That beating more than any other scarred me emotionally. I crawled into a fantasy world of my own from which I have never recovered, but where I could be safe and the world could be a nice place - but if I left anybody into it they would mock me for being dreamy and weird. I'll never forget taking my clothes off and looking at my back in the mirror the next day and the terror of seeing the physical evidence. And my father was a decent man. He was a Mennonite Bishop, and he would not have his childern go "wrong" no matter what. He really believed that beating his childern into wimpering, cowering, shaking, obedient, selfless kids was the way to make them good Christians. Whenever I hear people say how wonderful the Mennonites are, so peaceful and kind and humble.
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