The Girl That Love Lost Along The Way: an autobiography (an on going writing)

Dedication

To my loving children, Brian, Kayla, James, and Trevor – you are the heart of everything I do. Your unwavering love, patience, and support have been the foundation of my healing. Through every moment of pain, every setback, and every triumph, you stood by me with kindness and understanding. You taught me what true strength is, and I am endlessly grateful for the joy and light you bring into my life.

To the few close friends who walked beside me during the darkest days—your friendship was a lifeline, a reminder that I was never truly alone. You helped me rediscover hope when it seemed out of reach, and I will forever treasure your support. 

Ms. Sonya and Ms. Crystal.Chats you inspired me to do this, I owe you two wonderful ladies big time for encouraging me to get my story out.

 🍍 ✌️ ❤️  🌈  forever! 

This book is for all of you—my reasons to keep moving forward and the ones who gave me the courage to heal. My love and appreciation for each of you are beyond words. Thank you for being my rock.

__________________________________________

Introduction

☆Trigger Warning: The following contains descriptions of sexual, physical, emotional, and mental abuse, as well as themes of suicide, trauma, and profound loss. These topics may be triggering to some readers. Please proceed with care and prioritize your emotional well-being. ☆

Life has a way of carving scars into our souls, marks so deep that time itself cannot heal them. This is my story—an unvarnished account of the shadows I’ve walked through, the pain I’ve endured, and the survival that feels, even now, like defiance. It’s a chronicle of abuse in its many cruel forms—sexual, emotional, mental, physical, and financial—and of betrayal from those whose love should have been my refuge. It’s about the ache of vulnerability exploited by others and the void left behind by those I trusted most.

The darkest chapter of my early life came when I was just nine years old, a child barely beginning to understand the world. That was the year my mother, a woman of profound contradictions, made the irreversible decision to end her own life. That day broke something in me—splintering the fragile security I clung to and leaving behind a silence that screamed louder than words ever could. It wasn’t just a loss; it was the moment the trajectory of my life veered into chaos, grief, and unrelenting darkness.

This autobiography is not merely an account of suffering; it’s a map of my journey through the labyrinth of trauma, despair, and confusion. It’s an exploration of what it means to survive the unsurvivable, to wade through betrayal, heartbreak, and devastation in search of even a flicker of light. My story is raw. It is unfiltered. It is not an easy tale to tell, nor is it an easy one to hear. But it is mine—honest, visceral, and unapologetically real.

To those who read on, I ask only this: tread gently. This is a story of resilience and survival, but it is also one of pain and darkness. If you have walked through shadows of your own, know that you are not alone. This is not just my story—it is a testimony to the resilience of the human spirit and the light we seek, no matter how deep the darkness may seem.

After you read my story, I’ll share what I did to heal from my trauma—the steps, tools, and practices that helped me reach a place where I could finally be brave enough to put pen to paper and begin my journey toward healing. My story is a lot, but I want you to know this: if I could get to the point of writing about it to help others, you can start healing too. You are not alone in this, and there is hope. Healing is possible, and I truly believe in your strength. Keep going—you’ve got this.

If You or Someone You Know Needs Help

Abuse—whether it’s sexual, physical, or mental—can leave lasting scars. But help is available. Here are trusted resources where you can find support, guidance, and safety:

National Resources (U.S.):

National Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE) or text "START" to 88788. Available 24/7 and confidential.

Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN): Call 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) or visit rainn.org for chat support.

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 for free, 24/7 mental health support.

Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline: Call 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453). Support available in over 170 languages.

SAMHSA’s National Helpline: Call 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for mental health and substance abuse assistance.

For Immediate Danger:

If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 911 or your local emergency number.

International Support:

Canada: Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (Talk Suicide Canada).

UK: Call 0808 2000 247 (National Domestic Abuse Helpline).

Australia: Call 1800 737 732 (1800RESPECT).

Global Directory: Visit findahelpline.com for worldwide resources.

You’re not alone. Reaching out for help is a brave first step toward healing. Share this to help others find the support they need.

__________________________________________

 Chapter One

My memory is like a faded photograph in my mind, warm and golden at the edges, capturing a perfect moment frozen in time. It was Easter at Nana and PopPop’s house in Islip, New York. I must have been four or five, an age when the world still feels like it’s made just for you. I was the only grandchild then, and that meant I was something of a star in a constellation of aunts, uncles, and grandparents who orbited around me. Their love was everywhere—unspoken but unmistakable, wrapping me in a cocoon of security and joy.

