Author: SSuzann

When I was a little girl, I would hide in my closet. Inside that small, dark space, I could create another world — one where I could invent my own joy and escape the pain of my reality. Perhaps that is why, even as a toddler, my parents used it as a place of punishment.

I was a small, frail brunette girl who spent hours sitting in the darkness, startled by every sound or creak in the floorboards. How could someone so tiny have a heart that beat so loudly and so painfully? I could feel it pounding in my chest, the rhythm intensifying with fear. He was just outside the door. I would sit perfectly still, barely breathing, praying he would not open it.

I was only three years old, yet it is a memory I have never escaped. The constant rumble of my empty stomach yearning for any scrap of food. My lips dry and cracked as I ran my tongue across them in a futile attempt to find relief. When I finally stood, the cuts on the bottoms of my feet stung sharply against the floor, which was littered with shards. I had to step with extreme care.

Then he opened the door. I threw myself deeper into the hanging coats just as a beer bottle shattered against the wall, sending glass flying across the closet. The door slammed shut once more. How many days would they leave me in here this time?

My favorite color was purple; my older sister Amy’s was pink. Only one year older than me, she became my mother figure. Looking back, I now understand what an enormous burden that must have been for her — a tiny child carrying such heavy responsibility and constant worry for me. I always believed she was the strongest of us all. Even through the closet door, I could hear her asking for me. No matter what happened, I knew that when I finally emerged, she would be there. She would hold me, and for a moment, my heart would feel safe.

What does safety mean for a child? Is it found in the presence of one’s parents? Does it mean freedom from abuse, the comfort of being loved, well-fed, and well-clothed, or simply living without torment? Does a child have the fundamental right to be safe — even from their own parents? Or are children simply powerless in the circumstances into which they are born?

Sometimes, during a storm, Amy would have me rest my head on her stomach so I wouldn’t be afraid. I still remember how soothing it felt — the warmth of her skin and the steady comfort of her presence making me feel safe.

Amy was only 15 the first time she attempted suicide. She was rushed to a hospital about 15 miles from our home, where they pumped her stomach to remove the pills she had taken.

When she returned, I was terrified. She went straight to our room and curled up in the fetal position. I was told not to go near her. Standing at the doorway, I wept silently, afraid of what they would do to her next. She had committed the unforgivable act: drawing negative attention to herself and, in doing so, making our mother look bad. Amy was never the same after that day. She barely spoke for a long time.

Her high school picture that year was heartbreaking — sad and hollow, much like so many of my own school photos. I have often wondered whether we could identify abused children simply by looking at their school pictures. If only we could see the silent breaking of their souls in their eyes. You can certainly see it in many of mine, and unmistakably in Amy’s from that year.

At the time, I didn’t know her cry for help had been triggered by our mother’s husband, who had begun sexually molesting her. She had developed bulimia and anorexia, started sneaking out with boys, and smoking in the bathroom. Her innocence had been stolen. I discovered what was happening one day while walking down the hallway toward our bedroom. I saw him poke his head out of the bathroom and look around. I knew exactly what he was doing — because he had done it to me so many times before.

In our bathroom, right inside the door, there were mirrors. He would lift my shirt, fondle my developing breasts, and then quickly check to make sure no one was coming. My heart sank as I walked past and realized Amy was in there with him. I turned and hid in the closet. Moments later, she opened the door. We looked at each other with those big brown eyes, paralyzed by fear, but said nothing.

Even then, Amy remained a force of nature — beautiful, with long auburn hair and a bold love for alternative music. She would sing at the top of her lungs without caring who heard her. One of her favorite bands was Seven Mary Three, and she would sing their song “Roderigo” to me. You would have loved her; everyone did. I truly believed she would conquer the world. Yet in trying so hard to be strong for both of us, she gradually lost pieces of herself.

Storms come and go. Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain wreak havoc, and we hear about them on the news every day. But how often do we hear about the child abuse happening on our own streets, in homes right next door? Would we even recognize it if we saw it? Would we have the courage to speak out? These perpetrators exist everywhere, and far too many get away with it.

The collective blind eye turned toward sexual abuse within families must change. With all the advancements and innovations of our time, surely we can do better — we must do better — to protect the innocent.

Waking up this morning, I felt moved to speak about silence — a word that carries immense weight for so many survivors of abuse. It is often paired with threats, and I wonder how similar those threats would be if all of us who endured them made a list.

As infants, my children would sleep with their hands resting on their belly buttons. I sometimes pondered whether they had inherited my own deep-seated fears. You see, one of my earliest threats was that I would be cut across my stomach if I ever told. I will never forget the force and speed of that large finger pressing down hard, tracing a line from one side of my stomach to the other, followed by the chilling command to remain silent. For my entire childhood, I slept with my hands protectively covering my stomach.

I never asked Amy what her specific threat had been. It was always so difficult to get her to speak about what happened. She carried an enormous burden of pain and blamed herself, believing it was her responsibility to protect her siblings. We were raised not to value ourselves — taught that we were mere possessions without rights or voices.

