I remember when I was younger, I dreamed of having any kind of relationship with the woman my dad was marrying, hoping we would wear matching dresses like the mommies and daughters in the movies.
I have to admit, I had a very rude awakening at such a vulnerable age of five. Things were going great for a while, until your true colors began to show anyways.
Five, that is how old I was when I realized that the evil step mothers could be so much worse than they were in the Disney movies.
Five, that is how old I was when you decided it would be okay to hit me and abuse me.
Five, the age where kids are supposed to be making messes, playing outside in the mud.. But, I was cleaning blood from my shirt after you busted my lip.
Seven years, that is how long it took for someone to rescue my sister and I from you. Seven years can really scar a child.
Those seven years where I could have been learning how to color inside the lines, cook macaroni and cheese, maybe even an egg sandwich. Instead, I was learning how to put makeup on to cover the evidence you left in plain sight.
I was experiencing things that no child at such a young age should ever have to experience, I was feeling pain that no child should ever have to bear. I was finding a new meaning every day when someone tried to describe what abuse was.