I don't remember exactly when it started, but I learned pretty early on to beware the "wrath of Daddy". He's not really my father. He married my mother when I was 18 months old, and he's the only male figure I remember, so he became "Daddy".

I don't remember the first time he hit my mother, but I think my earliest memory of incident would be when I was 3 or 4. It was around Christmas time, and I had gotten a Lite-Brite. I had made a picture and wanted to show Mommy and Daddy. I walked in on them, together on the couch, in the den -- he yelled, spanked me hard, and sent me running and screaming for the safety of my room. I don't remember him hitting me elsewhere, but I remember being absolutely terrified of him.

Looking back now, I don't remember much, and I might had been instructed to stay in my room so they could be alone. From what I'm told by other relatives, I was not a child who acted up a lot or misbehaved, usually did what I was told, and was usually very content to stay in my room ... I guess I picked the wrong time to go show off my artistic achievements. Whatever the case may be, he should not have reacted that way, and my mother should have stepped in and put a stop to it. But she didn't, and things only got worse as time wore on.

My brother was born just before my 4th birthday. I remember being excited ... I wanted a playmate. I've always loved my brother very dearly, but growing up I always sensed a bit of favortism towards him from Daddy and never understood why. I was never told that he was not my biological father. I never knew that my mother was married to another man before Daddy -- I found out when he first contacted me at age 23. Daddy has never acknowledged this and does not speak about it ... but I'll expand more on that later.