A friend recently shared a memory with me of watching me, at just one year old, being beaten with a wire coat hanger for soiling myself. He told the story with such sadness that I felt sorry for him — he had carried that painful image for decades. As he spoke, I could suddenly feel the cold metal striking my back. I saw the layout of the house, the white sheets on the bed, and the wood-paneled walls. It was as if I were sitting beside him on the couch, witnessing the scene through his eyes. The memory triggered nightmares for days afterward, as though I had relived the trauma myself.

In that moment, I became deeply upset with myself. How could I continue allowing them any power over me? Why permit them to make me suffer even one moment longer? I now believe we can move beyond our horrors. We can refuse to let them drag us back into darkness. We must deny them the satisfaction of extinguishing our inner light. Because that light — our light — is far stronger than a hundred of them. They do not want us to realize we hold the power to overcome them.

Destroying silence is an essential part of healing. Even today, forces try to silence me through cruelty and hatred. But my answer is simple: No. If only those who fear victims speaking out would allow the light in — let it surround and warm them. That is truth. Those who blame victims do not understand that by silencing them, they invite the very darkness inflicted upon children into their own hearts.

Surviving the life of an abused child is already an immense struggle. Do not ask survivors to carry those shadows any longer. You may not like what they need to say, but their life — their healing — may depend on saying it.

I didn’t look anything like my sister’s father. He once looked at me and said, “I took one look at you and knew you weren’t mine.” He had been in prison and was released after I was born. Soon after, he left our lives, and another man took his place.

That man kicked and threw me around like a lifeless doll when I was only a toddler. I was often forced to go hungry—or force-fed until I vomited. Hiding in my closet became my only escape. One time, in a fit of rage, he picked me up and held me upside down in the toilet. He flushed while laughing as my hair was sucked down the drain and I screamed. I was only four years old. Looking back, it was nothing short of torture—designed to break my spirit so he could control my body.

He seemed to find it amusing to show others how well he had trained me. He would snap his fingers or whistle, and I would come running to fetch him a beer. Afterward, he would sit me on his lap while he drank it—like a dog that had learned to obey.

I was five the first time I told a family member what was happening to me. While my grandmother and aunt were washing dishes, I said, “He puts his finger in my butthole.” Those were the exact words of a terrified five-year-old. My grandmother was visibly upset. She confronted my mother, but nothing changed. The family chose silence and whispers, allowing the darkness to continue.

I spoke up again at nine, this time to authorities. We had fled Missouri for Indiana after my mother was beaten so badly that her glasses were broken. Her husband had come home drunk and in a violent rage. He stabbed a knife into the walls and cabinets and shattered the lattice separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. A police officer arrived, spoke with him, and left without making any arrests. My four- or five-year-old brother sat on the floor, watching in terror.

The next day, we packed up and left. My mother had us watch the road the entire drive, terrified he would follow and hurt us. Shortly after arriving at my grandmother’s, my mother pulled the van over in the middle of a busy street, turned around, and asked, “Did Daddy ever touch you in your privates?” I nodded yes. She asked nothing more, simply turned back around, and we continued on.

My grandmother used the moment to contact child protective services and report the sexual abuse. I remember little of the interview itself—only sitting in a room and answering questions. I described what had happened the night before we left for Indiana. He had come home drunk, woken me from sleep, and carried me down the hall with his hands up my shirt and down my pants. “Your husband is going to love this butt,” he told me. At the refrigerator, he ordered me to open my mouth. I closed my eyes and obeyed. He forced his tongue inside, circling it around while his breath—sickeningly sour with Busch beer—overwhelmed me. To this day, I cannot escape that smell.

Not long after my visit with child protective services, we were packing to return to Missouri. I was instructed to say it had all been a dream. If I didn’t, they warned, all of us children would be separated and placed in different homes, never to see one another again.

On our last day in Indiana, everyone else was sent away except me. Clayton had arrived the night before and slept in the room with my mother. She seemed so happy, giggling like a schoolgirl. They put me in the van and drove to Sonic, promising me an ice cream. Sitting there, my heart raced with dread. I had never been taken for a treat alone before. I was convinced they were going to kill me. He turned around, handed me the ice cream, and said, “You dreamed all that up about me, didn’t you?” He repeated the question several times. I knew what I had to do. In a voice as silent as a tomb, I answered, “Yes, I dreamed it.”

Soon after, we were driving back to Missouri.

I was a terrified nine-year-old, dreading what would happen next. I had told authorities in Indiana about the abuse, and now we were heading back to Missouri.

On the drive, my mother stopped at a store and took everyone inside except me. We were very poor, and she wanted to treat the other children to a brand-new toy—something that had never happened before. In our religion, we didn’t celebrate holidays or birthdays. Before going in, she instructed me to stay in the van. “You’re not getting one because of your grades in school,” she said.

I had been sleeping through most of my classes. I was exhausted all the time. Though I was normally a good student, I simply lacked the energy to keep up. The only part of school I truly enjoyed was recess. My new school had a tetherball pole, and I could play by myself for the entire break. It was something my previous school didn’t have, and it felt like the perfect escape for me.

