When I was growing up my mumma kept our little cottage spotless. Poppa would frequently fly into a rage and smash and break furniture. Mumma would be upset for awhile but she would always quickly tidy up. We always had a clean house, but our family was dysfunctional.
I always think back to that time, and realize that I was a vicitm of child abuse and severe domestic violence. I had a social worker who would come to our house before I started school at the age of five years old. Because I was an only child, I never suffered the overcrowding that most of the families would have had.
I always had nice clothes, and I remember my mother always sending me pretty lace dresse from her home here in the United Kingdom. I would sit and watch the other children where we lived and I would always be envious and wish that I had a nice mom and dad with sisters and brothers to play with.
I coudn’t even have freinds and I was a very lonely child because poppa would tell all of the neighbours not to let their children play with me, because he said I was a bad child.
In my opinion abuse is far worse than poverty. If I would hve had holes in my shoes and patches on my clothes, but had loving parents my life would have been so much different. I never think about our tidy house, I think about poppa smashing our furniture an swearing at me. I remember him grabbing me and throwing heavy objects at me, telling me to “fuck off”. Then he would beat mumma and make her unhappy.
I told the psychologist that oppa had flown into a rage and smashed my bed to pieces. My mumma did try to repair the be but poppa had smashed it so much the pieces were to small to even think about putting back together. Mumma used the wood on our burner to make a cake.
I was so sad no to have my little bed anymore, and I thought that poppa was indeed a very nasty man.