I am one of those.

I am one of those people whose parents hit her for no rhyme or reason.

I shaved my legs, I died my hair, I spilt a glass of milk.

I was too fat, too thin, too pretty, too ugly….

I just was.

And through the looking glass of my television set I knew that they should not hit me.

I knew that I was inherently right and they were just plain wrong.

But what was I to do? I needed them.

I wanted to be just like everyone else and for that I got hit not once, not twice, but more times than I can count, more times than I can remember.

Then one day the pain stopped.

That was the day I knew I needed them to survive.

And so I forgot the beatings and awoke each day all brand new, fresh faced, wide eyed and hopeful, but the cycle continued.

I got hit, I got spanked because….

The mornings I found were soothing and calming filled with promise

But….

If a cloud of rage came over my parents and colored their day, my life….

Smack!

Flesh hitting flesh, a sound I forgot, but my body aches, my heartaches. I ache. I can’t seem to not ache but I cannot feel the pain.

By Anya F

August 17, 1997