Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come”

Dear Little Sisters,

"Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come." It's kind of funny where my mind goes when I hear this line. I guess I do think about the men who threw me away like trash when I was younger. Sometimes, I used to imagine that I would bump into them somehow and they could see me with the family they never thought I would have-or deserve. They would see me as a wife and a mother and not the one-night stand, the booty call, the on-and-off-again back-up that I always was to them. I want to bump into them not because there are lingering feelings, but just so they can know that they were wrong about me. I wasn't going to be living in psych ward and I was going to be normal and happy. And, yes, you missed out suckers.

But, now that I am older, I think less about how they were wrong and more about how I was wrong. Who knows what they really thought? I'm sure they were dealing with their own issues when they were treating me like shit. It doesn't make it right but I now realize I should have focused more on developing myself than letting myself be defined by them. So now I can see that I proved my 20-something self wrong. That I could be healthy and sane. That I could love and be loved. That I could bring life into this world and not fuck them up. And I have done it for years. Is everything perfect? No. But that is okay because I approach every challenge like it is solvable now. Not like the world is ending.

Because back then my world was hanging by a thread. Every slight was a reason to drive the car incredibly fast and imagine hitting the wall or pole ahead. Every rejection was a reason to scratch my arms until they bled and left long red scars. Every disappointment was a reason why I would sit in my car hear that voice say, "Do it. End it. Now."

I recently went to the store and the girl checking out my groceries, handed me the receipt and her sleeve went up. It was filled with all kinds of cuts. I didn't have to say anything to her because there was a huge line behind me, but I wish I had. I wish I could have said that things do get better even when all you see is darkness around. Even when the pain and hatred for yourself are so much that you can only concentrate on getting through the next hour. That getting through the next hour, can become getting through the next day. That the days turn to weeks and then years. And you find yourself not feeling that pain. That the monster inside you died-not instantly-but by a million cuts of hope. I hope I get another chance to see her and tell her that she is wrong and the best is yet to come.

I know, because I lived it.

Sincerely,
Ratsiram

It was all I could think about

Dear Little Sisters,

x

It was all I could think about... I had a plane to catch in a couple of days with my dance company for a performance in Los Angeles on Saturday afternoon. The problem was I was on 51-50 hold in a psychiatric ward in Mountain View. How the fuck did I end up here? 

Well this is part two of the night that I decided to stab my wrists and as a result taken into the emergency room. The days that followed were a surreal haze of interactions, tears, and solitude. Sometimes I forget that moment in time, that is, until I look down at my left wrist and see the now subtle scar that runs right alongside my vein. I used to fear that someone might notice it but now it’s simply one of the many scars that I carry, most of which are not physical and cannot be seen. 

Maya Angelo said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  In the days that I spent in the psych there are three people that I will never forget. I don’t recall exactly what they did or what they said but I recall exactly how they made me feel. 

The first was the doctor that treated me in the emergency room. He made me feel so stupid and shamed for having drank wine when I was feeling depressed. Even in the midst of my despair I managed to tell him that perhaps he should avoiding telling someone who was about to be put on a 51-50 hold something like that and that if I truly had better ways of coping with my situation, which he knew NOTHING about, than maybe I wouldn’t be there right now. He apologized. Asshole. 

The second was the woman who was my roomate. The moment I came in I could feel her warmth and care. She gave me both the space I needed but also offered me the comfort and attention when I needed it. Again I don’t recall exactly what she said or did but I could feel her love, like that of a mother. I find it incredible that in the midst of her own pain she was able to find enough openness to see me. Isn’t that how it works? It is often those who have endured the most pain and hardship that are the most empathetic because they know the depths and darkness of their own greatest fears and pains and would never wish that upon anyone. 