The house was alive that day, the kind of bustling only a big family creates. Laughter echoed through the rooms, bouncing off the walls and mixing with the clinking of dishes and the occasional peal of Nana’s delighted voice. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicating—savory ham, rich roasted potatoes, and something sweet that I couldn’t quite place but knew would appear later as dessert. It felt like the air itself was humming with happiness.

My parents were there, too, their faces softer than usual, free from the worries I wouldn’t begin to understand until much later in life. My dad’s hand rested protectively on my mom’s shoulder as they sat together, talking with relatives. I saw them not as separate people but as part of a whole—a little triangle of love and safety, the three of us against the world.

I remember sitting on the soft carpeted floor, cross-legged and enthralled, while my Aunt Donna played Barbies with me. She had this endless patience that only an aunt seems to possess, letting me create wild, convoluted storylines where Barbie and Ken were adventurers, rescuing stuffed animals from imaginary villains. She laughed at all the right moments, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement, as if my stories were the most fascinating tales she’d ever heard.

Everything about that day felt magical, as though nothing could go wrong in a world that held so much love, warmth, and laughter. I didn’t know then how fleeting childhood is, or how precious those moments would become in hindsight. All I knew was that I was loved, I was safe, and for that one golden day, the world was exactly as it should be.

The adults weren’t content to just talk or cook that day—they were caught up in their own Easter egg hunt. It was a sight that still makes me smile: uncles and aunts, some of them in their twenties and thirties, running around the yard with as much energy as kids. They teased each other playfully, laughing like they were ten years old again. I remember sitting on the couch, eyes wide, utterly fascinated by the spectacle. How could grown-ups have so much fun? How could they, of all people, be just as caught up in the joy of the hunt as I was? It was a kind of magic that only exists when you’re young enough to see the world through the lens of innocence and wonder.

Outside, the air smelled like spring—earthy and fresh, with the scent of wet grass, damp soil, and flowers blooming in every corner of the yard. It was the kind of day that made you believe in new beginnings, in the promise of something beautiful. The breeze was gentle, a perfect companion to the warmth of the sun. Even as it drifted in through the open windows, it seemed to blend seamlessly with the scents of roasting ham and potatoes, filling the house with a comfort that was impossible to escape.

I remember how everything felt so soft, like the whole world was just... allowing us to exist in that moment. Time itself seemed to slow, giving us the space to savor it fully. The noise of laughter, the clinking of plates, and the gentle hum of conversation were all wrapped in this unspoken understanding that there was nothing else to do but be happy. It was a time before life became complicated, before the arrival of siblings and cousins would shift the family dynamic. Before anything or anyone could stir up doubt or confusion.

In that moment, I was surrounded by love—unquestionable and undiluted. My family was my whole universe, and that universe was perfect. There was nothing that could reach me, nothing that could disrupt the sense of belonging I felt as I sat there, wide-eyed and content. All I knew was that I was loved deeply, with a love that was so pure, it felt like it could protect me from everything, forever. And for that day, it did.

When I was seven, I lived at 7 Christina Street. How could anyone forget that? My age was the same as the house number, and my name was Kristine—it felt like the universe had set everything up just for me. It was the kind of coincidence that made everything feel meaningful, like the world was made up of little signs just for me to uncover. At that age, those small, perfectly aligned details felt like magic, as if the universe was whispering that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be.

That was also the year Hurricane Gloria came through—September 16, 1985. I remember the sky changing, turning an eerie shade of gray that made everything feel heavy and uncertain. The air grew thick with tension, a sense that something big was coming. The wind roared, loud enough to drown out everything else, as if it had something important to say. It bent the trees in our yard, their limbs swaying and creaking under the pressure. Leaves were ripped from the branches and tossed into the air, swirling around us like confetti, a chaotic celebration of nature’s power.

From our window, I watched in awe as the storm played out its fury. Our neighbor’s shed was one of the first casualties. Piece by piece, the wind tore it apart, sending its panels flying into the air like feathers. It was strange, watching something so solid and familiar disintegrate right before my eyes. It felt unreal, like something you’d see in a movie but never experience in real life. The wind howled and the sky darkened, but inside, there was a strange mix of excitement and fear. It was a feeling I couldn’t quite name, but I remember knowing that things would never quite be the same once the storm passed. It felt like the world had shifted, and I was standing in the middle of it, caught between the magic of a perfectly aligned life and the raw power of nature.

