I Grew Up in a House of Pain — and Still Found the Strength to Love

My father was my abuser.
Not just physically — but emotionally, mentally, and sexually.
And yet, even after everything, a part of me still loves him.

If you have a family that calls you, remembers your birthday, buys you gifts, and wants you around — you are blessed. Because some of us grew up wishing for that kind of love, and never receiving it.

From the very beginning, I wasn’t wanted. My mom got pregnant with me just two months after a C-section birth, despite doctors warning her to wait at least two years. I was called a “mistake.” My dad was already a drinker, an angry man who saw me not as a child — but as something to take his rage out on.

I still remember my earliest memory — standing in the kitchen at four years old when he snapped. He grabbed me by the arm, screamed, and hit me again and again. His words burned even deeper than the pain:
“GET OUT OF THE F*CKING KITCHEN.”

That day became the pattern of my childhood. The beatings continued into my teenage years.
The sexual abuse — I didn’t even fully remember until therapy in my late 20s.

Pornography played constantly in our house. I had seen more explicit material before age nine than most people see in their lifetime. My father constantly reminded me that being a girl meant being “less.” I was told I couldn’t play guitar, couldn’t do math, couldn’t think for myself. I was taught to hate who I was.

When I was eight, I cried one night — and he spat the words that would haunt me forever:
“You’re a fcking cnt. I wish you weren’t mine.”

Music became my escape. I taught myself to play guitar, even though he mocked me. I started collecting band posters — my tiny rebellion, my little piece of joy. No Doubt, Green Day, Tool, Deftones — 27 posters in total. One day, I came home to find them all ripped to shreds and stuffed in a garbage bag. My crime? Forgetting to do the dishes.

I cried for a week. I’ve never bought another poster since.

Today, I’m an adult. I struggle with addiction. I panic around people. I fear love and success. Every holiday passes in silence. My phone never rings on my birthday. He still tells me he hates me. And still, somewhere deep inside, I love him — because he’s my father, and because love doesn’t always die even when it’s not returned.

But I also know this: silence helps abusers, not victims.
So I’m breaking mine.

If you’re reading this — please, listen to your children. Believe them. Protect them.
If you’re an abuser — stop. Get therapy. Turn to God.
If you’re a survivor — please, seek help. You deserve to heal. 💪🏽

No child should ever grow up thinking pain is normal.
And no survivor should ever feel alone in their fight to recover.

#TellSomebody