SOMETHING DISGUISED AS LOVE
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When I was a child, my father beat me, cursed me and humiliated me. The violence was creative: He dragged me from the house and tossed me into the yard. He called me filth. This wasn’t a passing loss of his temper or a slap on the cheek here and there, but a routine of sadistic abuse. My crime was me myself, and so the punishment was endless. He had a need to be sure I would break.