The third was my nephew. He was only a child but my sister took him to visit me. He didn’t know he was in a psychiatric ward and that I was being held there against my will. Seeing him run down the hall to embrace me made me smile in the midst of my own dark cloud of fear and shame. His innocence and lightness of being was a stark contrast to everything that was inside of me. Everything that was slowly crawling out after years of being chained inside. The memory of how he made me feel is what later inspired me to make a frame during “art time” to hold a picture of him and I. He is a reminder of the hope that I have to break cycles of abuse. 

After being held for 72 hours, I was released to my sister just in time to go home, pack my bag, grab my dance costumes, and be dropped off at the airport just in time to catch the fight with my dance company. It’s crazy that that is all I could think about in the midst of the storm that was just beginning to brew inside of me. I couldn’t let my company down. I still refused to show anyone on the outside anything less than the dedicated, perfectionist Maria. If only I knew what was to come.  

If you look closely at the pictures from that performance you will see that my left hand is bandaged and there are band aids on my right arm covering the bruises. Nonetheless, I am still smiling and gazing into my partner’s eyes putting on the show that folks came to see. It’s ironic and fascinating that one of my best friends made me an art piece from one of those pictures and titled it what only few can see,”between all the pain and glory.”

Love, 

Espe

Something good did come from this after all

Dear Little Sisters, 

Something good did come from this after all. He almost made me lose my glow, well actually he did cast a shadow over my light for almost two years until I finally exploded but that story will be for another time. 

“You’re nothing.”

“You’re a monster.”

“You didn’t deserve to go to Stanford or Harvard.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re a violent and terrible person, just like your father.”

“You’re F***** up in the head.”

“No one will ever love you.”

-------

Hair pull. 

Phone thrown across the room.

Bloody nose. 

Pushed to the floor. 

It was abuse and now I can say that. J emotionally and physically assaulted me. He made me feel tiny and powerless; vulnerable to his continuous threats and put-downs. His words like ice picks to my soul, slowly bringing me to my knees. But he also made me feel like the most precious thing known to man. He knew how to give me the love that I had been longing for my entire childhood. He made me feel that I could shine by his side but I now know that he had it all wrong because I can shine on my own. I was J’s prey and he was the vulture who knew exactly how to shame or smoother me into what he wanted me to do. 

It was a tumultuous roller coaster of emotion. It was the highest of highs to an ecstasy I had hardly ever known but it was also the lowest of lows to a darkness of depth that I still fear. Every special occasion or outing would end in fighting and tears. Weddings, birthdays, holidays, dinner parties, family events, he knew exactly how to instigate a fight or how to bring me to tears. I was reliving my childhood in the worst possible way but now I was my mother and I was the one walking on eggshells. 

I’ve never had a bloody nose, that is, until that terrible night in Calistoga. I should have known the supposed getaway weekend that he had planned would be a disaster when that morning he picked a fight about something minimal and then threatened to not take me, per his usual behavior. But in the end, like so other times, we ended up getting ready, looking our best as if nothing had ever happened and then driving away in his fancy BMW with our sunglasses and the wind blowing in our hair showing the world that amazing power couple they thought we were. If only they knew and if only the wind could blow away all the pain.

Like so many of our fights, it began with him picking at something about me, me reacting, and then him leaving me at the bar where we were, triggering my greatest fear...abandonment. He walked back to the B&B and shortly after him so did I but instead of going upstairs I decided to have one last drink. It angered him that instead of running to him, I choose to talk to the bartender and watch tv while sipping on my old fashioned. Eventually, he came down and insisted I go upstairs where it began. 

Shouting. Pacing. Arms flailing. Items tossed. Bloody nose. I don’t even recall how it happened; all I know is that I felt the warm blood coming down my face as I fell to the ground. The moment he saw the blood and heard my cries, I saw the panic in his eyes. And in an instant he was gone. He fled without even hesitating, grabbing anything, or saying a word to me. Actually, he did say something he said, “oh my god, the police can’t come, I’ll lose my license.” He was so terrified that the police would get called that he selfishly ran away like a coward, leaving me yet again but this time with a bloody nose, without a phone and terrified in tears. The asshole had the audacity to drive intoxicated all the way to our home in Redwood City from Calistoga. 

