May 12, 2001

I was 15 and scared. The day before, my stepfather who had been recently kicked out of the house (not the first time) for drug use had broken into our shed outside our trailer. I’d been home alone with my younger brother and sister. We called my other sister and her boyfriend. They took us to their place so we could feel safe until my mom got off work.

Mom got us and brought us home. I don’t think back then that I truly understood what feeling safe was versus what feeling afraid was. I had undiagnosed anxiety and the line was very thin. That morning, I can’t remember the time- just that it was early. I can’t remember all of even what happened. For some reason I jumped out of bed, I ran into the hall and there was my stepfather holding a huge knife and stabbing my mom.

My little brother and sister were screaming, I think. The dog, Baron (probably the best boy in the whole world) was biting him. I jumped in front of my mom and I tried to protect her. She grabbed the knife to try and protect me.

Then he stopped. I don’t know why. He never told us- even after. He stole my mom’s car and drove away. We ran out of the house. I think we ran because my mom had yelled that he’d cut the phone lines even before then. The details are hazy. It was a long time ago. Our neighbors on all sides came out. Ones I didn’t know their names and still don’t.

They took care of us. They called the police- they had even before we’d gotten out of the house because of all the screaming. It took the fire department a long time to get there, I remember. I remember thinking, wow, this is a long time. It didn’t occur to me until way later it was because we were very poor and lived in not the greatest neighborhood.

Someone told me I was bleeding. I think someone may have screamed it at me. I don’t remember. I was bleeding. Both my hands were bleeding. But I was okay. Adrenaline makes you feel okay and as a person, I’ve always worried about others first before myself. Then the fire department got there and they poured water on my hands. I could see the inside of my fingers. I almost vomited.

The ambulance came to take my mom and I to the hospital. My sister (another sister, I have many wonderful sisters and a wonderful brother) took the kids, I think. I can’t remember. I remember my mom panicking and talking to the paramedics. She told them I was an artist. I needed my hands. It hadn’t even occurred to me. We’d almost died. The rest seemed petty. Whatever became of my hands I would cope (and I did).

Larry, my stepfather, was arrested later. I don’t remember the details just that I was relieved and also he had tried to bury my mom’s car. I didn’t understand the things that drugs did to people back then. I had never wanted to know. We stayed at a hotel because our house was covered in blood. I never went back. My sister did. She’s amazing.

Domestic Violence isn’t just a huge traumatic act of aggression. And as an adult, I understand that much better than I did as a kid. There are things still that I say sometimes to friends and I realize, as I say them, that wasn’t normal. Domestic abuse can be small and subtle, and just as painful and traumatizing. It’s being afraid to ask your parents if your friends can come over because they might get physically angry. It’s being afraid to have a pet because you’re afraid that your stepdad might kill it. It’s having to parent your parents. It’s being afraid of being abandoned when your mom can’t handle it anymore. It’s watching your sisters be driven out of the house by the man who is supposed to love and care for you.

It’s so many things and so many of them we don’t realize what they are because we don’t know better, especially as kids.

It’s been twenty years. I’m a well-adjusted-ish anxious adult now and I don’t talk about this stuff much. It’s personal and anxiety makes it feel selfish to talk about. But it’s almost important to talk about. To remind people that just because someone doesn’t say something, doesn’t mean they’re okay. To remind young people especially that if your friend says something about their home life that doesn’t seem right? Tell your parents. Tell someone. Talk. Communicate.

You are not alone.

Trauma, anxiety, violence, abuse- they isolate us. And the most important thing you can do is talk about it. You can be victimized and still overcome being a victim. You can use your trauma and your hurt to help other people overcome theirs. Talk about it. Love each other. Help each other.

If you need help, start here: https://www.thehotline.org/

If you need help somewhere specific? Ask me. I’ll help you.