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Oh my God! My little sister is headed to the hospital again!  My father has once again, carried out another despicable act. He still thinks that water and food is being stolen by his children.  This time, he takes the bottle container that everyone knows is used for water and fills it with kerosene oil.  My little sister, thirsty and needing a drink of water, has taken a swallow of kerosene oil.  She is once again hospitalized for a few days and then sent home.  Life goes on as usual; nothing to see here!


As the years rolled by, we settled into our school and despite our painful family life, we still maintained good grades and even had some friends.  We did get to go outside and play at times, but our father still maintained an iron grip and his corporal punishment was no less.


He continued his abuse on his family both physically and mentally and by now we were his full-blown slaves!  His wife and children were at his beckoned call.  My mother would prepare dinner and he would eat first. The table would be set for him and he would sit down to eat and take as long as he needed while his children waited for their turn to eat.  If we made a sound or did anything that annoyed him, we would go to bed hungry and not be allowed to eat.  My mother had grown quite accustomed to the dysfunction and she did nothing to interfere with his decisions.


We were growing up and we were becoming more and more aware that we were not a normal family.  My brothers started to rebel against my father's actions which ended in physical fights.  They were turning into teenage boys and were pushing back against the abuse of our mother and their younger siblings.  My father would not allow anyone to challenge his authority and he would choke out his young sons.  My mother tried to intervene during one incident where he was severely physically abusing one of my brothers and he turned on her with "the leather belt" striking her with all his might until she fell.


At that moment, my hatred for my father was so real and so great, I promised myself that I would never marry a man who had even the tiniest traits of my father.


My oldest brother was now almost sixteen and he was beginning to build his life away from the family.  He had a part-time job and he was the contributor to the support of the family.  My father never returned to work and the suffering of the family was so great, my brother chose to quit school and go to work full-time to ease the financial burden on my mother.





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