The good that came from this is that this relationship forced me to relive, process, and break the power and abuse cycle that I saw in my parents. The good that came from this is that now I can support domestic violence survivors. The good that come from this is that no one will ever have that much power over me again. While it took a lot of tears, pain, humiliation, anger, and time, I eventually came to see that he was nothing but a scared, and insecure man who was intimidated by the woman that I was when he met me and the woman that I rediscovering. 

You should listen to the lyrics from Keysha’s song Praying...it’s like they were meant for J. 

“I'm proud of who I am

No more monsters, I can breathe again

And you said that I was done

Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come”

Who knew that a psychiatric ward could be so peaceful?

Dear Little Sisters,

Who knew that a psychiatric ward could be so peaceful? I sat there leafing through the magazines. When I saw something that spoke to me, I began to tear at it gingerly with my fingers. I loved the way it felt to rip the paper. There was something satisfying about using my hands instead of scissors. Not that I had a choice, but I still liked it. I loved that I could just sit there and worry only about how to tear paper with my hands. Not about how I had failed as a teacher, as a friend, and as a human being.

So, I did more leafing. And then, I found her. Just the naked back of a woman with fat rolls and almost the same color skin as me. I cut her out, following her curves with my hand. She was like the Grand Odalisque but plus-sized and in an advertisement for body wash. I put her to the side to look for what could go alongside her. I looked through some more magazines and there she was again! I had two of them. I glued them on my paper in a ying-yang, a 69-shape, if you will. I did not know which side was up and which was down, but I was okay with that.

I cut out strips of dark hair for each of them. I gave one of them a crown and a dress of flowers. She lived in the darkness. I gave the other one no crown but she had the sun and lightness. However, the heaviness of the metal weighed her down. There they were: lightness and darkness, triumph and failure, freedom and bondage. I had made it, the perfect picture. In all my years of creating, here was my greatest work and it was done in the psych ward. I admired it. It reminded me of a funny thing my dad used to say when he had finished working on a drawing: “Leonardo, put down your brush. This is your masterpiece.” I couldn’t wait to share it.

So, everyone got a chance to present theirs. And not to be hateful, but theirs were crap. They made collages of random shit. They cut out cliche pictures and tossed it on the paper. Their art pieces said “vision board.” My piece said, “here is my fucking split-soul.” My heart was beating when I had to explain my piece. I knew the beauty of what I had created. I thought they would too. But they didn’t. Everyone was in wrapped up in their own shit and couldn’t see the wonder of my creation. I guess I could forgive them because we were all there with bigger fish to fry. But, still, someone could have approached me, and said, “I see you. I know who you are. And, you are special.” But, none of that happened. They collected our pieces and promised to give them to us when we left. I was scared that my piece would get lost in the trash, but, again, I didn’t have a choice.

Later, we would have free time and I would work on the 1,000-piece puzzle with a few others. We ate the hospital food, which I really didn’t mind. And, eventually, I went back to my room. I don’t think I had the urge to scratch the skin off my arms that night. I had said what I needed to say with my picture. Instead of tearing my own flesh, I tore paper. Even if no one else could see my girls, I could. I went to sleep thinking about them, Little Sisters. It was all I could think about.

Sincerely,
Ratsiram

Everything Hung In a Balance

Dear Little Sisters,

Everything hung in a balance. I was unsure of what the future would be now that the hideous truth had been revealed. For all those years that I had sat on top of my treehouse late at night wondering if there was a world in which everything that I had been through would cease to see the light of day; in one instant came undone with a simple phone call from my sister. The frightful memories that I had prayed were nightmares of my past had now become beasts of my reality infiltrating everything in my life. The darkness had arrived.

