Growing up as an abused child and trying to overcome the devastating effects of abuse.

Essay by lilmissmawCollege, Undergraduate October 2003

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Growing up in the 70's was like being plunged into a wild, raging sea without a life jacket.All the kids my age were experimenting, trying to find themselves,and enjoying the peace movement.Me, I was trying to do the same thing, but in a totally different way. I didn't experiment with drugs, I wasn't Miss Popular, my parents weren't "loaded", and I definitely needed and wanted to find inner peace,my place of belonging.

I was the third of six children and it was quite obvious, the least favored of the bunch.Anything that went wrong seemed to always be my fault,even if I wasn't home when it happened!My parents fed me, clothed me, provided shelter and avoided all else, unless it required taking the belt to me.I got the feeling that's how they got their satisfaction, bringing my blood to the surface.

The bllod dripping from my back, legs, arms or face didn't hurt as much as the blood that dripped from my heart and continues to do so today.

I still hear the words of hate, see the daggered stares and feel the brutal cold hands of love that "raised me".

I recall, as if it were yesterday: I was 10 years old and had the hiccups. It was on a Saturday and Dad didn't have to work. He was situated in his shabby, old, brown tweed recliner, watching a fishing show. My hiccups must have been annoying him beyond any degree of reason. He screamed like a wild commanche, "Judy Marie! Get in here!" I knew I my goose was cooked,right then and there and immediately started wailing like he had taken a two by four to me. I drooped my head and, like a beaten down puppy, went to see what he wanted."What have...