Many people look back on their childhood as a time of joy, love, and laughter, however, mine was a bittersweet combination of moments filled with jubilation and others with fear. It seems that very few teens and adults today enjoyed a pain-free upbringing. Within my family, both my mom’s and dad’s sides included, abuse was a subject that was often ignored and sometimes encouraged. My parents have always been easily angered people, especially my father. He had entered the Navy at a young age and became a police officer soon after he was relieved of duty, so violence was just a normal part of my family life. With, broad shoulders, strong, calloused hands, and green eyes that could shoot dangers into you if you made him mad, my father was just someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. I was taught at a younger age that our parents were our owners, that they could do whatever they wanted to us. So, when I would get hit for talking back or not doing my chores, I believed I deserved it. Looking back on my childhood today, I realize how wrong I was.

I had made my mother cry. I don’t really remember what I did to cause such an uncommon action from her. Maybe it was something I said? Something I did? I just can’t remember, but I do remember what happened after. I remember the fury on my father’s face. I remember the feeling of his strong hand grabbing my neck and shoving me against the hard wall. I didn’t even register the pain that shot through my head as it made a loud banging sound. All I could see was my father’s face red and twisted with rage, all I could do was stand there weakly in shock.

“You made your mother cry,” he spat in my face. His next words were a string of curses that I really don’t want to repeat. I only grabbed onto his beefy hand when he started to lift me off the ground. My breathing got faster as my small legs kicked to reach the floor.

“Do that again, and you’ll be sorry.” At least he threw me on the couch instead of the flood so I landed with a floof instead of a thud. He left after that. I’m positive I cried more than my mother did. My father had hit me countless times during my adolescence, but one particular time stuck with me, and it wasn’t because he had hit me.

I had just graduated middle school and gotten my first serious boyfriend. His name was Mason. Hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that were a harmonious mixture of blues and greens was what attracted me to him. But his kind eyes and relaxed shape of his shoulder was what made me quickly opened up to Mason about my father. I clearly remember his face shifting from cheery to sorrowly in a second as he told me I was being abused. When I had first heard of abuse, a little siren went off in the back of my head, but I ignored it, telling myself that what I was experiencing wasn’t abuse in any way, shape or form. However, as he explained more to me about this thing called “child abuse” I began to make connections to my own experiences. You see, my parents didn’t exactly knew Mason existed as my boyfriend. Strange enough, I told my parents he was homosexual, and even stranger, they believed me; this was how he and I got to spend so much alone time together. As he taught me more about child abuse, I began to feel fear; fear for the worst case scenario and for that slapped to the face I received countless of times before. It wasn’t until one summer day that I came to fully understand my abusive situation.

Mason had come over earlier, per the norm, and we surfed the web under the supervision of my father. We were contently watching music videos on the large, bright computer screen when we were interrupted with an offer of dinner. My father had offered a pizza since he didn’t usually cook and my mother was not home. Being the hungry teenagers we were, we wholeheartedly agreed. What surprised me about my father’s offer was that he had to go pick up the pizza; that meant leaving Mason and I by ourselves, unsupervised. We had been left unsupervised before, but only at his house. So, when my father casually left the house with his keys in hand, Mason and I knew exactly what we wanted to do, so we headed up into my room.

“Nora?!”  Both Mason and I froze. Only several minutes had passed since my father left.
“NORA?” My father yelled again and my reply was hesitant.
“Yes, dad?”
“Get down here now!”

We frantically gathered our things and rushed downstairs. Thankfully enough, my father didn’t chew us out as soon as we sat back down in front of the computer screen, but he did something much worse.

“Nora, come upstairs with me.”

My whole body began to shake in terror. I had never done something this bad before. What was his response going to be? With my mind racing, I grabbed a small pocket knife from the supply drawer and went upstairs to face my father. He got up from his usual chair when I knocked on the door. That chair had been so used by my father that it had a buttocks impression in it. I knew the lecture was first, it was always first. His words stung like a bee, spitting out how irresponsible and idiotic I was for taking a boy into my room. All the while my tear filled eyes were glued to the floor, threatening to spill over any second and my sweaty hands were behind my back, clutching the minuscule weapon. I was prepared for a smarting slap to the face, but I wasn’t prepared when he seized my hand.
“What is this?”
I panicked, trying to think of a reason I had a knife in my hand.
“I thought you were going to hit me,” my response came out as no more than a whimper. I instantly regretted my decision. Was he going to use this knife on me? My father gripped my face tightly with his large, beefy hands and brought it close to his. His hot breath, reeking of ginger ale and salty potato chips, filled my senses as I cowered in fear. 

“I can hit you if I want to.”

My eyes grew wide as the tears silently poured onto my red cheeks. And just like a ragdoll, my father shoved me out of the room and slammed the door shut. My body didn’t even react to the loud bang. I was in utter shock as I emotionlessly descended the stairs. Mason’s voice, filled with concern and distress, didn’t even reach my ears. The realization of what had just occurred didn’t come to me until later that night after Mason left. I can’t remember the last time I cried that much.

Soon after that, my father’s health began to decline and so did my parents’ marriage. They began to get less mad at me and more at each other. I could handle the late, loud fights as long as I wasn’t getting hit anymore. I began to gain more confidence as my father became weaker. His back surgery had left him in constant, agonizing pain every day. But, he had no energy to hit me anymore. Is it wrong that my father’s pain ended up being my saving grace? I ask myself that every day.