The Day I Realized I was an Abused Kid

I thought everything was normal for most of my life

Photo by of woman in glasses by Ulkar purchased by the author

I was a teen in the 90’s. I wrote angst-filled poems while listening to Teen Spirit with the bitter taste of Rave hairspray on the back of my tongue. I wore flannel, combat boots, and forever chipped black nail polish. I was the shy, quiet kid in the back of the classroom who doodled into the corner of her notebook and let the popular kids copy her homework.

I was also perpetually the new kid in class as our family moved every year with my father’s jobs. This meant I had few friends and those I had were just as reclusive as I was. We huddled together in the back of the class and rarely spend time together outside of school.

I made one friend who lived within a short walk from our place, and she invited me to spend the night at her house. We had a nice time together until it was time for me to go home. My friend’s parents started yelling at her about her grades. She calmed them down until I left, but as I looked back, I saw her father backhand her so hard that she fell back on the ground.