Diary of a Rich Kid

I grew up wealthy, everything that everyone else had I was given in tenfold. I got what I wanted in excess and I chose to ask for more instead of being satisfied with what I got. Most would say that I was a spoiled brat, and in some ways, they’re probably right. But beneath that wealth, that lifestyle, that excess, was a painful and damaging childhood.

I was abused from day one, emotionally, psychologically, mentally, and sometimes physically. My spankings became beatings all too quickly and they moved from my backside to my face, my head, and my eyes and every else on my body that could be accessed by any weapon my parents could find.

No one ever knew about these things. Our family is the epitome of secretive. Behind closed doors there was pain, strife, and chaos, but the very second we climbed in our expensive car and pulled up to church, our hair was curled and our smiles were always a bit too wide. We sat up straight, said “good morning” and “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” People were so impressed with us, my sister, my brother, and I. We were such well-behaved children. And we made our parents look put together and capable, like the most stable family in the world.

There was nothing stable about my family. My parents chose to take the pain from their abysmal childhood experiences and take it out on us. Because all of a sudden they had the control, they were in the lead, they won. They had children of their own and they could do and say whatever they wanted to them without question or comment from anyone else.

I started to figure out the patterns at a young age. I never saw my parents’ tirades as an act of love or care for me or my siblings. I found it hard to believe that my mom cracking an inch-thick chopping board in half over my sister's head as an act of love. Especially since her reasoning behind it, was that she “thought” my sister rolled her eyes at her.

It’s ridiculous, the things that money can hide: abuse, insecurity, pain, imperfection, struggle, secrets. And that’s exactly what my parents did to me and my siblings. They tortured us, messed with our minds and screwed us up in irreversible ways. And to mask it, to try to convince us to believe that all of this was okay and that it was “out of love,” they threw money at us: vacations, school trips, clothes, bags, shoes. What we wanted, we got. Before the age of ten, part of me knew that something was off. There was no way that every family behaved this way. During my teenage years, the war in my head scarred me. In one hand, I had keys to a BMW, but in the other I had a razor covered in my own blood and a wrist full of scars. Something was off, I knew it, I felt it. There was a reason why I always felt so tense and so unhinged, raw and crazy.

There were multiple times in my childhood that I saw my parents for who they truly are, but there's one moment that sticks with me. Where I began to realize that this wasn’t the way love was supposed to be.

When I was around 7 or 8, I had gotten in trouble for something, whatever I said or did is something I don’t remember. And of course my father came after me with a belt and spanked me for I’m not sure how long. And when he left, I picked myself up off of the floor and placed my little hands on the dresser, staring at my teary reflection in the mirror. I voiced for the first time how I felt about my parents.

“I hate them,” I remember telling my reflection. I’m pretty sure I called them idiots or something childish, but the next thing I know, my father is rushing back into the room, he had heard what I said. He lifted the belt again, hitting my backside and my arms and legs, until eventually I ended up on the floor. Staring up into my father’s seething face, “hate that!” he yelled. And left the room.

When I think about the moment I realized that this couldn’t be the way that all families are, that something was wrong, this is the moment I go back to. Blurry images of my father's face above me race their way through my brain. Afterward, I was either coaxed or forced by my mother to go apologize to my dad. There were apologies and hugs and kisses, but that emotional wound hasn’t heal. I think that’s why I remember it so much. I even remember what I was wearing when it happened.

I’m not ashamed of it, as crazy as it is, it doesn’t bother me. I just want answers.

All of this looks perfect from the outside, but nothing is ever as it seems. If you wear a mask long enough, it becomes who you are. That mask completely takes over who you truly are, and then one day when you look in the mirror, that’s all you see.

I write my life in anonymity because it's quite gruesome. And this is just the beginning.