I had no idea what they saw!
I was quiet and shy.
I had trouble making friends and found missing classes and hangin' with the dopers made me feel like I belonged somewhere. Even negative attention was better than nothing.
I had met an older man. He was married and twenty-three years old. I was fourteen, but he made me feel special - something I hadn't felt before. We would finally get together ten years later and he would change my life.
I'd never had a 'real' relationship. Nothing long standing, so I was pretty naive about it all. He'd been married twice by that time and had two kids from each marriage.
We eventually moved in together and I was an instant "mom" to the two youngest children. They were blonde haired and brown eyed and so very beautiful. I fell in love with them immediately.
The violence didn't begin for months.
We were talking one night, slowly our voices began to raise and I recall grabbing his collar to get him to look at me, to talk to me. He hit me in the head and face, then twisted my arms behind me and threw me down onto the carpet. He just walked away. No backwards glance to see if I was alright.
No one had ever hit me like that before! I didn't know what had happened. We didn't discuss it. I had no voice.
When I awoke the next day, my arms were bruised: my face and head, sore. I was going to lunch with my Mother that day and think I put on a long sleeve blouse. Not so much to hide the bruises from her, but to hide them from me.
She did notice them, said something about it and I could see fear in her eyes, but she never told me to leave. Never told me what might be in-store for me if I stayed.
And stay I did.
Do you know what happens to a rock over time - when water is dripped on to it? Even a small, constant steam can wear that rock down. And he wore me down.
He would tell me the cruelest things - I was stupid and ugly and fat. I was worthless. I couldn't cook or clean; I wasn't a good lover and oh my god that list is endless! And there I was believing that if I were just better at everything; if I loved him more; was more understanding of his needs; was kind and quiet and good enough, he would stop hurting me.
Over time, he wore me down and I believed every word. I was never going to be good enough.
By now we had moved away from my family and I was more isolated than ever.
I tried to be a good, sane parent to the kids. I ran interference more than they will ever know. Yet, in time, I failed to protect them from the insanity of their father's abuse. There was no way to hide the violence from their little ears, and I know it penetrated their souls.
He would lash out at nothing, but destroy whatever was in his way. I can't tell you how many things I paid to replace that he had damaged.
He had this way about him; he could convince anyone that he was a 'good' guy and the children bought into that as well. I had suddenly become the wicked step-mother! Even with terror in their eyes directed at him, they looked at me with hatred.
Thankfully, when they were old enough, they decided they wanted to go live with their mother. I knew it was jumping from the frying pan into the fire, but I was happy to see them escape.
Eventually I escaped as well.
Broken and broke; emotionally damaged and so distrusting.
As I look back on it now; as I recall all the violence that I know the neighbors heard, were aware of ... not one ever made a phone call to the police. Not one ever asked me if I was alright; if they could help.
I grew up in violence, of one sort or another.
I had lost my innocence at an early age and there was no going back to reclaim it.
In time I did meet a man who treated me with dignity; who allowed me some of my childhood and there was healing. That relationship lasted only two and a half years, and never once did he strike me.
Sometimes I think the reason I am alone today is not because I fear love, but because I fear that I might make the same mistake again. I might allow someone into my life who will abuse me, beat me, hurt me in unspeakable ways.
I hope and pray that's not the case. That through all of this; all that I have gone through, I have found my voice.
I am still quiet and shy, but I will never be silent again.
J.A. Stroud