Inspiring, heart-felt stories for you 3

What They Didn't Know

When people enter the town I grew up in, the town I lived in all my life, they pass an old sign that says,


"Welcome to Keaton. Population 350"


Kids in my old high school used to come up with ways to destroy that sign without being discovered. After all, no one particularly enjoyed living in a town so small there were no such things as strangers. Kids, myself included, dreamed of big cities and hectic schedules. Instead, we were stuck with horses and cows and rolling hills. I guess there are good things to say about small towns, and the people who generally live in the small towns but I've always believed things would have turned out differently if I'd lived in the city and had known more people.


If I was ever asked to describe my life, my automatic answer was, "It's normal" but the truth was that there was nothing normal about either me nor my life. It was just that I was exceptionally good at hiding my real life from everyone. I was so good at pretending to be just like everyone else, in fact, that no one would have guessed or believed the truth if I hadn't written it down for them.


Everything really began when I was four years old. I still remember hearing his heavy footsteps and watching the bronzed doorknob slowly turn. I still remember the blast of light from the hall momentariarly blinding me and I remember pulling the thick covers higher up on me. My body still vividly remembers the feel os his weight settling down on the bed beside me and asking me if I wanted to play a game. His voice sounded as though it were being broadcasted over a radio - it sounded unnaturally loud to me. That was the first night, at age 4, that my body became someone else's. I don't remember crying while he was on top of me, hurting me, but I remember feeling as though I were suffocating: I couldn't get enough air into my lungs.


That night was the end of my childhood.


Worse, it didn't stop. That was only the first night. At first, he told me that I'd get in "bad trouble" if I told anyone but when I became older, that changed to, "If you say anything, Cara will get hurt." Cara was three years younger than me and wasn't only my sister but my best friend, too. So, I never could tell anyone and couldn't really even think about it myself.


I handled it by making the abuse something that happened to another girl, not me. Somehow, I separated myself from it and made myself distant. It was like I was an observer but not actually taking part in it. I think now that I was numb to all the pain, but at the time, it made me feel different from everyone I knew. Different in a bad way - why else would my father do such things to me and why else didn't I react the way others would? Why else didn't I know what the "right" way to react was? Feeling different, then, was another one of my secrets, and as I got into high school, I consciously decided to become as "normal" as possible. See, I thought if I could bury the guilt and the shame I felt in school then it wouldn't hurt as bad.


So, I joined every club I could find to join. I was a member of the FTA, the FHA, National Honor's Society, First Priority, and I made straight As. At school, I was accepted not only by my peers but by teachers as well: some would even say that I was looked up to. I never understand that - why others looked up to me - because, unlike the truly popular kids, I never talked to anyone. I just went to meetings, made the grades, and went home. The person I became at school was someone completely different - in every way - than the person I was at home. At home, I was so scared and so ashamed that I barely moved, while at school, it seemed I had more freedom, more confidence in myself.


By the time I reached Junior year, I actually had friends that talked to me and with whom I hung out. They always came to me with their problems: I wanted them to do so because helping them with their problems allowed me to bury or hide my own pain. No one ever asked me about my home life. They never knew about those things that I went through every night with my dad. I lied to myself and told myself I didn't want them to know.


The day that forever changed my future was really my fault, as usual. My dad told me to be home right after school, rather than going to the football game. Normally, I would not have dared disobey him, but, for some reason, I decided I didn't want to go home and so I went to the football game instead. I forced myself not to think about what my dad's reaction would be and concentrated instead on the football game. Finally, though, I was worried and afraid so I made an excuse to the people I was with and went home. The house was eerily quiet when I arrived - the lights were out, and I didn't hear anyone doing anything. I thought my dad had either left the house or was asleep and, I prayed, didn't realize I had disobeyed him.


Without making a sound, I walked to my bedroom. I had almost got there when my name was called. I turned to see Dad standing at the end of the hall, belt in hand, anger written all over his face. I don't believe I've ever been so frightened in all my life.

The next hour or so I don't really remember what exactly happened. All I know is that Dad was using the belt on me, and he made me take all my clothes off and he hurt me again, in a way that no child should ever be hurt. By the time he staggered out of my room, I was crying and blood came from cuts on my face and back and hands. The wounds his belt inflicted this time had cut through the skin, yet I didn't even have the energy to put pressure on the wounds. So, I just laid there, my blood mixing with the salt of my tears. While I laid there, I decided I couldn't take any more. No one knew about the abuse and I was afraid no one cared. there wasn't anyone I could tell, no one that could help, no one that would understand and I was afraid that I'd be trapped in this pain, in this house, forever. I really couldn't see an end to the pain, and the pain was more than I could bear.

I *had* to get out.


The sad truth is that I spend the rest of that night lying on my bed, crying. I was crying because I knew that the only way out of this misery would hurt, too. Years later, I would think back, from somewhere far away, and I'd realize that , on that night, the happy mask I'd worn since I was four years old, had finally fallen. Others would talk and speculate, others would wonder what had went wrong, those at school would be shocked and would haphazardly guess at my past but the truth was that no one would ever really know. No one would know that my heart was broken. No one would know that the smile was nothing but a clever charade. No one would know about the abuse of my father. No one would know that I'd spent my childhood, feeling guilty because I loved a man who did nothing but steal my innocence. No one would ever know any of these truths. And no one would know, until much too late, that, to get away from it all, on the night of the homecoming game, I'd complete suicide.

Tiffini Johnson

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