Part 1 – The Early Years: Surviving Childhood

From my blog series: “Still Standing: My Journey Through Darkness to Finding My Voice”

Content Warning: This post discusses abuse, assault, and trauma.

I’ve been diagnosed over and over again since I was a child. My earliest memories aren’t of toys or playgrounds — they’re of survival.

At first, the “reason” for my struggles was the abuse I endured at home. My siblings weren’t just mean; they were cruel. My brother would throw things at me or hit me over and over. Then I was made to do things no child should ever be forced to do, when I was just six or seven years old.

Then came the assault from someone I thought was my friend — someone who turned out to be much older than I believed. For weeks, he took advantage of me. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how. And I was scared of what would happen if I did.

The Day Everything Changed

One day, he brought a friend with him. We went swimming at a public pool, and there — in plain sight — he assaulted me. Afterwards, we walked to the school across the street where a young boy came up to us, begging for protection from someone.

They gave me a pocketknife and told me to help. The boy pointed out the person he needed “saved” from. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone — I was terrified. But the man I was with took the knife from my loose grip, and in the process, cut his palm. He understood what had happened.

The police showed up. Everyone but me ran. I stayed, thinking that was the “right” thing to do. My abuser and his friend were also taken in for questioning. When they were searched, the police found handcuffs, knives, condoms — and other things I can’t even remember. He’d been threatening me and my family for weeks, so I just kept letting it happen. I had to introduce him as my “boyfriend.” I had to play the part. I was only 13 or 14.

I thought he was 17. He was much older.

Sometimes I wonder if getting arrested that day saved my life. Sometimes I wish it had just ended everything so I didn’t have to keep suffering.

Chained and Waiting

I sat in the cold police station — soaked from swimming and rain — wearing nothing but a bikini. They chained me to a desk for what felt like hours. My abuser pled insanity in court and got a shorter sentence. He was released from prison just a couple of years ago.

Not long after all of this, my dad told me he had cancer. Our world fell apart again. The doctors said it was slow-growing and he’d likely die of natural causes before the cancer took him, but that didn’t bring much comfort.

I still remember him telling me once, before he knew, that his greatest fear was getting cancer like his dad and brother. That was the first time I ever saw my dad cry.

Stay tuned for part 2!