For many people, the word "mother" brings to mind warmth, safety, and unconditional love. But for some of us, it’s a source of deep, unrelenting pain. My story is one of those where the cycle of trauma not only didn’t break—it was handed down, reinforced, and weaponized.
My mother was once a child, innocent and vulnerable, but that innocence was shattered by brutal beatings and unimaginable violations. The wounds from those experiences never healed. Instead of breaking free, she became a carrier of the same cruelty that once broke her. Her anger, a reflection of her own unresolved pain, became the driving force behind her parenting.
I’ve witnessed the rage that once consumed her. My sister experienced it firsthand when she was dragged up a flight of stairs by her hair. The belts and fists that should have protected and nurtured us were used instead to punish, to hurt, to control.
Years have passed, but the scars remain, etched deep into our souls. You’d hope that time might bring healing, understanding, or even forgiveness. Instead, the abuse has evolved, morphing into a different form of control—legal, financial, and emotional manipulation.
My mother, who once terrorized us in our home, is now trying to wield the power of the legal system to further strip away my dignity and safety. Her latest tactic? Making me homeless and threatening legal action if I dare to step out of line. And what does she consider stepping out of line? Asking for help—money to survive, to not be on the streets.
She’s already had me jailed once. What should have been a place of safety turned into a nightmare, where I was once again violated, raped, and left to pick up the shattered pieces of myself. Now, she’s threatening to send me back, as if my request for help somehow justifies another round of punishment.
This isn’t just about money. It’s about control. It’s about using the power she has over me, not to nurture, but to dominate, to remind me that I am never safe, not even from my own mother.
Some might ask why I share this story. It’s not for sympathy, nor for pity. I share it because abuse thrives in silence. It grows stronger when we don’t talk about it. By putting my story out there, I reclaim some of the power that’s been stripped away from me.
My hope is that others who have lived through similar experiences might find some solace in knowing they’re not alone. And maybe, just maybe, by speaking out, the cycle can finally be broken—not just for me, but for anyone else who has been caught in its grip.
If you’ve read this far, I thank you. And if you’re someone who’s also struggling with the weight of an abusive past or present, know this: You are not alone. Your story matters. And together, we can break the silence.
