Pills intoxicate my body. My vision blurs and a wave of panic sweeps over me. My body shakes as my dirt-encrusted fingers touch my yellow skin. The thumping of my heart shatters my ears. I begin hyperventilating. Eventually, I crawl out of bed and try to find my way to my dad’s room. I stumble and hit my head against the wall. I fall to the ground and clutch the carpet, crawling down the hallway.

“Daddy,” I cry, attempting to stand. He turns on the lamp on his night stand.

“What? What is it?” His voice is concerned.

“I-I overdosed on pills. I need to go to the hospital.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

I begin violently sobbing. “I wanted to die.”

He looks at me with fury, his gaze the only thing in focus.

“Look, you got the attention you wanted. Are you happy now? They are going to lock you up with the other psychos like you. What were you thinking?”

After this tirade, he drives me to the hospital where they pump my stomach and give me medicine to control my anxiety attack. The entire night consists of a vomiting little girl who can’t stay awake long enough to notice her surroundings.

My father keeps saying, “It’s good to throw up so you can get the poison out.” But in that moment, the last thing I want is to recover. In that moment, I lose all hope for my father and me. Our relationship died that night, but I, sadly, did not.

In the United States, over three million reports of child abuse are made each year involving over six million children, according to Ascent Children’s Health Services. These children experience all types of abuse: neglect, physical violence, emotional, verbal, and sexual attacks. Sometimes the signs are easy to see. Bruises or scars are visible to the outside world. It’s the internal damage that’s harder to spot. Children who are abused at a young age may experience impaired brain development, poor physical and mental health, depression, anxiety, drug use, low self-esteem, and even suicidal behavior. People who experience severe traumatic events, abuse included, are 30 to 50 times more likely to attempt suicide, according to The Journal of the American Medical Association.

In the hospital, I lie hooked up to machines. My father sits and stares at me. His large hands cover his face. He looks up when he realizes I am awake. He rubs his temples then sighs. Despite my drugged haze, I remember certain things. Waking up to face that monster who pushed me to the point of attempting suicide still shakes me to the core. How could he have let me end up here? My mother told him to check on me before he went to bed, sensing something was wrong, but he didn’t. Ever since I could speak, he has belittled my emotions and dehumanized me, driving me to become self-destructive. I can’t shake his abusive words from my mind, no matter how hard I try.

Eventually, he leaves the room without saying a word. The sight of him brought back everything I tried to free myself of. The pain in his eyes, the disappointment, lack of remorse, the echo of his voice telling me he doesn’t care if I hurt myself.

I wasn’t the only one dealing with my father’s neglect and abuse. I witnessed my mother experience it too. Fifty to 70 percent of men who abuse their partner also abuse their children, according to LiveStrong.com. “I didn’t realize I was abused until the divorce,” my mother says, “but it came as a relief. I wasn’t to blame for everything. There was a freedom in knowing it wasn’t all my fault. Now, as I realize what he did to you, it destroys me.”

I wake up to find my mother sleeping beside me, not a trace of my father. The IV in my arm runs cold through my veins. My head aches. My heart is numb. I feel a squeeze on my hand. It’s my mother.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

She rubs her eyes. “He went home.”

The doctor comes in, surprised to not see my father. He tells me to practice walking so I don’t lose the ability. My mother helps me out of bed. It’s difficult to stand. My legs are like noodles. The doctor tells me that I’m lucky I’m not in a vegetative state, let alone dead.

I think, Dad was right about me being a failure. I even failed to die. I clutch my mother’s arm, and we walk around the hospital.

Once I am transferred to the psychiatric ward, my mother visits me daily. My father has left for Florida without even a phone call. He says it’s a business trip, but he has a habit of cheating on my mom when he travels.

According to HealthDay.com, verbal abuse and neglect can be just as destructive as physical and sexual abuse. Abandonment and name-calling are ways to inflict pain on the victim.

I don’t see him until a week later, at a family meeting held to determine whether I am stable enough to face the world. When I walk in to find him sitting across the table from my doctor, he smiles at me as if nothing is wrong. Fear strikes me to my core as shivers slither down my spine. How could this man abandon me then return as if he cares? It’s all a game to him, and I’m done playing.

“I didn’t realize how much damage he did to you until you ended up in the hospital,” my mother says. “I think I didn’t notice your depression because of my own. I once was a very strong, vibrant person, and he took that from me. I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

“I think he did that to both of us,” I say.

My mother begins to sob as she draws me into the safety of her embrace.

For more information or to get help for domestic abuse, contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 or www.hotline.org.