I had been hanging out at my boyfriend’s house after a long day of teaching. We were both relaxing a bit before we got into the usual routine of dinner and lesson planning for the next day when all of a sudden my phone rang. To my surprise, it was my sister and so I picked up expecting to hear something about my nephews but instead she was in tears. The moments that followed changed my life and were the beginning of a long and painful journey of healing. My sister confessed to me that when she was a teenager our brother had tried to touch her inappropriately underneath the covers. Her words made chest sink as I began to run through snapshots of all the terrible moments that I had tried to repress my entire life. I was partially in shock and partially confused… Oh fuck, my brother had actually repeatedly molested me. My flesh and blood, a person who was supposed to protect and love me had actually hurt and destroyed my childhood.  

Words cannot describe the wave of emotion and darkness that overtook my body. A dark shadow had just been cast over my entire being and I was at a loss of what to do. I went back into my boyfriend’s house and proceeded to cry uncontrollably in bed. There was nothing or no one that could soothe me. I cried the entire night; it was as if I finally began to cry for all the years and pain that I was never able to feel.

How does one even begin to process this little sister? How does one make sense of a world where someone so close to you could actually hurt you so badly, physically and emotionally? To this day there are so many things I cannot remember and I know that’s my body’s way of protecting me, thank goodness. Often times when memories slowly begin to creep into my mind, I quickly shut them out cause of scared of where they will take me. If I were to tell you what he made me do and what he did to me, you would want to see him locked away forever. My mind was a hell of memories and there was nothing that I could do to escape them.

As the days passed on I continued to be eaten alive with misery until finally a week or so later, in a moment of desperation, I cried out for help in the only way that I felt I could because no one ever taught me to share my emotions and needs. No one ever taught me that my voice mattered and that I could be heard without shouting and violence. I didn’t know that I deserved to be loved, to be listened to and to feel. I made a choice that would take me down a path of many dark years of self-sabotage but eventual reflection and healing.

It was the middle of the night and I was sitting at my kitchen table finishing up some wine while my boyfriend lay sound asleep in the bedroom. I was in tears and I didn’t know what to do. The rage, the desperation, the fear, and the loneliness was consuming me and I didn’t know how to control it all and so I got up, went to the kitchen and pulled out a knife. I stared at it as if I was staring through that tunnel of torment and shame. Tears were streaming down my face, my heart was in pieces, my soul was so lost, I was screaming inside until finally, I did it. I stabbed my wrist and my hand and screamed out loud for the world to hear. I wanted to feel the 26 years of pain and I wanted someone to hold me and tell me everything would be okay, and that I would survive and that I was worth fighting for.

Oddly enough I don’t remember the pain. I do, however, remember the warmth of the blood spilling everywhere. I was in sheer panic as my life was unraveling before my eyes. The years of perfection, the years of hiding the ugly truth of abuse and keeping my two worlds so separate had all just been ruined and as a result, I was about to be taken in an ambulance to the ER to get stitches and to then be put on a 51/50 hold. Who knew that a psychiatric ward could be so peaceful?

Love,

Espe

So not worth it, especially over a guy, I didn’t even like.

So not worth it, especially over a guy, I didn’t even like. Ugh, but I hated the rejection. I hated “to lose.” Like, you are saying no to me but I didn’t even want you in the first place? Oh, hell no. In retrospect, that was a good play. Because I wasn’t even thinking about you until you tried to let ME down easy. Yes, one night stand, fine. You were not the first. And, I was already moving on to someone else, but then, you came at me saying that we should part ways. When were our “ways” ever together? Regardless, you got into my head and my mind was weak back then. So, why am I writing about this now? Because I fucking lost and I hate losing.

Do you know how some people like to play Monopoly and win? That was me and I was cut-throat. Like, make your little-sisters-cry cut-throat. True story. I told them that they lost their money so they were out. They wanted a loan from the bank to stay in and I was like, “Nah, the real world doesn’t work like that. Sorry.” So yeah, I was the big bitch in the Monopoly board game, but couldn’t realize that someone else had bought hotels on the Broadway and Park Place of my life.

