As I grew up I was repeatedly told that I deserved what happened to me because I was so bad, so horrible, so rotten. I  distinctly remember being told at 5 years old that the police would reward my parents with a medal if I told, that they would see what a bad kid I was and condone how they treated me.

That was a devastating fear to instill into me. I was driven to a near neurosis wondering if I was that bad, if I was just exaggerating it al, or if I  really  was such a piece of shit that I deserved it. I don’t know what I was afraid of more, being judged a whiner or as deserving of it all. I was terrified either way. The gripping fear that they would be vindicated overrode any common sense.

And yet I just wanted it to end. The misery and despair on a daily level  was maddening. I had no idea how I could go on. I knew I wasn’t strong enough; my parents, especially my mother, were evil giants, all knowing and all powerful gods who could not be stood against. The crushing weight of their cruelty was more than I could stand. I was powerless but I escaped into daydreams where I had the power, where I was in control. Unfortunately, in my home violence was the measure of power and violence was the solution of all problems. For years I coped with my misery by withdrawing into fantasies where my parents were gone, and violence was the means of their disposal. Those daydreams got me through the worst of times, times where a cocked .357 against my head almost became the solution to my misery.

I remember sitting there ready to pull the trigger and end my life, knowing that my misery could soon be over. I sat there many times, feeling like I had control and power over my life since I could choose to end it The only thing which kept me from pulling the trigger is knowing my brother would have to clean up the resulting mess. That same gun would be the way out I chose later.

Still to this day I wrestle with my past. I had crushing misery and despair but I fight with thoughts that it wasn’t “that bad.” I wasn’t chained to the floor in the basement; I wasn’t pimped out to strangers; I didn’t have numerous broken bones. So many children have gone through much worse, what was wrong with me? I don’t know, I don’t have the answers but I am awed by those who had the strength to stand up in worse situations and speak out. I didn’t have it.

I took the easy way out. I took the way where I would never have to face my tormentors or risk being judged to have deserved the abuse, I took the "sure" way out. In hindsight I would’ve never had the strength to face up to them, especially my mother. Still to this day, the thought of her terrifies me, she remains the ultimate boogeyman for me and the worst part is that I don't know why, she never beat me to a bloody hospital-bound pulp , she wasn't bigger than me, she was just mean.

That does not begin to explain how things were between us. When I was just a baby people witnessed her screaming at me in my crib  that she hated me. They even saw her fondle me as a baby. But that is more than I can remember. It is, however, indicative of the dynamics between us. Above all else, I wanted my mother's love and approval. I would’ve done anything for it. No matter how hard I tried, I never received it. The only thing I would receive from her was anger, misery, and loathing. While growing up I had no question in my mind that my mother hated me. I would clearly flash in her cold eyes. Now that I’m grown I can see that she felt ashamed for her hatred and tried to make up for it occasionally, but it could not be overcome.

I have since learned that my mom was an extremely damaged person, subjected to severe abuse herself.  She was mentally ill and I doubt she could control her hatred of me. But as a kid seeking her approval, the rejection was bitter. If there is a word more forceful than utter despair that is the hopeless misery she had imprisoned me in.

Jacob's ideas on signs of child abuse

I have wondered and people have often asked what could've been done to reach me before it was too late, to pull me out of my predicament before I killed my parents. I was too weak to step up for myself and speak out, I needed somebody else to do it for me. The most important thing anybody can do to help an abusive situation is to speak out and continue speaking out until the right steps are taken.

I know somebody who was told by a teenaged girl that her dad and brother were raping her. The child told her in the strictest of confidence, begging her not to tell anybody. To her everlasting shame, that person remained silent. Few children have the strength to speak out and when they do, it is a cry for help and it MUST be acted on, no matter how much the child wants it to be kept secret. If a child speaks out they are begging for you to help, even when they deny it, they are telling you for a reason, so you can take action. It is up to adults to act like adults and have the strength to take actions children are too terrified to take on their own.

Often, other children will know something is wrong but keep silent trying to be a good friend. They don't know that by keeping the secret they are, in truth, betraying their friend. They must know to speak out and to know who to speak out to. There are signs kids can pick up on better than adults, like when a friend tires to avoid going home or their personality changes when their parents are around, being scared and withdrawn in their presence. That is not normal behavior and friends can be the first line of defense against child abuse.

Adults also must be vigilant. I can see how the adults in my life who I tried to tell the abuse to missed it. From my paint of view, I was screaming and holding a huge sign, waving every flag I dared to wave, but I was barely making a peep and merely hinting at what was going on. I wanted to be stopped, I wanted somebody to step in and act, but nobody did. When a student's parent went to the principal and said that I was talking about killing my parents he did nothing. When my brother was worried about my mental health living in an abusive home and had the counselor call us into his office to discuss what was going on and I told him how depressed and miserable I was and mentioned how I had thoughts of hurting my parents, he did nothing. He was worried enough to talk about committing me to an in-patient treatment program at a mental health clinic but than allowed me, a 15-year-old-boy, to talk him out of it. When I told a teacher that I deserved to sit on a trashcan instead of a chair because my life was "shit" and said that things weren't good at home, she did nothing. When my brother moved out and lived at a friend's house for a while because of my step-dad's drunken violence, the adults in that house did nothing. When my step-dad called the cops one night when he got so uncontrollably drunk that my mom and I left for a hotel and he could not find his guns, telling the cops we must have stolen them, the officer did not stop to ask why a drunk man was looking for a gun when his wife and 14-year-old-step-son fled the house. He didn't ask us why we felt the need to hide the guns nor did he decide this might be a situation to report to the department of social services--despite a minor being involved.

There were signs but the signs were ignored. Adults missed them or ignored them and failed to speak out. Adults have the voice abused children all-too-often lack or which is too quiet and timid to be heard. Adults have the courage to stand up against the perpetrators of child abuse. They must be made aware of the signs and they must not fail to speak out. It is imperative that we give voice to the voiceless and aid to the helpless. Child abuse is a fact of lie and an evil which plagues this world.

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