It's Not What You Think

While most people look back on their most cringeworthy moments, they remember falling down in public or having food stuck in their teeth. Not me. My most disgracing and inglorious day was when I had to admit that I was being abused.

For as far back as my memory serves, my relationship with my mom was grief-stricken. Her abuse ranged from verbal to physical, depending on her current mood. My dad was an alcoholic among other things. I clearly recall seeing him come home drunk and beat her up many times. The next day with her eyes black, she'd take her anger out on me.

This secret was kept well hidden until my high school years, I was 15 years old to be exact.

Our close family had suspicions and knew a few of the minor details. Nobody knew just how horrid that my life was behind closed doors. Mom was a nurse and she enjoyed rubbing-elbows with doctors and more affluent people in town. She also liked to keep the outward appearance that we were rich, although in reality, we didn't have much. For this reason, I was never allowed to have friends to the house. In fact, I wasn't allowed to have friends at all. Maybe she was afraid that they'd see our real life circumstances or maybe she was afraid that someone would find out.

It had been a night of pure, unbearable Hell. My dad had just left us and was now with a much younger woman. After numerous times of telling me that his separation was my fault, I also took a beating that lasted all night long. I tried retreating to my bedroom and locking the door, but somehow she managed to break it open. Once she was inside, I paid dearly for trying to disappear.

By now I had become very capable of hiding the bruises with long sleeves and makeup. The next morning I met my best friend at school. She knew that something wasn't exactly right, but I avoided having that conversation. As the day progressed the soreness was taking effect more and more. It hurt to even lean back in my chair. The smallest movement caused me to groan with pain. I could see that her concern was escalating, I couldn't bare to see someone who cared so much about me so heavy-hearted. In private, I pulled off my sweater and revealed the agonizing truth.

I was bruised from my shoulders to my waist. My arms bared the purple handprints and recollections of the night before. I had welts and bumps, scrapes and cuts. She let out a gasp and wrapped her arms around me. We stood there and cried together for what felt like an eternity.

I was so ashamed and humiliated. I knew that none of this was my fault, but still the seering burn of my submissiveness throbbed all the way down to my soul. For the remainder of the school day, she kept an ice cold can of soda at hand. Sitting directly behind me she would hold the can against my aching back. It felt so good having the coldness to ease the pangs and discomfort.

That night she went home and told her mother the unspeakable details of what she had seen. I was some-what distraught at her indiscretion with my secret, although I knew that it was her only way of protecting me.

The next day her parents showed up at my house. Her mother ordered me to pack a bag and go home with them. My mom only protested once before they threatened to contact the authorities. She didn't want for that to happen so she sit down quietly and let them take me away.

I spent the following days talking to doctors and my new family about my abusive past. Photos were taken of my injuries, reports were made and authorities were contacted. Those were the most cringeworthy and humiliating moments of my life. "Oh what I would give to say that my most flustering moment was because I tripped and fell or found toilet paper stuck to my shoe."

I have since became an advocate for child abuse, teaching children not to be ashamed or embarrassed to speak out. Hopefully when they write their own story someday, it'll be about something much more bright and cheerful.