What I remember most, though, was my swing set. It wasn’t just a toy—it was my little kingdom, a place where I could escape into my own world, soaring higher and higher, as if I could touch the very sky itself. The wind and storm didn’t scare me when I was swinging; I felt invincible, as if nothing could stop me. But when Hurricane Gloria approached, I became terrified for my swing set. It was my safe space, my place of freedom, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing it to the storm.

I begged my dad to save it. I can still see him in my mind, standing outside in the growing chaos, his figure determined against the howling wind. He tied down the swing set with ropes, working fast, doing whatever he could to protect it. From the warmth and safety of the house, I watched him, my little heart swelling with a mix of love and gratitude. In that moment, he wasn’t just my father—he was my hero, braving the storm, doing whatever it took to protect something that mattered to me.

To my seven-year-old mind, the storm wasn’t just a natural disaster—it was an adventure, something dramatic and wild unfolding before my eyes. But even within the chaos, there were moments of security, of love, like the way my dad fought against the storm to preserve my world. I saw him as my protector, and the storm suddenly became just another chapter in a story where he would always keep me safe.

Seven years old on 7 Christina Street—the numbers seemed to mark that moment forever, a snapshot of innocence and love, etched deep in my heart. I’ve carried that feeling with me ever since, a reminder that even when the world feels out of control, there are always moments of safety, love, and heroism waiting to be found.

When I was seven, life seemed full of little connections that glittered with meaning, like the universe was stitching together small, perfect moments just for me. That year, my dad worked for Coherent Communications, a computer company with a name that sounded impossibly cool to my seven-year-old ears. To me, it felt like he was part of something big, something important—something I could brag about when I talked about my dad to my friends.

It was through his job that he met Joyce. I don’t know exactly what it was, but my dad must’ve seen something special in her—a kind of spark. He introduced her to my mom, thinking they’d hit it off. And he wasn’t wrong. Joyce was one of those people who had this way about her, a confident kindness that drew everyone in. She had a warmth that filled the room, and her stories seemed to make even the most serious adults stop and listen. I was always captivated by her. She wasn’t just an adult; she was someone who knew how to make the world feel a little more magical.

Joyce was a single mom with two boys, David and Harry. She also cared for her elderly grandmother, who lived with them. I remember her house feeling alive, always buzzing with activity. There was a sense of comfort and warmth in the way she managed everything, even when times were tough. It wasn’t just a house; it was a home. The kind of place where, even in the midst of chaos, there was always room for laughter and love. To me, Joyce and her family were like a second family, and her house felt like a second home, a place where stories were told and life was lived with an open heart.

Looking back, I see how much those connections shaped me, how they taught me the importance of kindness, of family—however it may look—and of finding strength in the midst of it all. At seven, I couldn’t have understood the complexities of life, but I knew that there was something beautiful about the way people came together, about the bonds that formed in unexpected places. And at that moment, life at 7 Christina Street felt like a story that was still unfolding, full of promise and new connections just waiting to be discovered.

Joyce quickly became more than just my parents' friend—she became our friend. In a way, she became family. There was something magnetic about her, something that made you feel seen, like you truly mattered, just by knowing her. She wasn’t just someone who came in and out of our lives; she rooted herself deeply, like a second mom, or better yet, an aunt. To me, she wasn’t just a friend of the family; she was family. Her boys, David and Harry, became like cousins I never knew I needed—full of life, laughter, and that infectious energy that only children can bring. Her grandmother was a quiet, sweet, wise presence in her home, the kind of person who seemed to know everything, and yet would tell her stories with a smile, making everything sound like the most important thing in the world.

Looking back, I realize that it was my dad’s quiet insight that brought Joyce into our lives. He must’ve seen something in her—a strength, a warmth, a kind of wisdom that my mom could use at that time. My mom was someone who needed another strong woman by her side, someone who could understand the importance of both laughter and resilience. Joyce wasn’t just a friend; she was the kind of person who made life feel richer, fuller, and more connected.

Her friendship didn’t just fill a gap in our lives—it created a bond, one that felt like it had always been there, waiting to be discovered. It’s funny how those small moments, those seemingly insignificant introductions, can snowball into something so big, so life-changing. At seven, I didn’t know the word for it, but now I do: family by choice. And Joyce, in all her strength, love, and laughter, was undeniably ours.

