My father was an alcoholic who had a violent temper. I once saw him throw my mother down the stairs. I yelled at him to stop because I was afraid that he would kill her. When he heard my voice, he looked up at me with an expression on his face that I was not familiar with. And then he walked out the door. I thought it would be the last time I’d ever see him, but he came back begging for my forgiveness. I lied and said I would forgive him; I never could.
I’d heard him verbally abuse my mother for years and beg her to forgive him. This was the first and last time I saw him physically abuse her. It shocked me to my core.
Most of the time when he got angry, I would hide under the covers on my bed shaking so hard the bed frame rattled. I lived in constant fear worried he would take his anger out on me. I remember on multiple occasions begging my mother to leave him and yet she stayed. She had four kids, I was the youngest. I think she stayed for us, though as I got older I realized she stayed because she was afraid that if she left, he would hunt her down and kill us all.
…the memories of his rage have stayed with me my entire life.
My father never physically abused me, but the memories of his rage have stayed with me my entire life. Loud and unexpected noises make me jump. I shrink when I hear anyone yell and I want to run and hide under my covers. I cannot shake the feeling that my life is in imminent danger, even though logically I know that it is not.
My dad died when I was 20 years old. I’m now in my mid 60’s and those memories are as vivid as bright orange paint on a wall. I wish that every child could grow up in a safe, peaceful home, oblivious to the dark side of human nature, never knowing what it’s like to seek refuge under a blanket or in the darkness of their mind, scared, alone, and helpless.