I wouldn’t trade my past for anything. Every memory, every scar, every nightmare led to my husband and children. It molded every inch of who I am today.
My heart breaks, however, for the child that was me. I could cry rivers for the helpless, innocent soul that was tormented for no reason other than opportunity.

The four year old who had a natural dislike to the mean man who lived in her house. The ten year old who didn’t know why other people were horrified to hear her talk of his death so nonchalantly. The teenager who knew the meaning of the words he spoke and watched her family shatter before her eyes.

He destroyed every memory with any semblance of tranquility.
He stole my childhood.

I never had time to dream the dreams of normal children. My nights were plagued with nightmares and tear soaked pillows. A future without him seemed as imaginary as castles hidden in the clouds.  

Growing up seemed like a fantasy meant for other children.

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up my heart answered “free” or “dead” while my lips moved of their own accord. I had no moments of quiet to ponder my aspirations. Every moment was about survival.  

During the few moments of his absence from the house we would huddle together whispering, as though he could still hear us from miles away. Scenario after scenario…each ending with his death. A car accident, a fire, a murder. But that would be too easy.

..Those endings were meant for other children.


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