My teacher never said much. She would simply pat me gently on the back as she passed by and collected my unfinished papers. I have no doubt she had been told about the horrors occurring in our home.

This wasn’t my stepfather’s first encounter with the state of Indiana. Five years earlier, while we lived there, a police report had been filed against him for impregnating my fourteen-year-old virgin aunt. At the time, my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother. Nothing came of the charges. Sometimes I wonder if my sister might still be here today if those accusations had been taken seriously. My grandparents wanted him held accountable, yet he wasn’t. My theory is that we simply left the state and returned to southeast Missouri, allowing the matter to fade.

Everyone emerged from the store that day carrying new toys, their faces bright with joy. My youngest brother clutched a large package containing some kind of truck. I don’t remember what the others received. I sat there crying. My mother looked at me and smiled. There is no decent explanation for that punishment—none that makes sense, anyway. I suppose it was meant to show me the consequences of telling the truth. What’s so heartbreaking is that they had already decided my memories would no longer be called truth; from then on, they would be dismissed as dreams. Nightmares, I believe, would have been far more accurate.

We were back in Missouri, and the school arranged for me to see a counselor due to low self-esteem. I was in fifth grade and genuinely disliked myself. I felt utterly worthless, as if I had no value in the world.

I remember sitting on the sidelines, watching the other children play, too afraid to join in. It was intimidating simply being around them. I never felt like I belonged. I was born with a prominent purple birthmark on my face, and the other kids took to calling me “Purple Lip Sally.” Children can be cruel, but my inability to stand up for myself made their taunts even easier.

The only light in my world during that time was Amy. She was beloved by everyone and radiantly beautiful. Whenever she saw someone picking on me, she would step in without hesitation. I knew she loved me, and her protection meant everything. How fortunate I was that fifth and sixth graders shared the same playground—I sought her out every recess. She became my shield, the one place where I felt safe.

That year was incredibly difficult for her as well. She lost her best friend in a car accident. I can still see her banging her head against the brick wall outside when she learned the news. It was devastating for everyone who knew her.

After our return to Missouri, he grew even meaner. As a condition of staying, my mother had required that he stop drinking and attend her church. He went only a handful of times before resuming his drinking. Life simply returned to the way it had always been.

We were raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses. My mother believes she is one of the “chosen”—one of the 144,000 who will go to heaven and rule with Christ. Our faith forbade holidays and birthday celebrations of any kind.

My hair had grown very long. One day at the Kingdom Hall, an elderly woman turned around, looked at me in front of the other children and my mother, and said warmly, “Your daughter is so beautiful. I love her hair.” She smiled at me with genuine kindness. My mother smiled back and replied, “Yes, she is very beautiful.”

The moment we arrived home, my mother took me into the bathroom and called Amy in. She ordered her to cut my hair. The result was so uneven that my mother had to take me to a professional beautician to fix it. She instructed the stylist to give me a boy’s cut. I will never forget the look of pity on the woman’s face as she worked. It was the first time I had ever had a professional haircut. When she finished, my mother’s wishes had been fulfilled—I looked like a boy.

I wished desperately that the woman at church had never complimented me. Yet a few weeks later, she showed up at our house. She came into the room where I was sitting, lifted my chin gently in front of my mother, looked me in the eyes, and said, “You are beautiful. Do not let anyone make you think otherwise.” I glanced at my mother and saw only cold, empty eyes staring back at me.

It was moments of kindness like hers—and others throughout my childhood—that kept me from being completely consumed. By “consumed,” I mean the way darkness can overtake a person’s heart. Evil, if you will, seeks to devour everything it touches. When I see a child now, I often smile at them, even if it might offend their parents. I know too well the suffering that can hide behind young eyes. In that brief moment, I hope to make their little inner flame burn a little brighter and ease their pain, if only for a second.

Ever since Amy’s suicide attempt, she had fallen even deeper into depression. She cried constantly, and it broke my heart to see her that way.

We went camping one weekend at Sam A. Baker State Park. Amy barely spoke the entire time. I remember walking down to the riverbank and seeing her sitting on a rock, looking utterly heartbroken. My mother sat nearby in a lawn chair. I got into the water with my other siblings.

The river was shallow near the bank, but swimming past the middle brought deeper water. I swam across to the deeper side. He soon entered the water, and I tried to stay away from him. When he reached me, he pushed me under and held me down. As I struggled to breathe, he lifted my swimsuit top and fondled my chest. When he finally released me, I gasped desperately for air. He laughed. I quickly pulled my top back down and swam frantically to shore. Panting and shaken, I stumbled over to where Amy was sitting. We simply looked at each other. I sat down beside her in silence.

How do you escape when someone owns you? When you have no rights? When you’ve been trained like an animal to obey? You don’t escape—you survive.

We walked back to the camper when we were told. Amy never spoke a word. I held her hand, and she let me. I didn’t know how to help her or make things better. I dreamed of grabbing her hand and running into the woods with her. We could live out there, I thought. But fear quickly took hold—what if they caught us?

I wish I had taken her hand that day and run. Any ending for her would have been better than the one she ultimately received.