A
Personal Reflection on Child Abuse
Leslie
K. Penny
Module
5 Reflection Paper 2
Chancellor
University
Abstract
The following essay is a personal reflection of child abuse
and how it affected me as a child. A
personal memory of abuse is recounted and shared. One of which that I don't like to reflect on
but it is the nature of the beast. Also
a look into what it was like to go to school that was considered a safe zone
and not be able to tell anyone what was happening to me, then having to come
back home to where the fear originated.
A
Personal Reflection on Child Abuse
Very often children, who come from homes where battering
is committed, may appear fine to outsiders of the family. These children often times have to maintain
the secret of not letting anyone know the abuse they have been exposed to and
the burden this has on the child can prelude to a life of dread. Children who experience abuse have so many
stories to tell and reflections of what they have endured throughout their
lives. With lasting damage either it be
from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or a history of drug or alcohol abuse. Some have forgiveness in their hearts for their
abuser or some are like me, who just soldier on, trying not to remember the
moments of fear such as the memory below elicits.
"I could see the spit fly from
his mouth and splatter on my face as he screamed at me, calling me stupid and
asking questions that I was not allowed to answer because it wouldn't matter
what the answer would be, I would still feel the sting of his slap across my
face. Once that slap came, it felt like
my head was empty and my brain just bounced off the inside of my skull. I could no longer hear what he was saying or
feel as he grabbed a fist full of my hair and shook me till some of my hair
tore from my scalp, nor could I feel the kick he landed on my butt as he walked
away shaking his head throwing his hands in the air. Why I couldn't feel anything after the first
slap to my face was, I believe, shock. I
was in shock and it never mattered how many times that happened, and it
happened a lot, I was in shock each time.
Later he would come in my bedroom and run his hands down back like you
would soothing an injured baby, as if to apologize. I would cringe inside pretending to be
asleep, curling up into a ball so the least bit of me was being touched. Upon him leaving my room I would punch myself
in the head with pure rage I felt for him and the fact that I couldn't do
anything about the abuse I was suffering through" (Leslie Penny). I believe I was 13 at
the time of this one incident.
The
above instance was one of many that I experienced while growing up that would
fall under Battered Child Syndrome. Battered Child Syndrome "is a medico-legal
term that describes the diagnosis of a medical expert based on scientific
studies that indicate that when a child suffer certain types of continuing
injuries, those injuries were not caused by accidental means" (Roberson, 2011). I never spoke to anyone about the abuse I
experienced so I was never labeled by a professional with Battered Child
Syndrome. I actually never heard of the
term until now.
As a previously abused individual, I have my own unique
views on child abuse. Not to say that
one who was never been abused has the wrong view. Not at all.
I just have firsthand experience as to what it feels like to be
hit. What the skin feels like, how it
feels inside your body and how the brain takes it in and turns it into memories
and feelings of anger, despair, and panic.
I have the personal knowledge of what 15 years of battering can do a
child and how it effects them throughout their life. Many can speculate but I can give a personal
recollection of what it is like to be abused as a child.
There are several types of abuse that children are forced
to endure by their abusers. We, my
siblings and I, never had to endure malnutrition. Our father supplied food. Sometimes excessive food with platters
covered in snacks, fruits, candies, and deserts during the holidays that made
our eyes round as saucers. But that was
because people were coming to visit so appearances were important. We never experienced sexual abuse and all I
can say about that is thank God. When it
comes to neglect, we were never left alone to fend for ourselves. We were never injured because we were
neglected.
However, mental/verbal abuse was a constant. The verbal and mental abuse is worse. It is permanent, while evidence of physical
abuse heals or remains hidden under cleverly positioned clothing. Being slapped in the face, to me, was the
worst of all the physical abuse I endured.
I have had a fractured arm, several twisted ankles from being shoved,
hair ripped out of my scalp, swollen lips from being smacked, bruises from
being grabbed and shoved, kicked, hit with every item imaginable, slammed up
against stuff, the list could go on and on.
But it was the resounding smacks to the face that left the most
impression over all the other hits.
No one can know what it feels like to be crippled by fear
like a child does when in the presence of their abuser. The fear of constantly looking over your
shoulder. The constant fear of saying
the wrong thing or saying anything at all.
The constant fear of forgetting not to make a face that would set him
off. The fear of letting my guard down
and rolling my eyes, or sighing, or huffing, or crying even because any sound
would constitute a smack to the face.
The best chance I had was to make no moves or noises as if I was not
there. You can imagine how difficult
that was for me considering I was a child.
But I learned quick how to make myself as scarcely known as
possible. Even that was difficult since
we were not allowed to leave the property.
School was my only escape. Unlike
other students who did not like school and could not wait for the end of the
school day, I could not wait till school started and dreaded getting on the bus
home.
Every day at school I would wish a teacher could see
through the facade I built up so no one would know. I could not be the one to tell. The fear of my father was too much. But I thought each day, someone would find
out. Someone had to know. It could not be us kids who told, it had to
be an outsider looking in. But that day
never came. I won my freedom on my terms
upon my 18th year of life. Before I graduated
from high school, I moved out. I waited
until my father went to work, I took my measly possessions, and I moved in with
a friend. That day was the beginning of
my actual life. A life of not following
in my father's foot steps.
To conclude, my upbringing made me who I am today. But no child should start their life on this
Earth devoid of love from a parent and only knowing anger and hate. It takes a strong person to come out of that
and be ok. To not continue the cycle of
abuse. To not be an angry adult. I personally have never seen a therapist
about the abuse I went through. Nor do I
think I suffer from PTSD or any other mental issues. My reflection on child abuse is that I have,
and will continue, to use my childhood experiences as a guide on how not to
raise my children. As a child, I was
confused as to what normal was. Not
anymore. My children are growing up as
healthy, loved, little individuals.
Works Cited
Roberson, H. W. (2011). Family Violence: Legal,
Medical, and Social Perspectives. Boston: Allyn & Bacon.
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