The Don't Fall Game was a game1 my father played with me before the age of five. It involved my father making me do something physically difficult, terrifying, and sometimes, just flat out dangerous.

I had to do it for as long as I could or be punished, and I always got punished because the game was unwinnable.

I always fell.

An example of the Don't Fall Game would be my dad placing me on the arm of the couch and telling me to stand there until he told me I was "done".

Being "done" meant that we played the game until I had suffered long enough to entertain him.

This game was particularly cruel because I had flat feet that required medical braces. My father refused to let me wear them, saying they made me ugly. Without proper support, balancing was even more painful and difficult than it would have been otherwise. My untreated condition meant I struggled with physical stability even on normal days, making the balance games all the more sadistic.

Every single time we played this game, I would try to balance for as long as I could, afraid of falling, but more afraid of my father.

If I fell too quickly, my father would brutally yank me up and scream in my face for not trying hard enough. Sometimes, he would accuse me of defying him, and other times, he would insult me and call me names I didn't quite understand yet.

Then he'd roughly place me back on the arm of the couch to try again.

In the beginning of this game, I really tried hard. I did not want to disappoint my dad, but I just could not understand why it was so important that I do these things.

I would eventually realize my dad was just a mean man and tried not to internalize any of the horrible things he did or said to me.

It didn't make the game any less terrible. It just helped me understand what to expect during it.

This game had many variants. I remember being made to stand on a rocking chair, a side table, a box, a riding toy, a brick, a fence, - anything unstable or narrow enough to scare me but not enough to end the game too quickly.

Sometimes, he’d lift me and tell me to grab onto something overhead like monkey bars, a shower curtain rod, a clothesline, or a tree limb.

Other times, he’d draw a circle on the floor that was just big enough for one foot. I had to stand on that one foot until I fell out of the circle.

When that got too easy, he’d draw the circle just big enough for my toes, so I had to balance on my tiptoes instead. This version of the game was quite painful.

Then there were the times when he would put my life in danger.

Once, he made me stand on the porch railing of our second-floor apartment. He caught me when I fell, but what if he hadn't?

That was the moment I realized my father was willing to risk my life for his entertainment.

Another time, he put me on the hood of the car and slowly drove back and forth in front of our place. When he hit the brakes, I would be thrown off the car and onto the road.

Eventually, I learned I could sit down and grab hold of where the hood met the windshield, but the car was almost always hot, and I would get burned.

We only played this version a few times because I believe my father was afraid he would get caught since we were outside2 where someone might witness the abuse.

The worst version we played was when he would put a blanket on the floor and tell me to stand on it. He would start by pulling the blanket slowly, lulling me into a false sense of security, but in the end, he always yanked the blanket out from under me.

One time, he had yanked the blanket out from under me so hard and so fast that I hit my head on the ground and was knocked out. I woke up to his laughing face. The back of my head hurt worse than any pain I had ever felt, and it sounded like I was under water.

I started crying, but then felt an immediate stabbing, sharp pain in my head, so I stopped. I had to endure this injury by myself, in silence, as I did with most of my injuries.

I have no distinct memory of when or why the Don't Fall Game came to an end, but I am so very thankful it did. This game had caused multiple injuries to my head, feet, and wrists, as well as being scraped up and bruised from landing on the road and burns from hanging onto the hood.

Looking back, I believe my father simply learned to adapt the games to cause pain instead of injury so he wouldn't risk exposure.

Where was my mother during this game? She was there. She was always there.

No matter how cruel my father was or how badly he abused me, she never intervened. She just watched and... smiled.