Abused since childhood
Age: Unknown


I was a product of a broken home, meaning my childhood was the direct result of parents who also came from broken situations. My dad was the son of a wandering trucker, and my mom was the illegitimate child of a small-town farmer back in the 1950s. I’m not sure if our familial brokenness started from the connection of two damaged people but the history of my parents definitely had a direct and dynamic impact on my life and the values by which I tried to live.

My parents were married when I was born, but what does that really matter? Being married didn’t stop my dad from beating, tormenting, and abusing my mother as often as he desired. It seemed that at the same time, my mother realized that my dad was never going to wake up and be a good man to her or a good person to anyone, he decided to do the ultimate. He shot my mom at point-blank range, then gathered her body from the ground, and rode around with her body in the car before arriving at the hospital within minutes of her being able to be saved.

Eventually, my parents separated and both remarried. That didn’t stop the aftermath. Seeing my mother take all of that abuse and almost dying took a toll on me. Then to make matters worse, both my parents had more children. I remember being told, repeatedly in life that since my birthday was nine days before Christmas, to get used to receiving joint Christmas and birthday presents. It seemed that all my life followed the same norm. I was always sacrificing and being sacrificed for others, never deserving celebration, always chastised for my wrongs and the wrongs of others, specifically my younger siblings.

Being raised in two dysfunctional families spiralled me into even more abuse. From being molested at the age of three to willingly giving up my virginity at the age of twelve, to being on the receiving end of verbal abuse, it seemed I would forever be damaged. My dad told me on several occasions that he couldn’t believe he was the father of a whore. I was fourteen the first time he called me that. I developed a habit of lying and stealing because negative attention was better than none. Promiscuity became an escape from the reality that I wasn’t good enough. At the age of nineteen, I became pregnant. But who was the father? I didn’t know but no one seemed to care, so I didn’t. It was the first time anyone celebrated me for doing something. Wow! Any praise was better than none at all. I went on to have three more pregnancies, two to term.

Twenty years later, here I am. A woman with a plethora of life experiences under my belt, yet still attempting to pick up the pieces of me. I looked at how I raised my children through the brokenness and apologized. And I know I can’t change anything that has already happened. But I am thankful to finally learn that it’s okay to let go of things and people that hurt you, even if you’re related. Because toxic is toxic no matter how you turn it.

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