They hit you.
Over and over and over again.
For big stuff that frustrated them. For small stuff that defied them.
To keep you in line. To keep you in check.
They said they loved you. They made you believe it was something you did. They made you think you deserved it.
You say you deserved it. That they didn't really mean harm. That you are better for it.
They couldn't help it. It was all they knew. They must have loved you. Even though.
You couldn't understand. It made no sense. But it had to make sense. Because it was love.
That made it okay.
They hit you more than once. You never left. You couldn't leave. The house was theirs. They paid all the bills. You had no where to go. You had no resources. You couldn't fight back. Or they would hit you again.
They were bigger. Stronger. In control. You, were theirs.
You couldn't tell your family. You couldn't tell your friends. Who would understand? You had no advocate.
And they didn't always hit you. Most of the time, there was laughter. Those same arms held you close. Caressed your skin. Held your hand. Kissed you and said they loved you over and over again.
Until you messed up. And it was back again.
You loved them. And feared them.
And you believed and believed that you must have deserved it. You still believe you deserved it.
You never did.
Your parents were wrong.
Don't repeat what they did.
Break the cycle.
End corporal punishment.
They hit you.