Alright, so where do I even start? This is going to be a sort of long story, and it may be a bit disorganized, so bear with me here.

I mentioned in one of the previous chapters that my parents are divorced, right?

I was born in Pennsylvania, while my parents were still happily married. We lived on this beautiful property in the Pocono Mountains. The happy marriage didn't last long though. I was only 11 months old when my mom (Staci) and my father (Walter) split up for reasons unknown to me.

Of course, a long custody battle ensued. My mom wanted to get as far away from my father as possible, and she wanted to take me with her. Her family lived in Wisconsin, and she figured we'd both be a lot safer if we stayed with them for a while. But my dad wasn't about to give me up so easily. Blah... Blah blah... Blah blah.

The judge handling the case was tough, according to my mom. She dealt with a lot of the custody cases from Stroudsburg (which was the area where all of this ended up taking place) in her time, but never once had she allowed a mother to take their child such a far distance from their father. It was believed that my mom had no chance, and that it would take a miracle for her to win.

Still, she fought for me despite the odds, and did everything she could to prove that she would be able to offer me a better life. My mom's evidence was convincing enough, Thank God. And to add to that, both my father and his lawyer were unprofessional... to say the least. Rather than offering a decent defense, my father spent a majority of his time saying horrible things and bashing my mom.

The judge was a single mother of three, and for whatever reason, she had sympathy for mom. And for the first time ever, she allowed a child (me) to move out of state. In the area, it was actually one of the most historic cases in its time.

My dad was granted partial custody, however. He would get to see me every winter break, spring break, and Summer break. This is how I lived my entire life.

At first, things seemed okay. By the time I was four years old, my mom was back on her feet and had moved out of my grandma's home. Meanwhile, my father was out meeting new women, and getting by financially with his automobile business.

Things were decent out in Pennsylvania, besides the fact that my father never spent much time with me. He was usually downstairs in the basement, drinking beer with his friends while I was told to sit upstairs and watch t.v. I guess I never minded it much back then. It was what I was used to. Of course, it felt a little lonely sometimes, but I always had a lot of toys to keep my mind occupied.

It was when he meant a woman named Denise, (who I would eventually come to recognize as a second mother,) that the real trouble began.

Denise resided in a small town near Philadelphia, miles and miles away from our nice home in the mountains. She was the mother to three kids, who were pretty close to my age. I was either around seven or eight years old by that point. Their names (which I'm changing for the sake of privacy) were Jack, Simon, and Lisa. I was really hesitant to meet them at first, when my father finally told me that he and Denise were dating and had been for some time.

I didn't know what they were like, and I didn't want to have to adjust to a completely different lifestyle with new people I could only see on school breaks. But as time went on, I formed close emotional bonds with each of them.

Simon, the oldest of the three, was just a couple months older than me. He eventually became like, my nerdy friend. I kid you not, I could bring up any book to him, and he could tell me everything about it without so much as a second thought. He was extremely smart, and could literally blow through five thick chapter books in a day. I'm pretty sure he was gifted as a kid... but anyway. We fought a lot. He got butt hurt about things I said really easily, and we would burst into random arguments all the time. Even so, I grew to love him as a brother. He was always my emotional support when things got tough.

Jack was practically the exact opposite. He had an abrasive "tough kid" attitude. I never once caught him willingly reading a book in his spare time. He prefered to go out skating with his friends, got about a C average for academic grades, and never took the time to think through his problems. Instead he just punched them out. He got into fights with other guys in the neighborhood all the time, and had some anger management and ADHD issues. But he had a soft side for his siblings, (me included,) as well as his mom. He was the type of guy who would paint his nails with me and his sister if I asked him to. He was also the one who taught me how to play the few video games I know now.

Then last but not least, was Lisa. She was the youngest of us all. A good two or three years younger than me. She was probably the one who I became most attached to throughout the time I lived in that house. She was literally the sweetest girl I've ever known in my entire life! She was so kind to everyone, and the only word I could really use to describe her is "innocent." She was always laughing about something, and always had a smile on her face. Every night we'd stay up late together, and we'd tell stupid stories with her night light off to try to help her get over her fear of the dark. She considered me a sister from the very moment I walked through her door. One of my best memories, was when we were braiding each other's hair, and she referred to me as "the older sister" she never had. Unfortunately, she never officially became my step sister.

Sorry about the mini essay to describe them. But I could literally go on for hours talking about how much these three meant to me. However, since I'm assuming you readers are getting bored at this point, I'll move on to the part you've probably been waiting for.

The abuse.

It wasn't long before my father began changing. He stopped hanging out and playing board games with us kids, and spent longer periods of time in the basement. He began drinking himself into oblivion, and as times became difficult and money ran short, tensions between him and Denise rose.

We all started to hear a lot more screaming from downstairs. A majority of it coming from my father. And even though he was spending all of their money on pointless things such as iPhone upgrades and the latest in Bluetooth technology, he always seemed to find a way to blame the lack of money on Denise.

And soon after that, Jack, Lisa, and Simon became the focus of his wrath. They were all "bad kids who needed to be punished," and he deemed Denise to be unfit to parent her own children. He set up strict rules that had to be followed, and eventually he became the sole discipline of the household. His word was law, and in his mind, none of the kids could ever do anything right. ...except me, that is.

