My childhood was mostly carefree and seemingly happy. We attended church every week and not just on Sunday mornings, but on Sunday nights and Wednesday nights as well. Me and my brother did AWANAS, my mother sang in the choir, and we seemed like a model Christian family. However, on the inside something was not quite right. I remember my dad getting home later and later-always telling us he was working. Many times I went to sleep to my mom and dad arguing and shouting at each other...that is, if sleep would come. And if my mom and my dad weren't arguing, my mom and my brother usually were. Everywhere I turned there was tension and shouting. I would hold my hands over my ears to try and shut it out. I'd be as silent as possible and try to be good for fear of getting screamed at or getting the belt. I was not abused, but when my dad punished me for something I had done wrong (like not eating my green beans) I would get spanked with the belt- sometimes on the back of my legs and sometimes with the buckle...depending on how angry he was. For the most part, I tried to go unnoticeable. I loved my dad, but I was beginning to just be afraid of him.
And then I was 8 years old and the nights my dad were late become more and more. Always we got the messages that he had to stay late at work. And then he came home one day, smelling awful. I could tell my mom was worried and she hurriedly told me we were going to the movies. My dad acted disoriented. He was to come out the front door and go with us, so I heard my mom say to him. My mom and I got in the car, but she started backing out without my dad. And when my dad came out the front door, we just drove away...leaving him standing there by the door. We didn't even go to the movies. Instead we went to some one's house- they lived on the bay- and we stayed the night. Thus began many nights when my mom and I would sleep somewhere else other than our home. My brother mostly went to his friend's houses and well who could blame him? When my friend asked me why I wasn't at the bus stop in the morning, I didn't know what to say. And then she wasn't allowed to sleep over at my house anymore. I couldn't have anyone over for the night. When we went to some one's house and the kids asked me why my mom was crying, what was I supposed to say? "Oh my dad came home drunk and my mom is worried and scared, so we came here."? I don't think so...who says that?
I seemed put together at school and around my friends, but I started to withdraw. I became quieter and mostly let no one see my pain. I was ashamed and I didn't want anyone to know what was happening. And I was upset with God. I was a new Christian and I felt like I was being abandoned. I didn't realize that God could use even the broken pieces of my life- the sand- for His glory. I was confused, upset, and hurt. I turned to an escape- I turned to books. I'd read about Concentration Camp victims...trying to console myself that hey, at least I didn't have it as bad as them. But when the book went down, the pain would still be there. I become a little obsessed with the Holocaust and I dug up anything I could find about it. I started to become numb to the pain, to the horror and for some reason I thought that was helping me cope. Little did I know, I was merely putting up a wall of defense. And so an 8 year old girl started to grow up too fast.
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