Content Warning: This essay contains explicit details of sexual abuse, incest, and verbal abuse.
Betrayal has a nagging sting. It pokes at you, consumes you, goes away, and returns with the same vengeance. The cycle feels like it always continues. Once you’ve been betrayed, there is no reversal, no undo button, no safety net. You just live in it and with it. No matter how many times you attempt to ignore it or push it in the back of your psychosis, it never vanishes.
Yet that old adage says "words will never hurt me." Oh, how the world continuously lies to the youth.
I began getting verbally abused as a preteen by a family member who used to joke with my cousins and me all the time.
Yet, because he lived with me, the jokes transitioned into more malicious remarks that hurt my feelings so bad I’d go into my room and cry. This continued until I was 16 years old. And at 16, I was almost raped by my mom’s only brother, who was once my favorite uncle. Unfortunately for me, I vividly remember him coming into my room and fondling my breasts and kissing on me as I lay still in utter shock. For reasons unknown he stopped and left my room, for which I’m grateful, yet the damage had already been done.
It never happened again after that incident, yet it played out in my head every day afterward.
As a kid, I struggled to process if what had happened, actually happened. I was confused, hurt, scared to tell anyone, and most of all, broken. For years he’d told me I was "dumb," "ugly," "stupid," and had a big nose and head. As an honors student, of course, I was far from dumb, but having someone belittle you every day after school kind of gets embedded in your brain.
And so, I did the best thing I could to protect myself: I turned to isolation. I was always quiet in school, but I made sure to keep to myself because having a peer say something remotely close to what my uncle had been saying would only bruise me more internally.
So, I did what needed to be done in school, came home, and went into my room until my mom came home. God bless her for working two and three jobs to provide — my appreciation for her always made me want to make her proud and alleviate stress.
My abuser died in January 2022.
I vowed I wouldn’t go to the funeral, I’d already cut him off in life, there was nothing left in his death. But I went. In fact, my mom took my cousin/sister and me to see him in hospice, just two days before he transitioned; and I did the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life, I forgave him. He couldn't speak, but they say hearing is the last thing to leave before death. I told him that I forgave him and that I loved him, as I starred at his frail body and cried.
All of those beautiful years we had before the abuse came rushing back to me. Memories of the excitement I had at age 6 as we welcomed his only son, who is still one of my favorite humans in the world, and days I’d just go into his room to be around him because he was the only father figure I had outside of my Pa Pa.
The unconditional love never left my soul, no matter how mad or hurt I’d be over the years still lingered. In my family, family is family forever (in the context of love, not abuse), and seeing him on his deathbed reminded me of that.
The concept of closure is so obscure.
People think there’s a finality to closure, but I think there are layers because of healing. Going to see my uncle in hospice brought about relief and a release for me to let it all go, but do I feel closure? No. Will the memories of being verbally abused for years and almost being raped suddenly pour out of my mind and be expunged? Absolutely not. But I can choose to approach each day with gratitude and a positive spirit.
I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I’ve ever given myself credit.
My fortitude has given me the will to live in my truth and share it in my writing and my memoir Half the Battle. In many cases, I could’ve given up on myself, caved into what was being told to me, and truly believed I was nothing. But doing that would've given my life no meaning. And though I forgave him for how he attempted to destroy me, I often question the process of after-life.
If Heaven is where my abuser is, I don’t believe that’s where I should be. I see Heaven as a safe haven, and I don’t feel safe around him. I believe Heaven is where my ancestors reside – my grandparents that I love and miss dearly, my devoted God-fearing great-grandmother whose prayers are still keeping me safe today, is certainly up there sporting her wings proudly. I also understand that we all sin and are forgiven, but above all, we must answer for our wrongdoing. Where does that leave him?
Essentially, I guess I’ll find those answers in time, until then I’ll lead a life of purpose in knowing that the saying "hurt people, hurt people" isn’t always true.
Hurt people have the power to change the error placed upon them and help others, which is what I intend to continue to do. And if this entire ordeal has taught me anything, it’s that my will to overcome is greater than succumbing to anything that isn’t good for me. And for that, I’m extremely grateful!
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