Pieces of You asked: Do you remember what you were afraid of when you were a little child? What brought it on? How did you deal with it?

My father began beating me when I was less than two. It was right after I began to walk. Looking back, seeing the hatred and rage in his face was worse than the physical pain endured, although I didn't think so then.

I remember being afraid of not knowing. Not knowing what would set him off. Not knowing when or where he would begin his beating. Not knowing how long it would go on. Not knowing if, this time, he would or could stop.

Offenses like touching something, sitting without pressing my knees together (I was a toddler), looking at my mother wrong, or not folding the dinner napkins correctly could get me a bloody whipping by his belt.

Slumping while walking, holding my upper body like I had a chip on my shoulder or laughing the wrong way would cause the beating to begin from behind. I wouldn't know it was coming and he would attack. Without knowing he was behind me, he would kick me in the ass, thus breaking my tailbone too many times to count, or slap my head from behind knocking me to my knees. He would then pick me up by my long hair, throw me around a little so I would have to face him while he was screaming at me. Then he would make me turn away to walk to my bedroom for the official whipping. I would always walk too slow, according to him, so he would wrap his hand around the back of my neck and lift me off my feet so just my toes could touch the ground and "walk me" to my bedroom. I have degenerative joint disease in my neck as a trophy.

He would throw me through the bedroom doorway, he seemed especially pleased if I hit the bureau or the bed post, scream at me to get up and stop crying. He would rip his leather belt out of his pants fast. I'll never forget that sound. When I first got married, Hubby and I were talking in the bedroom as I put away clothes with my back to him. He whipped off his belt to get changed for a run and it shattered me. I whipped around bawling. I scared Hubby so deeply, I felt worse for him than me.

As my father would grab me, shake me, scream at me and rip my pants down to my ankles, I would try to think about how lucky I had been if, during the process of getting me to my bedroom, he didn't belt me with his cupped fist, that always made my head pound for the longest time.

Then the official beating would begin. That's when I stopped crying and stopped begging, "Daddy, please don't do this."

I would take it. I would count the strap slaps. I would think about if he had the buckle toward my skin or away. I would think about what I would have to wear for the next few weeks. I would also think, after he slammed my bedroom door on his way out, I would have thirty minutes of safe time.

He never came back into my room immediately following a beating. I was safe to finally cry, but I did it as quietly as I could. I would gently lay on my bed face up, keeping my pants off so I could place my ice cold hands on my hot back flesh. When my mother saw blood stains on my bedspread one time (I always had flowery or busy material bedspreads), she scolded me and told me to not lay on my bed after getting a spanking. I didn't care what she said.

I would lie there until my hands felt as hot as my back flesh. Then I would practice bending my knees, one at a time. When I could bend both without scooting my skin along the bedspread, I would slowly begin to roll over to one side. Then I would push myself to a sitting position. Most of the time, I stayed here for a while and had another little quiet cry. Then I would stand in front of the full length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I would stare at my face for a long time, thinking really bad thoughts, self punishment for making him hate me so much.

When I couldn't bear to look at my pathetic face any longer, I would take off my shirt and turn around. I would count the marks, both from the belt and from the buckle. They would cover from my shoulder blades to the back of my knees. This made me strangely proud, to know what I had endured and not cried. This was the one piece of me he couldn't destroy, a little pride in the accomplishment of endurance.

My mother would then call for me to set the table, or pick up the dogs' crap in the back yard, or take my youngest brother for a walk. I would pull on my clothes without scraping flesh, walk into the bathroom to splash my face and do whatever was asked of me "with a good attitude" because my safe 30 minutes had expired and another beating could come my way, if deserved.

No sense in being afraid of outside wickedness, when it was right in my family.