If you think your childhood was miserable, take a few hours and here my story. You might think this is fiction. You might think that this is all some work of fantasy, put together to entertain young adults. You might even go so far as to think that I’m poking fun at the situation.

It isn’t. Sure, my name is fake and technically I’m not a real person but that does not mean that this isn’t real. Everything I’m about to tell you is real. I’m simply a name and a face slapped onto every child abuse story and experience that’s ever happened.

So while Violet Clark isn’t my name, and I don’t live in Utah, I have many names. I’m in every state.

Because anybody can be a victim of child abuse.


My name is Violet Clark. I’m eighteen now, but the story starts when I was only three years old. My earliest memory of my mother was when I drew on our walls and she smacked me so hard I blacked out. I’m pretty sure that was the first time she had ever hit me, because before that, everything was fine. Well, as fine as it could be.

Her rage only grew more intense as I got older. When I was five, I was over at a friend’s house when I told the mother of my friend that my mom hit me a lot. I guess she didn’t believe me, because when my mom came to pick me up, my friend’s mom told her what I said. My own mom denied that she would ever hurt me.

As soon as we got in the car, she reached over and dug her nails into my leg. Her eyes were filled with anger and fury.

“What the f*** did you say?” She kept pressing her sharp nails in further. I started to cry. When I couldn’t speak because I was so scared, she said it again. “Listen to me! What the F*** did you tell Allison’s mother? If you don’t answer me I’ll hit you again!” This was enough to make me shut up and talk. I pushed down the fear in my stomach and stammered,

“I told Ms. Miller about how you hit me sometimes. And about when you got mad so you made me stand in the corner with my arms over my head for an hour.” Mom narrowed her eyes, and got real quiet. When she got quiet, that was the worst.

“Just wait till we get home,” She mumbled, “I’m going to beat you so hard you’ll turn black and blue.” I remember how scared I was. I kept thinking that maybe if I banged on the car window, someone would see me and rescue me.

I prayed to God for my dad to get home soon. Whenever my dad was home, the spankings and hittings would never be as bad. But when no one was home, my mom had the freedom to go as far as she wanted. She told me to go upstairs, into her room. I was shaking so bad I couldn’t walk up the stairs right. I knew what was coming. My mom walked slowly up the stairs and locked the bedroom door behind her. I knew I was in for a bad one when she closed the blinds.

“Don’t scream, you brat,” she snapped, “Or else the neighbors will hear and take you away from me.” At the time, getting taken away from my mom seemed fine. The reason I didn’t scream was because I knew she’d beat it out of me until there was nothing left to scream.

I was an only child up until I was six years old and mom gave birth to Matthew. I thought having a brother would distract mom from hurting me. Mom always loved Matthew and babied him, even when he did wrong things.

She stopped calling me by my name when I turned ten.

“You, girl, go get milk from the fridge downstairs.”

“Girl, do your homework or I’ll spank you.”

“Girl, go get Matthew his toys.” My dad never said anything. Every time I was with him, I begged him to talk to mom. I’d plead with him, begging him to make mom stop. I’d always say that my dad was bigger than my mom and therefore she didn’t have to beat me.

I wanted my mom to love me so bad that I was willing to sit there and get hit like I was a punching bag.

One day, I hadn’t finished my English assignment.

“I’ll do it right now,” I told my mom, bracing, “I’ll go get my writing stuff.” She clenched her fists really tight and took my notebook.

“YOU CALL THIS F***ING PIECE OF CRAP AN ESSAY?!” Mom smacked me in the face and the spirals on the book left an ugly scrape across my cheek. I kept crying and telling her to stop, but she grabbed my arm with my nails and pulled me to the dining table. “You’re going to sit on your ass right here until it hurts. You’re going to finish that paper. I don’t care if you stay up all night.”

I was grateful when she walked away and went back to the kitchen.

Hours passed. I watched my family eat their casserole dinner at the kitchen counter like I wasn’t even there. My stomach growled. Matthew leaned over and asked,

“Why isn’t Violet eating dinner?” So my dad kept quiet while my mom said,

“She doesn’t get food because she’s been very bad. You get food because you’re a good little boy.”


It went on and on like this for years. Even when I turned fifteen, I still let my mom push me around. She couldn’t hurt me physically anymore, but then the abuse turned psychological. Mom wouldn’t let me go anywhere but school and home. What little friends I had, Mom told me that I couldn’t talk to anyone.

“You’re a f***ed up little s***, you know that?” She said this to me when I brought home a C+ on my math test. “Someday you’ll be homeless and I’ll laugh. If you don’t get good grades, you’re nothing.” But regardless, Matthew brought home his fifth D- of the quarter and mom just shook her finger.

I was getting tired. I really was. I started to sink into depression and cutting. When I turned sixteen, my mom pointed out that I was fat and that none of the other girls at my school had a muffin top.

I shouldn’t have cared about what she said. But I did, anyway. I struggled with an eating disorder until my seventeenth birthday. My mom ignored me the entire day. I guess that’s the best birthday present anyone like me could get. I indulged on some stale cookies in the garage, while my dad turned a blind eye.

I thought that this was how my life was going to be until the day everything changed.

“Get me some coffee.” Mom demanded, even though she was standing right next to the machine. I was starting to get really angry. When I wouldn’t move, she raised her voice. “Don’t just stand there, b****. Get me my coffee!” I thought I was going to stand up to her, but I chickened out. So I made her the coffee and handed it to her.

She sipped. A contorted look of disgust crossed her face. Mom splashed the entire scalding cup on me. I screamed in pain as I felt my chest and arms burn.

“You moron!” She screeched, “This tastes like s***!” I whimpered and tried to tolerate the burning sensation.

This was when it happened.

I was so done. This wasn’t going to happen again. I was not going to let my mother push me like this.

“Don’t ever touch me again.” I snapped, glaring down at her.

I bet you’re thinking that something amazing was about to happen. Some epitome that would turn into a movie.

To tell the truth, all I did was flip her off and walk out the door.

Right now, I’m living with my cousins in California. I told them about all of the abuse and now we’re pressing charges together.

At first, I thought everything was my fault. But then I realized that no one deserves to be hit and crushed like my mother did to me. And for Matthew? He learned that our mother was truly sick. Dad divorced mom and took Matthew to New York.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. I hope she knows that she needs more saving than some people ever will.