WARNING: Graphic Images
Below is a violent, firsthand account of child abuse — most particularly physical abuse.
Distressing accounts can be found for every category of abuse, whether physical, emotional, sexual, or neglect. Thousands of children are murdered worldwide before they can ever tell their harrowing stories.
The victims of child abuse prefer not to read such accounts. We have scars enough to attest to the reality of abuse.
But those who still think child abuse is an insignificant issue — a subject exaggerated by the press — should make a point of reading this account. Two things will stand out: the enormous courage of these children; and the enormous compassion of the author (“Melissa”), now an adult.
While Melissa did her very best to protect herself and her brothers against their father’s neglect and their mother’s rage, I cannot agree with her conclusion that abuse is simply a matter of mental illness.
Mental illness is real. Evil is, also, however, real. The distinction rests in the capacity to tell right from wrong. Mental illness involves a compromised understanding of the world and/or a compromised ability to control one’s actions.
Evil involves a deliberate choice.
“The way that the shadows played under the door, I could see that my favorite tree was gracefully dancing in the wind. The sunlight shot like a laser beam into the closet. ‘Hey, lets play shadow puppets.’ I whispered to my little brother. ‘Okay,’ he said.
This time, his lips only turned a small shade of blue. My brother faced his head towards me and I made myself look into his eyes, holding my own grief so I could contain his. I remember looking at my mother and wondering if this time was it, would she kill him? She would always stop -before she would suffocate him.
Mom had bad days. Her children were the face of every single person that day that had hurt her, that had let her down, a family member, an argument with my Dad. My brother and I never knew when our turn was going to be for mom to release her anger. I always wondered when it would begin. Would we be able to have the comfort of the closet, would we be able to see the closet this time around? That was always my hope. Mom would always begin with me. I would lay down on the sofa and she would put a pillow over my face. She would then sit on top of me and she proceeded to suffocate me. I always turned my head to the wall facing away because I knew that my little brother was there in the hallway. I never wanted him to see my face. I never wanted him to see the fear and sometimes even the hope – that maybe I would die…”
[Continued at: https://livinginjmj.com/2020/03/26/the/ ]
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ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse 