Lady Silhouette

My life has never followed a normal childhood, and the concept of a happy home was strange to me from an early age. My mother, though strong in some respects, never seemed able to live without a man in her life. I can’t pinpoint all the reasons, but the traumas from her own childhood certainly impacted the way she raised her children.

In her twenties, my mother was married to an abusive man, a relationship that left deep scars. He would physically beat her, and eventually, she had two children with him my older siblings. Despite the violence, she was told repeatedly that she had to stay with him because no one would take her on with two children from another relationship. These hurtful words, spoken during the 1980s in a strict Catholic household, weighed heavily on her.

Later, she met my father. Sadly, he was no better. He, too, subjected her to further abuse, even going so far as to sell her to others to pay off his debts. My mother once shared a shocking moment when my father sold her to a neighbor, only for him to discover them in an intimate moment. He said nothing, just walked away. This was the kind of abuse my mother endured, day after day.

At one point, she met a man who was religious, and he seemed good to her. However, my mother, accustomed to abuse, couldn’t help but miss the patterns of abuse that had defined her life for so long. Eventually, she entered another toxic relationship, this time with a much younger man involved with drugs. The abuse intensified for everyone around her, including us, her children.

There were loud house parties we would attend, drinking, and dancing. It was at one of these parties, in a moment of confusion and fear, that we began experiencing things no child should ever endure. The abuse became more evident, and yet it went unreported, never acknowledged. My older sister, in particular, suffered the most, and when she spoke out about the abuse, my mother, deeply in denial, refused to believe her or take action.

For years, we lived in this cycle of silence and fear. My mother, unaware of the sexual abuse she was enabling, would leave us with her boyfriend while she ran errands. Each time, he would target one of us. My sister, desperate to protect me and our other sister, would always volunteer to go when he called, but it was a never-ending nightmare.

Eventually, my sister got a boyfriend and moved out, the abuse both physical and emotional, continued for both of us left. He eventually got tired of abusing my sister and he would call me into his room, at the time I was only 5 or 6. I recall him telling me that he loved me and him wanting a big hug. Next thing I know I am under the sheets and he is touching me. He would have me touch him I was frozen in time didn’t know what to do. Finally I hear my mother yell out my name and I ran out of that room as fast as I can, but before I left he said don’t say anything or else. I eventually did tell my mother years later but she didn’t believe me. Eventually my sibling also came out to tell her But by that time, the damage had already been done. I was too young to understand what was happening, but I knew something was terribly wrong. The shame, the fear, and the confusion became a constant weight on my soul.

This story is hard to share, but it’s important to speak out, even when the wounds still feel fresh. It’s important to remind others that they are not alone, that healing is possible, and that we can break free from the chains of the past. This is why I wright, you are not alone.