This has happened to me since I was 4 years old. Sometimes I think it's a psychological thing because I was abused at 4 years old in a sick, twisted pre-school.
The staff were mostly young, gold tooth ghetto bitches who beat us every other day with cat-tails, the reed that's like a whip, for the tiniest thing. If we raised our head and looked around at nap time or talked or took too long to eat our snack they would take us into the bathroom, take off our clothes, and beat us. Sometimes for no reason at all they would beat us. Two of the teenaged girls on the staff repeatedly molested me in the bathroom.
One day my mom gave my sister and I some candy from her purse just before she dropped us off at the school. We were eating the candy in the school and for some reason the staff accused us of stealing it from some kid I'd never seen before. They told us if we confessed to stealing the candy we could go play, but if we kept insisting our mom gave it to us they would beat us.
My sister was smart and confessed to something we didn't do. They let her go and play. I kept telling the truth, like a dumb ass, so they dragged me into the bathroom, took my clothes off, and beat me with cat-tails. It took me 40 years to un-learn that lying is the best way out of any situation.
I told my parents every day to please take us out of there, but they didn't believe me. I'm 4, so I must be exaggerating or making it all up right? I hated waking up each weekday. The school never taught us anything, my mom taught us reading and math. They just abused us physically and mentally. We were like cattle, just a commodity for them to make money off of. Finally my mom noticed the whip marks and bruises on me and pulled us out.
Now at 47 years old I still tear up when I pee. I see a psychologist once a month, trying to figure out why I turned to drugs and alcohol at 11 years old. Why I have a deep hatred for authority, why my relationships don't last because I can't trust anyone. Why I became a masterful liar and a violent teenaged drug pusher. Why I used to get drunk and high and come home and beat up my daughter's mother. Why I was so angry all the damn time.
But I forgive them and I feel sorry for them, because they must have had horrible lives to be so angry that they would abuse children. I hope God can forgive me for all the terrible things I've done in the past and forgive them, for who knows how many lives they have skewed in the wrong direction. How many abusers they have created.
But, I never beat my kids. Now my son is 27 and my daughter is 17 and they turned out fine. I'm really proud of them both and love them very much. Our kids look up to us to protect them from monsters. Our kids are helpless and fragile, just like I was at 4 years old. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Or sometimes, crazier. Or both. I'm still working on it.View Thread
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