Hey Dad, Remember When You Broke My Arm?

Not that it will make my twisted outlook on life easier to understand, I only write this to illustrate what can happen to some sweet, innocent children.

I was the center of the universe until my brother was born. At age 5, my limelight was stolen. I had to suddenly adjust to being “big sister.” I was a has-been; yesterday’s news; old hat. I didn’t need coddling anymore. I could use a fork and spoon! I even knew my colors. Looking back, I regret that I didn’t just move out then.

In the world that was my childhood, it was unacceptable to question authority, my parents or my church. But after hundreds (it felt like hundreds!) of Sunday morning sermons at the local Baptist church, I had doubts. Huge doubts. 

I couldn’t stay quiet! My father was the biggest hypocrite I knew. And I questioned him at every turn starting around age 12. But there were no deep discussions… just years of turmoil.

There were shouting matches, slamming doors, verbal and physical abuse by my father. And yelling… lots of yelling. This culminated at the kitchen table during an argument one day when I stood up to leave, and dear old Dad grabbed my arm, twisting and twisting…

Where was my mother? I don’t remember. Biting her lip and holding her tongue as usual, I guess.

Dad was silent the entire ride to the ER. He was probably afraid. An had I known I actually had rights… had I only known I was a victim of something called CHILD ABUSE, he would have gone to jail. I lied to the doctor out of fear. And the deacon returned to his offering plate on Sunday. But he broke more than my arm or my spirit… he broke a cycle of abuse. I was fifteen.