*Trigger Warning: This blog post talks about child abuse.*

After a much-needed hiatus to wrap up my master’s degree and my therapy journey, I’m thrilled to be back in the saddle. With renewed energy, I’m ready to continue sharing the raw and unfiltered state of my mind, aiming to connect with others through my personal stories.

I am a survivor of child abuse. My most frequent abuser, “Ahole,” was my mother’s second husband. He used beatings, strangulation, and other twisted inventive punishments to teach us “lessons”. Regrettably, when it came to our defense, our mother’s role was far from that of a protector. Instead of offering a helping hand or taking a stand on our behalf, she adopted a different stance – that of a silent witness to our suffering. She occasionally crossed an unthinkable boundary, actively wielding a paddle with holes drilled through it. It was a twisted instrument designed to intensify each strike by minimizing wind resistance. The intent was to break us, to force us to cry, and yet, I stood my ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my tears. (stay tuned for the blog where I share how I didn’t shed a tear for a decade).

A house of horrors was my reality for fourteen long years. While the frequency of abuse lessened as I grew older, the intensity escalated to even more unfathomable levels. The question lingers – why didn’t I speak up? Why didn’t I seek help sooner? The answer is nuanced and complex. Imagine a timid, socially awkward child whose sense of normalcy was skewed by the horror of her surroundings. I did, in fact, reach out for help. In seventh grade, I summoned the courage to confide in a guidance counselor, baring my soul and scars. His response? A demand for proof, dismissing the finger-shaped bruises on my arm as insufficient evidence. He perpetuated the cycle of silence, deeming my pain mundane.

I also confided in my small circle of friends, sharing fragments of my reality with one of their parents. The outcome? Silence. In the haze of the ’90s, this was the way of things. It was a time when the collective societal awareness about abuse was dimmer, and survivors like me were left to navigate a pitch-black labyrinth of despair alone.

“Things happen for a reason,” they say. Yet, I stand in defiance of this notion. The scars that marred my past hold no purpose I can fathom. There is no rational explanation for why a child should endure such horrors. The guidance counselor’s disregard, the isolation, the pain – all these fragments of my past, they do not equate to a greater purpose. Shitty things can, and do, happen to good people without rhyme or reason.

But here I am, a living testament to the indomitable strength within us all. My upbringing might have implanted the belief that I deserved the agony, that I was meant to suffer. But the truth is resolute: No one deserves such cruelty. No one should be subjected to the darkness that once consumed me.

As you join me on this journey of words and emotions, remember that my story is a beacon of hope. A reminder that even in the darkest of times, the human spirit can rise, reclaiming its light and strength. Let’s shatter the silence that surrounds abuse, replacing it with understanding, empathy, and the unbreakable bond that binds survivors together.

If you are someone you know are experience abuse, there is help, please reach out to the Domestic Violence hotline