So, how did I react? Step 1: Find other random-ass guy. Step 2: Fuck him. Step 3: Three houses on Mediterranean Avenue and Baltic Avenue. Bam, motherfucker! How do you like them hotels? So, you roll the dice and hope you bypass their shit, land on GO and collect your $200. Unfortunately, I sucked at real-life Monopoly. I wanted to be the person that could make others cry, but, sadly, I was the one at home crying because I didn’t know the rules. My solution was to just find someone else new because maybe if I slept with enough people I could forget that I was bleeding out the play money.

Okay, enough Monopoly metaphors. You knew I didn’t like you. But you had to trick me because you knew that was the only way. And I was weak because any attention was better than none. Because you could tell that my little overweight disproportionate body was happy for any kind of semblance of romance. Yes, tell me you were jealous. Say you thought about buying something for me for my birthday. Why? Because no one else had ever said that. Bravo. Well done.

Fine, I see your jealousy e-mail, and I raise you: I fucked this other guy. Do you fold? Okay, no more game metaphors, I promise. So, how did this end? I threw your shit away in the trash can, even though I hate throwing away perfectly good things. I remember how you called me a “six” to my face and reminded me that your real girlfriend was a “ten.” And eight months later, I took my six ass back to Texas and learned these lessons from you: harden your heart, never hope and always be the first to walk away. So, thank you. Something good did come from this after all.

It was either you or me

Dear Little Sisters,

It was either you or me. And you’re damn straight to think that I would ever let it be me. As cliche as this sounds, we each walked up behind the bleachers of our high school, staring straight into each other's eyes, with each of our posse walking with the same stern faces behind us. My long black hair was braided, courtesy of my best friend, you know just in case she attempted the typical girl move and tried to pull my hair. The tension mounted as we came into the space between the bleachers and concession stands, face to face not saying anything, holding our breath and waiting for the other to say something or to make a move. It was as if time stood still as we waited for the other to say anything, flinch, or perhaps even turn away.

However, I refused to be the one to stand down, especially after how she and her friends had cornered me the previous week; I decided it was now or never to defend my pride and ego. And so out of nowhere, BAM! I punched her in the face and began the fight that felt like an eternity but was probably only a couple of minutes or perhaps even less. All I know for certain is that I was clenching my fists so tightly that I caused little cuts in the palms of my hands from my own nails. It was a blur of blows towards one another until eventually my contact got displaced from my eye and then I was left struggling to see clearly. She went for my hair just like I had expected and sought to scratch me with her nails. She did not succeed. There I was a 5’4” hundred-pound Sophomore fighting a girl who was taller and heavier than I was. Did I care? Heck no! All that mattered to me was that I teach this girl a lesson about who not to try and threaten and bully. She may have caught me off guard alone with her friends as I came out of PE wearing my nice purple skirt and a white tank top but now I was ready and would not stand down.

I don’t exactly recall how the fight ended, if one of us just eventually backed off or if friends stepped in or if it was the fact that someone shouted that a teacher was coming and so we quickly all scattered. My friends and I ran to the bathroom where I looked to quickly compose myself and clean up enough to make it to my PE class cause, of course, I still had to go to class. I mean I was a straight A honors student and class president so God forbid I miss a class.

What’s crazy is that this set off a series of incidents and another fight between my friends and hers. Until one day as I was sitting in my French class I got called into the principal’s office. The moment I heard my name I knew I was done. I scrambled to think not of what I would tell the administrators but what I would tell my parents. I was scared and my sweaty palms and pale face showed it. I walked into a conference room where both the principal and assistant principal were already waiting for me. I sat down and proceeded to answer their questions with complete honesty. They asked what had happened, who had started it and what was the current status of things. To my surprise they did not suspend me or give me any consequences at that, nor did they tell my parents. To this day while I was baffled by their decision I am forever grateful. Ultimately they knew me better than I thought they did and seemed to understand that the consequences that I would face with my parents would probably be more detrimental to my current high achieving, overcommitted and involved student that I was.

