As a vibrant child with a lot of energy, I Ioved to sing and dance. I enjoyed being the center of attention. So much so, that my nickname as a child was “Marilyn.” I even used to record my own talk show with my younger brother with my dad’s old video recorder. What I didn’t realize is that a lot of the times I was hiding my pain.
Growing up my stepfather was the disciplinarian in the house. Standing over 6ft tall with a booming voice he exerted the power in our home including being physically abusive to me and my brothers. We were slapped around, hit with belts and fists, even thrown up and down the stairs. I never thought of those behaviors as wrong seeing that it happened on a regular basis.
Ironically, I loved my stepdad deeply. He was the parent who took care of us. My mom was not around as much. It is no wonder that my life turned upside down upon his death 8 days after my 11th birthday. I remember thinking after I was told he had passed, “Rita, don’t you cry. You are not weak.” I didn’t shed one tear that night. I honestly don’t think I could if I tried. I even went to school the next day as my mother and brothers stayed home to grieve. I didn’t want to feel weakness in my body. I was too afraid my dad would find out and be disappointed in me.
For a brief moment I was relieved to have a break from the physical abuse, but it didn’t last long. My older brother Robert became the man of the house and successor; he continued the abuse. I remember one incident where my younger brother Carlos had wet the bed (after my stepdad passed, Carlos had an incontinence problem). Robert found out he had wet the bed. He snapped. He grabbed Carlos, dragged him into his room and repeatedly shoved his face in the wet spot on the bed. I was screaming at Robert to let him go. I screamed, “He is just a child.” He wouldn’t stop. He held his face to the mattress and kept repeating “lick it, do it, or I will not let you go.” I lost it! I charged my brother and broke Carlos free from his grip. It was then my turn. Robert grabbed me by my hair, dragged me down the hall to my bedroom where he continued to abuse me behind a closed door. I lived with fear in my body, my heart, and in my soul.
I didn’t sleep most nights. I used to wait anxiously for my mother’s bedroom door to close every night. Upon hearing her door close, I would immediately drag my tall dresser in front of my bedroom door and grab my blanket and pillow to sleep in my closet. This was my nightly ritual. As lonely and afraid as I was, I couldn’t shed a tear out of fear someone would hear me.
Countless times I tried to tell my mother what was happening. To her, I was lying and always over exaggerating. She never once tried to help us, until she had no choice, when my brother was placed at Whales Juvenile Detention Facility for violently stabbing my mother and admitting to the police he wanted to kill his family. My days of singing and dancing were long gone. All I had left was my writing.
Writing allowed me to get my emotions out and escape the reality I faced daily. It made me feel good to have my one binder filled with my words. With my dad and brother gone, my mom became the next natural successor. I remember coming home to an intervention. I was numb, but on high alert. All I wanted was to take my binder and leave.
My mother and family told me how wrong it was to write like that and that I should be ashamed talking about my mother the way I did. I then stood there and I watched my mother take my binder and throw it in the fireplace. At that moment, I lost the only voice I had. From that day, I didn’t write again. Instead, a hateful exchange of words with my mom led me to telling my mom, “I just want to die.” At that moment all I wanted was my mom to say, “I love you, or please don’t say that.” My mother stopped, took a breath and said, “Go ahead and do it. It will be one less mouth to feed.” After a failed suicide attempt, I stayed in the hospital for 3 weeks. Not once did my mother come to see me. She had abandoned me.
Upon my release I was taken to a group home, then a foster home only to come back home to be put on a greyhound bus bound for Texas where my biological father lived. A father I hadn’t remembered since birth. My 3 month stay in Texas proved I’m much more like my father than my mother and served me well on my healing journey.
Unfortunately the pattern of abuse and abandonment led to the dysfunction of my future relationships. However, I was already on a spiritual journey to self discovery. I have grown stronger with each passing day and allow myself to heal from the wounds of my past. It has been 2 years since I have removed myself from a relationship that modeled the cycles of family trauma and abuse. I have chosen to step into my personal power and taken my life back. Every day I choose to not be my circumstance. It is a power I believe every human deserves to live in.
Being a part of the LOVE>hate Project has ignited a passion that has been buried for so long. I now see the value of sharing, although traumatic, every voice deserves to be heard, and yours does too. Together we can end interpersonal violence with all of humanity loving in unity.