I don’t have many memories from my early school years. The details of classrooms, teachers, and lessons all blur together, fading into the background of those years. But what stands out, vivid and warm, are the moments spent with my family, with Joyce, and her boys, David and Harry. They were the heart of my world, the constant threads woven into my happiest memories.

Joyce wasn’t just a family friend; she was aunt Joyce to me. She had a way of showing up with her laughter, her warmth, and an energy that could make any situation feel lighter. She wasn’t just someone we saw from time to time—she was woven into the fabric of our lives, making every moment feel like it mattered. Her boys, David and Harry, weren’t just kids I played with; they were like cousins, built-in playmates who made life feel a little more adventurous. We didn’t need grand plans or big trips to have fun. Sometimes, it was as simple as climbing trees in the yard, building forts out of old blankets and chairs, or sitting around, lost in the magic of our stories.

There was something special about those simple moments—about how easily the three of us, my two "cousins" and I, could turn any corner of the world into our own playground. It wasn’t about the activity; it was about being together, sharing that easy bond of friendship and family. Even in the small, quiet moments, everything felt right because we were surrounded by love and the certainty that we always had each other.

The connection between my mom and Joyce was something that even my young mind could recognize as special. It wasn’t one of those forced, complicated friendships—it was effortless, natural. They leaned on each other in ways that made it clear they understood each other without needing to explain much. There was a quiet strength between them, a bond that held them both up when life got tough. They celebrated each other's victories and comforted one another through the challenges, navigating the ups and downs together. Joyce’s grandmother, with her quiet wisdom and soft smile, was always there too—her presence a calming balm in the midst of all the childhood noise and chaos. She was like the anchor to their whirlwind, a reminder that there was still peace to be found.

My early years weren’t defined by school bells or report cards. Instead, they were about belonging—about knowing, without a doubt, that I was surrounded by people who loved me and cared for me. My memories are filled with the warmth of family dinners, where conversation flowed as easily as the laughter that followed. I remember feeling secure in the knowledge that Joyce and her boys weren’t just occasional visitors in our lives—they were part of us. For a kid, that sense of belonging was everything. That was the heart of what mattered—being surrounded by love, feeling seen, and knowing that no matter what, we were all in it together.

That summer night on Christina Street felt like so many others—warm, familiar, and full of the easy rhythms of childhood. David and Harry had come over to stay, something that always brought a sense of excitement to the evening. Upstairs, David was with my mom, likely helping her with something or caught up in conversation, as he often was. Meanwhile, Harry and I found ourselves in the basement, in the heart of my playroom.

That playroom was my sanctuary, a little world I had built for myself. The shelves were lined with my favorite toys, and the walls were decorated with the crafts and creations that filled my days with wonder. It was where my imagination came alive, a space that felt separate from the rest of the house—a place where I could be completely me.

Harry and I decided to play house, a game I’d played countless times before with other friends. It was simple, innocent fun, the kind of game where the rules didn’t matter so long as you let your imagination run free. At first, it felt no different than any other evening, the kind where time moved slowly, and laughter echoed through the walls.

That night, something changed. Harry, two years older than me, used that difference like a weapon. He was bigger, stronger, and he knew it. What started as pretend became something else entirely. He crossed lines I didn't fully understand then but knew, in my gut, weren't right. 

That day left a void I didn’t know how to fill. The days blurred together after that, each one heavier than the last. I avoided the playroom entirely, as if stepping inside would bring everything rushing back. I told myself it was safer that way—to pretend nothing had happened, to lock it all away in a corner of my mind and never revisit it.

But the truth has a way of creeping in, no matter how hard you try to bury it. At night, I would lie awake, replaying his words, his threats, and the way he made me feel powerless. I began to doubt myself, questioning if it was my fault somehow. Maybe I should have fought harder, screamed louder, or run faster. These thoughts consumed me, growing like shadows in the corners of my mind.

For months, I wore a mask around others, pretending everything was fine. Smiles were easy to fake, and laughter came when it was expected. But inside, I felt hollow. The weight of keeping it all to myself grew unbearable, but I was too afraid to speak out. What if no one believed me? What if it made everything worse? The fear was paralyzing, keeping me locked in silence.

Over time, I learned that what happened to me didn’t define who I was. I wasn’t just a victim; I was a survivor. And though the scars would always remain, they became a testament to my strength, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, light can find a way through the cracks.