Now you might be wondering what caused this girl to want to fight me. Such a silly high school thing, she thought her current boyfriend who I “dated” for all of two weeks in 8th grade still had a thing for me. M and I had only held hands for goodness sake. So not worth it, especially over a guy, I didn’t even like.

Love,

Espe

I feared for when that inevitable day would come

Dear Little Sisters,

I feared for when that inevitable day would come. The day that I would be punished by that unseen force for the transgressions of my past. For a while, I thought that I had escaped it. Maybe, somehow, this force decided that the score no longer needed to be settled. But, if I had learned anything so far in my twenty-eight years, it was that my sins would always come back to haunt me. The day of reckoning had come and I was going to be made to suffer.

We were at IKEA trying to get stuff for our new house. AT, his sons and I, walked through the huge industrialized-sized doors and a rush of air hit our faces. I was excited to think about going through the baby section and imagined what things we would buy. It only had been a few weeks since we had found out, but I wanted to dare to hope. Perhaps, the first time was a rare fluke and this time we were ready. I told AT that I really had to pee. So we went through the IKEA maze, following all their crazy signs, until finally, we found the restroom. I sat down to pee and finished quickly. I prided myself on my ability to get in and out of the bathroom at lightning speed, including washing my hands thoroughly, of course. So, when I wiped and I saw the bright red blood on the toilet paper, I knew it wasn't going to be one of those days. I started shakily rolling up a piece of paper and stuck it between my legs. I flushed the toilet with its pink-tinged liquid swirling quickly down the hole. I washed my hands.

AT said, "What took you so long?"

“I’m bleeding,” I whispered to AT so that the boys wouldn’t hear. “I’m going to text my doctor. It’s Sunday but she will tell me what to do.” Go back to the emergency room, I thought.

AT left me at the hospital to go drop the boys with their mother. “I’ll be right back.” So, I waited by myself to see what the verdict was. Remember to say that this has happened before, a year and a half ago. And that you are at risk of another ectopic pregnancy. And that you only have one tube, the right one is gone, with the other baby you lost. Remember to tell them that this was your punishment.

“Poor thing, you’re really trying, huh,” said the emergency room doctor who was trying to unsuccessfully to comfort me. I sat on the emergency room bed, with my legs hanging over the side.

“We can set you up for a D&C right now, in case it turns out to be another ectopic pregnancy. You don’t want to lose that other tube, so young.” I just buried my face in my hands even further and cried even more loudly. I know that they would prefer that I wouldn't risk it, but I couldn't. In some fantasy world, I believed that my baby and I would pull through. That my baby would stay this time. That my baby would not leave me in the darkness alone.

In the end, AT showed up and I decided to go home and give it more time. I went to sleep, that familiar tearful slumber, that ruled my early twenties. I awoke to AT moving around. He gave me a hug and told me that it was okay if I could not have babies. I know he was trying to comfort me but it wasn’t comforting. I did not want to admit what I feared was true: I did not deserve to be a mother. I would never say that to anyone else in the same situation because I wouldn’t believe it about anyone else. But, me? This must be it, the inevitable day. The day where I could not just say it was just a coincidence because this was 2 for 2. Happiness, followed by blood and shame. This was the second time that my body would turn against me because it even knew that I did not deserve to have that type of goodness in my life. We had a sonogram tomorrow with my OB-GYN, a mother of one of my students. She told me that it could still be early and that’s why the baby didn’t show up on the sonogram. She said maybe we could stop the bleeding. I remember thanking her but all that went through my head was the curse.

I wrapped my arms around myself, asking my body for forgiveness for everything I had done to it. Asking my body, if it could do me this one favor, even though I wasn't worthy. I begged, mouthing a silent, "Please." My sleep was heavy yet restless that night. How could it not be? Everything hung in the balance.

