Most my childhood is a blank. But I can recall having friends up to about the second grade. After that, there wasn’t really anyone who I could call a friend. At least not a true friend. I wasn’t invited over to other people’s houses or to birthday parties. There were no play dates, no sleep overs, no parties at my house. Granted, there were other reasons no one was ever invited over to my house. My father being the main reason for that. I think also there was some shame about where we were living. No one else in my school lived in a trailer home, in a trailer park, in the not so nice part of town and right next to the tracks.

I believe it was his constant abuse that made me into a bit of an odd child. Well, maybe a little bit more than odd. I became someone who didn’t fit in with the other children at school. I had to mature well beyond my years and quickly. I found I couldn’t identify with those of my age. I could identify with grown adults much easier.

By third grade, I simply became the target of my classmates abuse. I was the odd child out that didn’t fit in. Most my fellow students came from affluent families. They were dropped off in BMWs and Mercedes – I was dropped off in a faded blue pickup truck. My mother made my clothes.

Because of these differences, I was subject to constant bullying at school. I soon found no refuge in my life. Abuse at home, abuse at school. I built a hidden place in the back of my closet. My stuffed animals were my friends. For awhile it was a refuge, until my father became enraged when he couldn’t find me.

By sixth grade I had ceased to care about my appearance, my hair became an unwashed mess. I didn’t care if my clothes matched. I withdrew further into myself.

In 7th grade, I had a complete breakdown at school. I remember being in the lunch room absolutely bawling my eyes out. No teacher asked me what was wrong, no adult approached to see if I was okay. I sat alone at the table. A single student eventually came over and asked me what was wrong. That single act of kindness saved my life that day. To this day, I owe her my life.

In 8th grade, my father was responsible for putting me in the hospital for 3 months. I found being there safer than anywhere else. There my father couldn’t touch me.

By the 9th grade, I had attempted suicide.

Over the summer that year, I met someone who showed me love and caring. I held another person’s hand for the first time. This simple act began a change in me.

Highschool was a bit of a new start for me. I went from a small private school to a large public school. I worked summers and saved enough for a car. Once I could drive, I spent every hour I could at my church. My faith sustained me. I found safety there for the first time.

At the beginning of my senior year, my youth leader had found out what was going on in my home. His wife invited me to live in their home. In the middle of the night, I packed everything I could into my car and left home. I never looked back.

I thought I had escaped completely. But it didn’t know at the time the scars I carried. I didn’t know I couldn’t ever have children.