“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better” – Anne Lamott 

It happened a little bit at a time, as abuse often does. 

It’s like that old fable about the frog. It goes something like, “if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will immediately try and jump out. However if you put a frog in a pot of room temperature water and then begin to heat it up, the frog will sit there and boil to death.” This fable is often used as a metaphor to try and warn people about being more aware of gradual changes in their lives, relationships, or careers that could have potentially catastrophic outcomes. 

I didn’t learn until much later in life that this is false. Even a frog will jump out of the slowly warming pot to avoid danger. I was an adult and for a long time, frogs had more sense than me. 

It wasn’t obvious abuse. I wasn’t bruised or bleeding. It was the kind of abuse that started as a small seed in the pit of my stomach, growing larger and more devastating every week that went by. It was the kind of abuse that started with a side-eye glance. An eye roll tossed in my direction when I spoke. Text messages being ignored. One offense came right after the next at accelerating speeds and degrees of hostility. It got a little physical. A lot of horrible things were said. What started as small, confusing interactions quickly developed into nuclear assaults on my character and the people I loved most. The most horrifying part? It was all done in private, behind closed doors. 

How is that the worst part?

Out in the world, in front of friends and loved ones, it was all smiles and hugs. It was putting our best faces forward and pretending nothing was wrong. It was somewhat of a family tradition to sweep things under the rug and let things heal naturally in their own time. But what if they never heal? What if they get worse and worse until it makes you physically sick? What if the stress and sadness makes your hair fall out, your skin develop weird rashes, your stomach unable to keep down a simple meal? What if things get so bad that your mind is never quiet? What if you’re having imaginary conversations with yourself in the shower – carefully crafting your next reaction to their impending malevolence? What if when you finally start to talk about the abuse outloud to other people, no one believes you because there were no warning signs? 

This is, was and will forever be my fear. I’m afraid that for the past four years, I have covered it up so well, that anything I could say now would be met with eyebrow raises and judgment. I’m afraid that once the truth is out, it will be met with a smear campaign and additional abuse. I’m nervous all the time. 

I can’t keep living like this. I don’t want to. I can’t keep all these skeletons in my closet because I’m running out of room to hide all the unfortunate truths of my life. The closet is bursting at the seams and things are starting to seep out of the cracks. There is no room in my life for honest healing while I lug around this closet of bones in my head. 

Since early 2020, the abuse has escalated to a point of no return. One day, one simple phrase being screamed in my face changed my brain chemistry. It changed everything that came after… and before. 

“You’re dead to me” my stepfather yelled. He was leaning over the stairs that went to the second floor as I stood a foot below him. His eyes were wild and his face was contorted into a rage I’ve never seen on him before. It felt like I’d been slapped. And I kind of was… I was slapped with the reality that my stepfather did not love me and perhaps he never did. 

I just want to preface these stories by saying that I’m not the innocent victim. I made some wrong steps. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. I am notorious for pouring gasoline on a blazing fire, but in my heart of hearts, I know my faults lay solely in my reactions. I never, not once, STARTED a single fire. The fire was already there, burning me away one layer at a time. My life was like a losing game of Minesweeper for almost 4 years. 

I’m also not writing about this to throw anyone under the bus, regardless of what some may believe. As exhausting and heartbreaking as the abuse has been, I’ve been keeping it deep inside my chest in fear of backlash, of not being believed, of being blamed. What’s done is done and it cannot ever be undone. I’ve come to terms with that. I don’t have to hold on to it anymore. I can share my experience. I’m writing about this in hopes that it might be able to help someone else because I wish I found someone who spoke about it for me so I was better able to understand what was happening. 

“I was taught that keeping quiet kept the peace. Until I realized – whose peace is it keeping? The offenders at peace. The people who don’t want to deal with it are at peace. And I, in this little body, am holding all of the war. So, I don’t want to hold it anymore” – Dr. Thelma Bryant 

When I was going through the process of losing my mother, which was made infinitely harder because of the hellstorm my stepfather created, I searched and googled and self-help booked myself to death. (Im talkin’ silent, embarrassed tears at Barnes & Noble from frustration that I couldn’t find any text to walk me through this experience). And then it dawned on me. This is a very taboo topic. No one wants to “air their dirty laundry” for the world to judge them. No one wants to dig up the past once they’ve tunneled out the other side. No one wants to open up old scars. No one wants to drag someone they spent so many years loving through the actual mud. But sometimes the only way to help heal both yourself and others is to be honest and show people they aren’t the only ones who have gone through this. You are not alone. 

That is my disclaimer. 

These stories are going to come out slowly, piece by piece. I need to make sure they are accurate to protect myself while also maintaining a semblance of mental stability. I may blog about other topics in between because it’s too hard to stay in such a negative space for too long. I hope you bare with me. I hope you understand.