One day in the assembly at school there was a revelation, a collision of past and present that left me reeling. As the speaker described the importance of consent and safety, the memories I had tried so hard to forget began to surface with painful clarity. The fear I had buried, the shame I had carried—it all came rushing back, but this time, it came with understanding. I could finally see it for what it was: a violation, a betrayal of trust, and a theft of something I hadn’t been able to protect.

On Christina Street, I was just a child, too young to understand the weight of what had happened or how to fight against it. Harry had made sure of that, with his sharp words and suffocating threats. He had turned my own innocence against me, manipulating my silence and ensuring I carried the blame instead of him. I spent years trapped in that silence, convinced that speaking up would only make things worse.

But hearing those words in the assembly—the truth spoken so plainly and without fear—was like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed. For the first time, I saw the cracks in Harry’s lies. It wasn’t my fault. It was never my fault. Those five words felt like both a lifeline and a wrecking ball, freeing me from the weight of guilt I had carried for so long while exposing the depth of the pain I had buried.

After the assembly, I sat quietly, letting the realization sink in. I wanted to cry, to scream, to do something to release the storm of emotions swirling inside me, but I didn’t know how. Instead, I walked out of that room with a new sense of resolve. I couldn’t change what had happened, but I could take back control of my story, but it wasn't that simple. 

Suppressing those feelings felt like survival at the time, a way to keep going when the weight of what happened seemed too much to bear. I thought that if I just ignored it, it would eventually disappear. But the truth is, it didn’t vanish—it seeped into every part of me, reshaping who I was without me even realizing it. It influenced how I interacted with others, how I trusted—or didn’t—and how I saw myself. It was a quiet, persistent presence, always there, even when I tried to forget.

As the years went on, that silence became second nature. I learned to smile through pain, to brush off discomfort, to tell myself that my feelings didn’t matter as much as keeping the peace. But deep down, that unspoken truth was still there, festering like an open wound that never healed. And the longer I held it in, the heavier it became, pulling me down in ways I couldn’t fully understand until much later.

I wish I had known then that silence wasn’t the answer, that speaking up wouldn’t make me weak but strong. I wish I could have seen that the shame and fear weren’t mine to carry—they belonged to him. But I was just a child, trying to make sense of something far too big for me to handle alone. And so I chose silence, thinking it was my only option.

Now, as I look back, I see the ways that silence shaped me, the walls it built around me. It took years to realize those walls weren’t protecting me—they were imprisoning me. And though unlearning that silence has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, it’s also been the most important.

I’ve started to find my voice again, piece by fragile piece. It’s not easy to confront the past, to untangle the feelings I buried so deeply. Some days, it feels impossible, and I wonder if I’ll ever truly be free of it. But I owe it to myself—to that younger version of me—to try. To speak up now, even if I couldn’t then. To reclaim the parts of me I thought were lost forever.

I can’t go back and tell my younger self that it’s okay to speak up, that there are people who will listen and believe me. But I can honor her by doing that now. By telling my story, by refusing to carry the weight of silence any longer. And by reminding myself every day that my voice matters, that I matter, no matter how much the past tried to convince me otherwise.

Then, one day, everything changed. My mom sat me down, her voice soft but trembling at the edges, and told me that we were going to live with Grandma Ellie in California. Just the two of us. My dad was staying in New York. Her words hit me like a tidal wave, flooding my little world with confusion and heartbreak. How could we leave? How could he stay?

The days leading up to our move were a blur. I remember the way my mom would cry quietly when she thought I wasn’t looking, her shoulders shaking as she tried to pack up pieces of our life. I remember my dad being distant, his face a mask I couldn’t read. And I remember clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was temporary—that we’d be back soon, that everything would go back to the way it was before.

But deep down, I think I knew. I knew that when we left, something would break that couldn’t be fixed. The day we drove away, I watched my dad in the rearview mirror until he was just a speck on the horizon, and even then, I kept looking, as if somehow I could will him to follow us. My heart ached in a way I didn’t have words for at the time. All I knew was that my family—my perfect little world—was splitting apart, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The day we left for California, Joyce was the one who took us to the airport. I remember sitting in the backseat, clutching my small bag and staring out the window as familiar streets blurred past. My mom was quiet, lost in her own thoughts, while Joyce tried to keep the mood light, chatting in her usual way. But nothing about that day felt light to me. It felt heavy, like the whole world was pressing down on my little chest.

At the time, it felt like a simple request, one born out of love and concern for my dad. I thought I was helping, that by asking Joyce to take care of him, I was ensuring that everything would be okay, that nothing would change. But I didn’t know then that sometimes, even the most innocent words can carry weight that no child can fully comprehend.