I was never a child

Dear Little Sister,

I was never a child. I wasn’t allowed to be. My so-called childhood was taken from my tiny hands and shoved aside in order to survive. The sweet tender-hearted and all trusting little girl slowly got lost in a hardened adult soul that over time became more and more doubtful and self-loathing. I’ll share this with you little sister in hopes that you never lose that playful little girl inside of you and instead fully embrace her and shine her curiosity and light into this world. We need more of you.

As a little girl, I remember seeing a huge tree in the front yard of our new house and imagining the many things that I could do on and around that tree. It was ginormous! It would take three sets of arms around the trunk to be able to get around its entire circumference, or at least that’s how my child mind remembers it’s size. The tree had a huge branch that was shaped like a U and over time it would become the perfect spot for me to climb on and sit to observe the entire yard. I also thought that this would be the perfect spot for a treehouse, something that I only knew from tv but a place that I longed to have. My desire for that treehouse was unknowingly a similar desire I had for the childhood that was stolen from me years before. The childhood of the little girl who loved to play with my little pony and tea sets was short lived and instead marred with a deep set fear of what would happen to her when she was left alone with her brother or when her father would get angry with her mother.

I'm saddened to say that distrust and rage against men were instilled in me from a young age because of what I had experienced and witnessed. I didn’t realize how deep this anger was until I spent time reflecting on my relationships and even recalling the unexplainable fear that I felt towards the male custodian at my elementary school. At the time it made no logical sense that I would practically burst into tears when he approached or that I would watch him from afar and shudder with fear. Now I understand that this was my well-trained body reacting to what it perceived as a threat based on what I experienced at home. The two men who were supposed to love and protect me the most in this whole world, my older brother and my father, had instead taught me to trust no one and much less a man.

Despite this fear, I pleaded for my dad to build me a treehouse and to my surprise months later I did have my own little house, maybe not in the tree like I had wanted but instead my dad had built me my own little house in the backyard. What I loved the most was that my dad made sure that it resembled a real house in every way...from the linoleum as the floor, to little shelves for my dishes, a little door that I could lock, and a roof made with actual shingles. As much as I saw my dad’s rage and fury, I cannot deny the fact that as a little girl there were times when I looked to him with such love. How could I not? This was the man that built me my own little house from scratch with his bare hands. That little house became my safe haven, the place where I could hide from everyone and everything and escape from the chaos that was my life inside my actual house.

You see, Life inside my actual home was unpredictable, volatile and felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells. My father was extremely verbally and physically abusive to my mother. Anything could set him off, a meal that he didn’t like, my mom, taking too long at the grocery store, or the receipts not adding up, you name it, he could bust at any moment. This led to so many ruined occasions from birthdays and celebrations to family outings.

And then there was that horrific night that is forever etched in my mind and to this day still brings tears to my eyes. The night my mother fought for her life and the night I ran out of my house barefoot screaming to the neighbor's house to call the police. I thought he had killed her because she was lying on the bed practically unconscious, bruised and bloody, and somehow speaking words to her dead father. The things I witnessed and heard, no child or person should ever have to see. How could I ever be a child in that environment?

That night was the night before Christmas Eve. During a time when my biggest worry was supposed to be if I had gotten the presents that I had asked for, instead, I was worried if I had just ruined my family's life. I spent the night alone crying and confused about what had happened because now my father had been arrested and my mother was lost in the sea of her own pain. And no one ever told me that I did the right thing, no one ever said it’s okay Maria..instead this became the first of many times that my father choose to stop talking to me for taking a stand against him or for protecting those around me. And to make matters worse my family sided with him and I was eventually forced to apologize him. I learned at a young age to take care of myself and to be strong and independent because, well, I had no other choice. How could I be a child when I had to survive on my own and try and save my mother?

No one outside of our home knew the terrors that we all endured. Instead, my mother honored the family code to maintain secrecy because well that was easier. There were so many nights that I would go outside in the middle of the night and sit on the roof of my little house and look up to the sky wondering if this was really all happening and wishing that maybe I would wake up the next day and realize it was all just a nightmare. I was ashamed. I was alone. I was terrified. My childhood was haunted by secrets. And sadly I knew the day would come when I would have to confront my demons. I feared for when that inevitable day would come.

