Violence, by then, was the undercurrent to my life. My father beat the crap out of me; he abused everyone close to him. He used a belt or a flyswatter on me, and sometimes the beatings felt random, confusing, unrelated to anything that I’d done. He was mad at the world, and taking it out on me. What had I done wrong? Why didn’t he love me? I never got answers. When I’d cry from the pain, he would tell me he wouldn’t stop beating me until I stopped screaming, stopped showing weakness. I would force myself to shut down, my skin bruised blue all over.
