My family on vacation in 2009. From left to right: My father (Joseph), myself (age 9), my sister (Kelly, 7) and my mother (Eva).

March 13 may seem like any normal day to any normal person, but this day means a lot more to me. This day changed my life forever. I was like any normal kid growing up. I had a good life, a "happy" family. I'm the oldest in my family. I have a younger sister. She and I are 22 months apart. I have a mother and I had a father. They were married for 19 years.

You may have noticed I referred to my father in the past tense. This is why. My father was abusive. My sister got very, very ill during her final year of elementary school, and that without a doubt put a lot of stress on my family.

But around this time I noticed a change in my father. He became quicker to anger, more irritated, and I didn't understand why, but I was a child, and I had no idea what happened behind closed doors.

I would like to say I had a good relationship with my dad, but I didn't. My sister was in and out of the hospital many times, often for a week or so at a time, which left my father and me at home, while my mother stayed with her at Jersey Shore Medical Center in Neptune, New Jersey.

During this time my dad would stay in the back room, HIS room, while I cooked, cleaned, and did my own responsibilities, so my mother wouldn't come home to a wrecked disgusting house. But it was during these awkward quiet times where my father would be very strange. Making rude remarks about my mother and my sister, which I would not repeat. But the one thing that always stood out to me was when he said this:

" Once your sister graduates high school I'm leaving and not coming back. There won't be anything left for me once she does. Tell your mother this and we'll have an issue."

So I did just that. I never told my mom.

Flash forward to late April 2017, my father met someone online, (let's call them A) and my parents would fight every week. My father prompting the fight over something ridiculous. I sat in my room every fight, television muted, listening to him. I would get so angry I'd cry and flinch every time he slammed the door shut.

I would pray every day, and I'm not a religious person, that my parents would divorce, which is something no child should have to do. Little did I know, my wish would be granted come March.

Trigger warning. If you are sensitive to violence, please leave the article.

I woke up, went to school, came home and started doing some school work. That's when it started. My parents started fighting, but this time felt different. I stood at my door, with my hand, and on my doorknob. I wanted to run out there and scream at them to stop fighting. But I didn't. I swallowed my tears and went into the kitchen for a drink.

My dad then came stomping into the kitchen and asked me if I was hungry. This was his way of getting us out of the house so he could bad mouth my mother. All I said was no. He then yelled "Oh don't you start" and that's when something overtook me. I yelled back "I am tired of hearing you treat my mother like s**t!"

The next thing I knew he was choking and punching me and had me up against the wall in my kitchen. In my defense, I fought back.

He followed me into our dining room where he pushed me up against a sliding glass door and continued to punch me.

I kicked him in the groin and my mother came over and grabbed me as I was crawling away. I went to go get dressed and next thing I knew I was on the phone with my friend Ryan.

He rushed over and came up and got me and stayed with me while I was waiting for my mother. He held me as I uncontrollably sobbed and he stayed on my street, for my sister who was ill in bed, just in case something happened. We ended up at my mother's best friend's house.

She grabbed me and held me as I started to sob once again. She told my mother to go to my father's brother's house. As soon as he saw me, he grabbed me again and let me cry.

The result of the fight with my father. I had this bruising for about 4 days. It was worse than this, but this was the least triggering photo.

My uncle took my mother and me to the Toms River Police where we remained for four to five hours. It was within the first 15 minutes there that I learned who my father really was; he was a convicted felon. Legally I am not allowed to discuss what my father did, but it's better off if I didn't. I was shocked, but everything was slowly starting to fall into place.

None of my friends felt comfortable around my father, in fact, some of my friend's parents wouldn't let them come over because they didn't like my father.

My mother was granted a temporary restraining order against my father, and we got a police escort back to my home so my father could be removed, (although the circumstances weren't ideal for an escort, it was one of the coolest things I've ever experienced.

My street was completely blocked off by police cars, just in case if my father tried to escape. The first person who entered my house was my uncle.

"Joseph, you've got to be f*****g kidding me" My uncle said as he entered the house. Followed by me, then my mother then five police officers.

Finally safe in my house, the police officers questioned my father, read him the rights of the restraining order, was guided by a police officer to gather some things, and my uncle drove him to a hotel. (There are things I am leaving out for legal reasons)

This was the last time I ever saw my father, and I couldn't be happier.

It has now been 10 months since this awful, awful night. But I couldn't stop and think about something. Why isn't domestic violence among children talked about as much as it is among adults?

Every once in a while we hear about a violent relationship between celebrity couples or how a father/mother killed their wife/husband, but what about the children? The parents/adults aren't the only ones who suffer. I was lucky enough to have so many great friends and family to support me throughout this awful time, but the effects of that day still live with me.

My theatre class at my senior prom. They were just a few of the friends who helped me through this. There are so many more who aren't pictured.

PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, isn't something only associated with war. It is also associated with domestic violence. The first time I thought I had it was when I went to the boardwalk with my friends and I heard a loud balloon pop from a game and thought it was a gunshot. Even though on the outside I was fine, inside I was freaking out.

For the rest of the night, I was totally quiet, I isolated myself from my friends. I started thinking, "Oh god what do I do if I see him? I can't escape." Even at work, I think that same thing. I live my life with anxiety and only recently did I talk to my mom about this

I ended my relationship with my father by sending him a letter. He hasn't tried to contact me since.

If you are a victim of domestic violence, or if you are currently in an abusive relationship, do no be afraid.

You are not alone.

You never know when the people around you are going through something similar. Get out. Get help before it's too late. It may, in fact, save your life.

Finally, Joseph. If you are reading this somehow, I hope you realize what you did to our family, and I hope you realize how awful your actions were, and how all of this could have been avoided.

If you or someone you know is being abused, please contact the number below to get help. It could save a life.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233

For deaf/hard of hearing: 1-800-787-3224