Love,
Espe 

I was never a child

Dear Little Sisters,

I was never a child. I was more like a rat, or a maggot. Or, a roach. Yeah, I was probably most like a roach. In fact, all five of us were like little roaches, scurrying about and hiding whenever anyone came to the door. Roaches do secret things in the dark that nobody knows about. Roaches scatter when the light switch gets flipped on because they have to conceal their shame. Roaches know that their survival depends on not being discovered. Yeah, we were definitely roaches. 

We lived in a small house that faced a major street. The house had two window panels on either side of the door. They weren't true windows because people could only see distorted images from the outside. A distortion of a distortion, I would say to myself. I don't know why we had these. Maybe my parents believed that one day we would have a house worth looking into. But, I saw them as dangerous. We were supposed to trust that the distorted windows would protect us, but I wasn't so sure. If a person squinted hard enough and at the right angle, would they be able to see who we really were?

Sometimes, we would be playing amongst the trash and clothes on the floor and there would be a knock on the door. The five of us would freeze, like fucking roaches. We would drop down to the ground and slowly, very slowly, crawl to a designated hiding spot. Maybe behind a couch, maybe behind a box, or maybe we would press ourselves against the wall. As if the person at the door was some T-rex that would only attack us if we moved. So, we stayed where we were and made no sudden movements. People could knock for up to three minutes. Some people would stay longer if they were convinced they had heard something before they showed up. One time, we didn't move for one hour. The Twins had even fallen asleep on the floor. Our goal was to make them feel crazy, for them to second-guess themselves. They couldn't have heard children's voices, because what kind of kids would be quiet for that long? 

I am not sure when I first learned that the way we were living was wrong. The house had always been that way for as long as I could remember. No one was allowed in and we only opened the front door just wide enough to squeeze out. Maybe I found out from my grandmother. We had to stay with her sometimes when it was too cold because we couldn’t afford a heater. She would wake us up early and make us clean. Maybe it was going to a friend’s house and seeing there wasn’t spoiled milk in the refrigerator or a garage full of pee-stained clothes in piles. Maybe it was when I mumbled some excuse to my best friend about why she couldn't visit us. "We are remodeling," I would lie, like the bad little roach I was. Lying was our key to survival. 

But, I wasn’t a roach at school. I was the best, I was the fastest and I was the smartest. I had skipped a grade and still could beat every single person in the class in the Around the World game. I was somewhere else on the food chain. Human, even. Someone who stepped on roaches instead of laying on their stomach on the floor waiting for the mysterious knocker to leave. I protected that person and secretly hated everyone else because they were normal. I knew that if it came to it, that I would do anything to protect my school identity. One day, I finally put my resolve to the test.

I will never forget that day because the teacher was at the blackboard and we were all listening. I opened my backpack to get more paper and that is when I saw it. Coming out of my bag, my brethren, myself, running to the front of the classroom. The other children started screaming. They had seen who I really was and they were horrified. I pretended to be horrified, too, because no one knew where it had come from. I was hated but at least my identity was safe. While everyone was transfixed with the piece of me running around the classroom, another piece of me began crawling out too. With speed I did not know I possessed, without remorse, I smashed that miniature version of myself under my shoe. I let my paper fall from my desk and simultaneously scooped its dead carcass up while I crumpled the paper. In my bag they went. 

I sweated and squirmed the rest of the day because I was not sure that my public persona could survive another attack. But I made it and no one knew. When I got home, I emptied every single pocket in my backpack and checked every nook and cranny. These fuckers were not going to ruin me. I had the fucking highest standardized test scores in school. I put my backpack inside one trash bag after another and tied them tightly. They would never come with me to school again. I looked at the bottom of my shoe and said, “It was either you or me.”

Sincerely,

Ratsiram

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