I was raised by my maternal grandparents, until at age 9 my grandmother could no longer care for me due to advanced cancer.
I was sent to live with my father, and his family. I received a sound beating at least once a day. Usually it was just to remind me to be good. Everything I brought with me was burned or destroyed in front of me.
I slept on a roll-away bed in the living room, while my father and step-mother watched TV. I was beaten with a hair brush because I wouldn't go to sleep.
I also slept in the bathroom, and the attic.
I was dropped off at someone's door, or kidnapped from others so many times I can't remember them all.
On my Paternal grandparent's farm, I was put in with three farmhands. All of them parolees. I was being sexually abused for months. When I told my father, he spanked my with a belt for telling lies about adults. Then my roll-away was put in a closet.
I went to live with my mother. My step-father was an abusive alcoholic. He would beat up my mother and me on an almost daily basis. She was what today would be diagnosed as bi-polar. Spent most of her time in bed. As the oldest of 9, I was caring for the other kids, and running a dairy farm. We all had nicknames; I was worthless-bastard, most of the others, I would most likely be censored for listing.
At 13, I backed by step father against a tree with a butcher knife, after coming home drunk and beating up mother. She talked me out of killing the bastard, an action I regret to this day. He is the only thing in this universe that I truly hate.
I spent the next 5 years being bounced from on foster home to another, until I graduated high school (barely)and enlisted in the Marines, just to get away.
The Marines treated me better than anyone in my family ever did.