The family is too poor, and I always look eagerly at the cute stationery in the hands of my relatives. When I was six or seven years old, I stole an eraser from my cousin and was discovered by my father. He was furious and could not accept that there were thieves in the house, so he folded my hands and feet back, took me to a relative's house and threw it on the floor, opened the door, and beat me with a belt to show everyone. I asked my father a few years ago, do you remember you beat me like this? He said he didn't remember. Do not remember, or do not want to remember? Then I really felt that it didn't matter anymore. After beating me up, my father usually fell into self-blame. The big man couldn't apologize, so he went to the stationery store to buy cute Japanese pencils and handed them to me,
who had a bruised nose and a swollen face. Of Photo Restoration Service course I am overjoyed. I'm just a kid, a poor kid who always wanted to have the beautiful eraser in someone else's pencil case and a lace dress. This is my childhood. Severe domestic violence. Nosebleeds after being slapped on the face, locked in a dark toilet, beaten until the whole body blooms and rots. Thirty years later, I have not forgotten it. When I think about it, my eyes are still wet, just like when I was writing an article. You say I still hate it? If I still spend time hating, I'm wasting my life. We don’t talk about forgiveness, which may be something only God can do. We talk about reconciliation with ourselves. Don't keep your emotions in painful memories, move forward, and don't be fettered by any bad people and bad things.
Remember the pain of being hurt, and be a gentle person who can empathize with the pain better than anyone else. Since I was a child, I have suffered too much, and domestic violence is only the initial link. I've always longed to be recognized, praised, and loved; every time I see an essay or speech contest, I sign up because I want the prize and I want to be praised. I still remember that I really had too many certificates, and later I wrapped them in a big black garbage bag. When a friend came to visit, he would diligently open the garbage bag and take out the certificates to show off how good his daughter was.