Simon was a "liar."

Lisa "never listened."

And Jake was "too damn disrespectful."

But I, I was the golden child. The one who could do no wrong. The one who was apparently better than everyone else. He basically used me to damage the others, by saying, "Why can't you be more like MY daughter." Nothing else in the world could make me feel more guilty. Of course, that's not to say I didn't get my fair share of bull shit from him. But that'll come in due time.

My father was only emotionally abusive to the kids at first, especially to Simon and Lisa.

He constantly called Simon a pu**y, and told him to man up. That he needed to grow some balls and quit being so over sensitive. My father would get right up in his face and scream at him whenever he "did something wrong." And well... let me tell you, that's one thing you don't want to experience. His scream could be so loud that just the sound of it rattled glasses on nearby tables, and shook the walls of the house. Poor Simon became so terrified of him, that he started addressing him as "Sir," instead of Dad, or Walt like he used to.

There was one summer that Simon spent in the basement, sitting on the floor, and facing the corner of the wall. The entire summer. He wasn't once allowed to go outside and hang out with his friends. My father only allowed him to get up to use the bathroom a certain number of times a day. He could come upstairs to eat breakfast and dinner with us, but he wasn't allowed to eat lunch.
We were instructed not to talk to him. Not to even look at him. That if we did, we'd get the same punishment as him. And so he barely had any human interaction all summer, besides when Denise hugged and kissed him goodnight, and when we all whispered encouraging things to him now and then while my father wasn't watching. All because Simon apparently told a lie.

He was forced to think about what made him such a horrible person, to list all the things he had done that were apparently "tearing his family apart." And then at the end of the day, my father would interrogate him about what he had thought of. And if my father didn't like the answers he received, Simon would get another week added on to his punishment.

Then there was Lisa. The poor girl didn't deserve anything that happened to her, either. She was the sweetest person ever, but in my father's delusional mind, her kindness was all just an act. At one point, she was having trouble eating her vegetables. Like most young kids do at some point in their lives. One day, he took it upon himself to bring her down into the basement, and force her to look into a mirror.

And as she looked at her own reflection, he'd tell her how fat she was. How disgusting she looked with her round stomach and "flabby thighs." ...Not only was that not okay, it was untrue. As an active girl who was involved in several sports, played many variations of tag with us outside all day, and barely ate much to begin with, she was already stick thin. And yet, I stood there and watched as my dad gradually began to condition her into thinking she was fat. That if she'd just listen to his advice and eat her vegetables, she'd have a shot at getting better. At looking pretty.

And it crushed me, when she burst into tears and said, "God, I hate myself. Why do I look this? It looks like I'm pregnant!" This happened when she was only six years old. And I still remember it clearly, because at the time, I wanted so desperately to tell her that she was already thin and beautiful enough. But there wasn't anything I could do. My father was so manipulative, that he had every last one of us wrapped around his finger. He made the kids trust him, and love him before he started screwing with their minds. And there was nothing I could tell Lisa that would make her believe my word over his.

He treated me like shit too, as mentioned earlier. Although, I didn't realize it at the time. Call me stupid if you wish, but as a kid, I never realized that any of this was abuse. I grew up thinking it was normal.

There was an instance I remember, where I was playing outside with Jack. And my father came up behind me, slipped his hand under my shirt, and started running his hand along my stomach. This was when I was maybe 11? Keep in mind, that this all happened over the course of years. A lot of the dates get mixed up in my head, as for the longest time my brain blocked out these memories.

Of course, as a pre-teen, my first reaction was to freak out. Especially since his hands were beginning to wander... well... upwards, and as a female, I was getting very uncomfortable. So I kind of jumped forward and said, "Hey, yo! Don't touch me!"

And of course, he took it as disrespect. So not only was I grounded for a couple weeks for stating that I was uncomfortable with him running his hands all over me, but he also called my mom back home in Wisconsin to try to convince her that I had self confidence and body issues, and that that's why I reacted the way I did. He covered up his tracks well, because then he handed me his phone, and told me to confirm everything he said as true. Ever since, he monitored every phone call to make sure I wouldn't tell her anything.

Then he proceeded to tell me, "Don't worry sweetie. Your daddy will always love you, no matter how fat you get."

At dinner, he'd watch over the amount of food I'd eat. And he'd make little remarks like, "Oh, you're sure you want to eat that much?" "I thought you were trying to lose weight, sweetie." Etc. It would make me so anxious, worrying about what he'd say next, that I'd run to the bathroom after every meal I ate, and throw up whatever was in my stomach. When I returned to Wisconsin later that summer, I had dropped 15 pounds and I couldn't eat properly. My doctor's were concerned that it was the start of an eating disorder.

Ever since then, I've hated the feeling of having my stomach touched. And I've never been able to eat in front of people without feeling at least slightly nauseous.

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A/N

Wow, I didn't really realize that I'd have so much to write about. I didn't even begin to discuss the main points I wanted to get to, but this is already long enough. I'm going to have to stop writing for now, but I can always make a second part.