I don't know. She is a short, tiny little woman with light brown hair and glasses. She has an empty smile but tries her best to seem like the perfect mother and woman in front of anybody from outside the family. She breaks down alot tho when nobody hears and sees and I think and hope it's because of how her children grew up. She just stood there and watched while our dad fed us beatings. She even agreed on bringing more kids to this world where a 120 kilos man are making it hail hands all over the bodies of her children.

My mom got her first baby with this man when she was 18. It didnt take long until the beatings started. When dad thought it was enough with the defiant little 3 year-old boy he snapped. He just couldn't keep his temper on a healthy level for a dad with his child. It just said boom and the boy got an introduction for whats gonna happen until the day that little boy is a destroyed teenager and decides to leave home for good.

So who is really my mother? My mother isn't a real mother. A mother should have stopped anything that harmed her kids but she didnt. She in the other hand thought it was a good idea to put more kids to this violent world. 6 years after the first baby she got a little baby girl. That little girl had to be taught how to behave the exact same way as her brother did, by a rain of hands all over her tiny little body. 7 years later another little blonde girl popped out and after that there was 4 more baby girls who got out 1-3 years in between eachother. Seven lives were put on this earth and my mother let all of them get so badly beaten that she had to put them down on the dinner table in the mornings to cover up the bruises, wounds and scars with her make up, foundation and powder so that teachers, school bus drivers and other parents wouldn't see. Long sleeved shirts and long pants were used all year around no matter how hot it got during the summer to hide our beaten bodies.

My mother wasn't a mother, she never were and will never be not only because she let this happen but because she also joined in. His explosive temper kind of infected her. She didn't beat us as hard as He did because she wasn't even close to his size or strength but it hurt so much more in the heart when she was giving out the beatings. It was a betrayal to me that felt like a cold knife going thru my heart every time I was laying there on the floor trying to protect my face from her. It hurt way more to have her, my mother, beating me up even tho my dad hit way harder.

She usually told me to go to my room after a beating, and that always ended up with me crying in my closet where nobody could hear or see me. During the summers after I closed my door i always climbed out thru my window, ran out to one of the farmers fields where they grew crops, laid down and just cried my heart out. That's where I was truly alone and that's where I feel safe yet today - alone.

So back to the question, who is my mother? Not even I have the answer to that. She gave me life but a life that I never wanted. As a 7-8 year old I was already thinking about ending everything myself because of her.
I was getting tickled by my two older sisters. I laughed a little bit too loud and I awakened my dad who was sleeping late and working during the nights. He had been working alot the last couple of days and therefore he was in an extra bad mood. I already had gotten beaten up twice that day because of things I didn't do but because he had troubles taking me as his real daughter because I looked a little different from the others it was easy to put the blame on me. He always took my siblings words over mine, always.

I got scared for my life when I heard him flying down the stairs because it really was my voice that woke him up this time. It was really my fault. I knew that this round wouldn't be gracious. He had been so mad at me earlier that I actually thought that he might kill me this time. My survival instinct told me to hide, to seek protection so I ran over to the kitchen, to my mom, threw her long skirt over me to hide and cried to her "save me mommy, please save me". When he got down the stairs and went in the kitchen where my mom was doing the dishes while I was hiding underneath her skirt and he asked where I was, my blood froze to ice but I still had hope that my mom would answer "I dont know" or "she ran out" but instead she said with no emotions "here" and took her skirt up a little bit and pushed me out like a cat with her foot. She was colder than my blood felt. My dad took my hair in a steady grip and threw me out in the hallway and started beating me without letting go of my hair. I was so scared of my life that I peed myself but the beatings just continued. He tore my head back and forth so that I couldn't keep my hands up to protect my head but at that point I didn't even care. I was so shocked that my mom was just standing there watching me crying for help without looking away, pretty much without even blinking. That betrayal was the reason why I started feeling unloved, unwanted and like I didnt even matter. I stopped trying. I was just hoping that he would beat me to death. I wanted to die.


To clarify - I don't want that anymore. This is only the beginning of my story. This is only some background story for my real story so that you can be able to see the whole picture once I get there. I want to write this for the future me in case I have a relapse but also for others who have gone through a similar life that might find strength and hope in my story. I feel for you so feel free to message me - I'm like an open book.

See you soon.


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   It's time now. My life finally took a gigantic leap forward. I have been standing still for so long, stomping on the same square feet and its time now, my life has started to roll.

   I have to explain some things before I can start. I must also warn you of a touching story. I cannot tell all at once so you have to show a little patience. In addition, I write this mainly for my own sake but hope that it might help other people to find strength in my story. 

   I was born one day in March, I already had two sisters and a brother. I didn't look like my siblings. I had a black afro and my skin tone and my facial expressions was just darker than theirs. My dad thought that I was the result of my other being unfaithful. I guess that made it hard for him to take me as his daughter although he took a paternity test that showed that my mother haven't been unfaithful at all. I have had as well difficulties getting close to my dad, or to correct myself - it has been impossible for me to get close to him, it never really happened.

   My dad was a big man. 2.95 m tall, 120 kilos and very strong. A real manly-man as they say. He was an amazing dad above all, he was a really great dad that anybody would love. Although he had been raised by a mindset from the 1800s "a real beating is all that takes to teach them right". And my dad had 2 half brothers and 1 half sister who he had made a promise with that they would never ever lay a hand on their children the way that their parents had layed hands on them. I believe that promise was the reason why all of this ended the way it did. 

   My dad had a really good sense of humor, he was very funny and brought laughter out of anyone. He loved us, we felt it and he showed it really well once he wanted to. He did everything in his power to keep us safe, have a roof over our heads and to put food on the table. He worked his hardest to entertain our greatest needs. He protected us against eberything as best as he could. We were many children, there are 7 of us and my mother handed out news paper when I was a little child and my father worked as a truck driver so I have grown up in a very poor home with debt to our ears. We all inherited clothes and toys from our older siblings and cousins and we all have therefore been bullied as kids and had a hard time in school fitting in. 

   It might sound like my dad really did everything for us, as if he really was a great dad, right? He really was, from time to time but it was extremely rare if there was no one else around. He had an explosive temper. He raised us in the way that he promised his siblings that they would never do. Behind closed doors, he was my greatest fear. I was terrified when our guests closed the front door behind them and my dad was th only one left. That was when all our safety disappeared and we all began to walk on our toes to please Him. It only took a spilled glass of milk to make it hail hands or other things he could use to beat us up all over our bodys. 

   Violence has been there as long as I can remember and I can recall that once my younger sisters learned how to walk it was already time to start raising them his way and that's the way its been for me and my older siblings as well.

I can't write more about him right now, my mind can't handle too much and I guess yours can't take in much more at once either. But I will return with more of this, more details and the continuing of my story. This is like one-half percent of my story that I want to share, but I can only take steps to make it a long way. 

See you soon.

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