“You idiot! You are so stupid! What is the matter with you? I’m sick and tired of you!” My father’s words, repeated countless times during my childhood, crushed me to the core of my identity.
His verbal blows hurt much more than the beatings he gave me, but they were pretty bad. I learned to sit at my school desk on the side of my thighs rather than on my buttocks. I had to sleep on my stomach. I never looked at my wounds. I did once and it made me feel worse.