Rise With Me to Extinguish the Silence of Domestic Violence

All leaves have roots somewhere and my story is no different.

Growing up, I used to hope that a school friend, a parent, a teacher, someone — anyone — would notice and tell an authority figure who could help me. I grew up with a parent who every single day of my childhood told me I was dumb, stupid and couldn’t do anything right.

I was hit every day. Not strong and aggressive hits, but the split second stings of “you can’t get anything right” smacks.

She would stand behind me during homework time. Every answer I got wrong was met with an array of hateful words and a hit to drive the lesson home. I felt anything but love from my caretaker. I was never the receiver of a warm and affectionate kiss and, when she did attempt an act of love, it was in front of an audience, for show. No, her “love” wasn’t comforting or caring. It gave me chills.

But, I had my own little safe haven in a small storage closet next to an alcove in the far back of the house. When things got really bad, I’d find comfort in closing myself into that dark closet, surrounded by the trailing lengths of cashmere scarves and wool coat sleeves, and just let my tears flow freely. I remember, I’d sit in front of the mirror and tell myself over and over again that it was all going to be ok someday. Sleeping…