I always used to say ‘yes’. My mother never taught me how to say ‘no’. That’s why I am in a corner crying. Not crying, crying is too little of a word. I am sobbing. Heart retching sobs that make my body convulse and make me shake uncontrollably. That’s why in my head I am repeating over and over things that make me feel only inches tall. Why did you just take it? Why didn’t you stop him? You’re to blame you didn’t say no! You didn’t stand up for yourself! I am in the corner of my new room in the new house that my mother made us move to.
The house where the new man in her life lives and they are going to get married. I am fifteen and I am sitting in a corner sobbing because his actions hurt more than any other pain I have ever felt. They hurt my body, my physical being, but they also cut deep into my young soul and start to create a hole that tears me apart. Tomorrow | start a new school. I guess I have to stop sobbing. It’s my fault anyways. Then it happens again, and again, and continuously for months.
My mother is now married to the man and I am now sleeping in a room down the hall from his and it will not lock and I never feel safe. I have been to school and I have begun making friends and trying to happy. But he is leaving scars on my body and on my soul and I am sinking into myself into a dark abyss. The longer it goes on the friends I have made slowly drift away. No one likes to interact with broken things, because broken things make us human’s angry, expessically when it’s not something we can easily fix. We avoid them at all cost.
Now I am alone. And I am broken. And it is all my fault. Mom says it is alright. His palm meets my cheek with the force of an angry adult male. Mom says he will change. Fingers intertwine in my hair, pulling, tugging, and tearing. Mom says just stuck it up for the rest of the family. “You know you like it you worthless piece of -” Fast forward six months and I am the only one who has changed. My mother still naive and hopeful. The rest of the family is oblivious. He is still leaving scars and taking what’s ‘his’ and ‘punishing’a ‘rebellious’ young girl.
I am still cold. I do not speak to anyone or show emotions like I used to. I still have no friends because I am punishing myself for letting this happen. But I am also angry and I am full of fire and hate and anguish. Every time he touches me or leaves another mark on my another mark on my soul it adds more kindling to an already roaring flame of disgust and rage. Inside a strong woman is being born and she is done being sad and being the victim. Mother still says “don’t rock the boat ‘you’re overdramatic’ “suck it up”.
And I know while I am under the roof of this man I cannot speak my mind or stand up for myself. But it drives me to take action that three generations of women have been too scared to take. Oh trust me I am scared, I am beyond terrified, like a doe sprinting from the hunter with a gun pointed right to her heart. And for almost a year he has shot me right in the soul and he has taken his claim on his kill in unthinkable ways. And I still can’t help but to believe somehow, it’s all my fault. Now I am sixteen. I have a car. I have a job. I have a savings account.
I am working forty hours a week, only to keep ten hours’ worth of pay because he takes the other thirty for the food I eat and the space I take up. I also am making straight A’s in school because that’s all I have. And mom is still saying ‘submit’ but I am getting closer and closer to saying no. I practice it in the mirror when I get ready for school. I practice it at work while talking to my coworkers or customers. It is easier to say than I ever believed. But I still choke when he comes in and makes demands or makes me feel two inches tall. Everything I have taught myself goes away.
And it’s still my fault, I can’t say no. Six more months have passed and I have slowly started trying to say no. It has caused fights and made the pain he inflicts even worse. But I am trying to get the law on my side because the fire inside of me hasn’t given up, it has only grown stronger. It is a sunny day and I am going to check my P. O. Box where all my mail goes so that he doesn’t have access. He thinks I’m out buying his cigarettes. And there is a letter. A small letter from a lawyer’s office who wants to help me. Who wants to help me get emancipated.
I sent out letters before, leaving a lot of the pain and suffering out of my story but highlighting the stealing of money and lack of food provided and school I’ve had to skip and now one is replying and offering to help for a smaller fee than usual. I know I have the money saved and begin the process immediately. Because it is my fault and I have to fix it. Fast forward three years. I am living on my own in a small apartment in my second semester of college. I work forty hours a week still to pay the bills but that is okay. Because I am happy and I am healing. And for the first time in five years, I know It is not my fault.