Joyce’s smile, though gentle, held something more behind it—an emotion I didn’t understand then but recognize now. It was a smile of promise, but also one of acknowledgment, perhaps even a hint of guilt or regret. She had agreed without hesitation, her response as natural as breathing, but looking back, I wonder how much that promise truly meant to her—and how it affected the decisions that followed.

As my mom and I walked through the security gates, leaving New York behind, I held onto the idea that Joyce would fill the space Mom and I had left behind. I didn’t know how things were between them, nor did I understand the complexities of adult relationships. All I knew was that I was saying goodbye to my dad, and in my child’s mind, if I could just ensure that he wasn’t alone, maybe the hurt wouldn’t feel so sharp. Maybe, somehow, things would stay the same.

Years later, after the distance between my parents had become something unspoken but undeniable, I started to understand how much more was at play in that moment than I could have known. The bond between my dad and Joyce wasn’t as simple as friendship, and my request to her—so innocent and pure—had unknowingly laid the groundwork for a shift that no one had prepared for. I hadn’t understood the potential consequences of those words, of how they could alter the fabric of our family in ways I couldn’t anticipate.

I often wonder how much responsibility I placed on Joyce that day, unintentionally asking her to step into a role she may not have been ready for, and how those words must have lingered with her as time went on. What had been meant as an innocent promise quickly blurred the lines between what was right and what was hidden, and in doing so, it inadvertently changed the course of all our lives.

That promise, in its simplicity, had become more than I ever realized in the moment. I thought I was being helpful, trying to keep things together, but in truth, I had unknowingly set something into motion that none of us could control. I was just a child, reaching out for a way to preserve the bond between my parents, to hold on to the version of our family that had once felt so whole. But I didn’t understand how fragile things had become, how my words might have bound my dad and Joyce in a way I couldn’t foresee, or how my well-meaning request might alter the course of events in ways that would shake the foundation of everything I knew.

As time went on, I could see the slow, inevitable changes. The moments between my dad and Joyce became more frequent, more intimate, and eventually, it wasn’t just a promise that kept them connected—it was something much stronger, something unspoken but deeply felt. What had started as a simple promise I’d made in the airport became tangled with emotions and intentions that no one could clearly define, least of all me.

Now, I can’t help but think about the role that promise played in all of it—the small act of love I thought would help keep my family whole, now tied to a much larger and much more complicated truth. I had been trying to protect something, to hold onto the comfort of what we once had, but in doing so, I had unknowingly contributed to the changes that were taking place, to the shifting of bonds and the blurring of lines.

That promise still lingers in my memory, a reminder of how our good intentions can sometimes create the very chaos we wish to avoid. I can’t undo it, can’t change the course it set us on, but I’ve come to realize that it was all part of a bigger picture. That knot, tied with the best of intentions, became part of the tangled web of our family’s story—one that, like all stories, was both painful and beautiful, both fractured and whole. And in the end, all I can do is acknowledge the complexity of it, the weight of those words, and the way they shaped who we became.

__________________________________________

Chapter two

The journey to Grandma Ellie and Grandpa Frank’s house felt like it lasted an eternity. Every mile that passed made the distance from home seem immeasurable, like I was being carried further and further away from the life I knew. When we finally arrived, everything felt strange. The air smelled different—dusty and dry, with a hint of something I couldn’t place. The house was unfamiliar, full of faces I didn’t know, all staring at me with smiles that felt kind but distant.

My new room wasn’t really mine. It was a space I shared with my mom, cramped and unfamiliar. There was no room for my familiar comforts, just the bare essentials she had managed to pack. Most of my toys were left behind, forgotten casualties of the move. I only had a handful of things to remind me of home, including one of my favorite dolls. She was my anchor, a small, worn piece of a life that now felt impossibly far away.

I remember sitting on the bed, clutching that doll and feeling the weight of it all sink in. This wasn’t an adventure. This wasn’t temporary. This was a new life, one I didn’t choose and didn’t understand. I felt small and out of place, like I didn’t quite belong in this house with its unfamiliar smells and unfamiliar people.

The nights were the hardest. Lying beside my mom, I would listen to her breathing and wonder if she missed home as much as I did. I wanted to ask her, but I was too afraid of the answer. Instead, I hugged my doll tighter and closed my eyes, trying to imagine I was back in my room on Christina Street, where the world still felt safe and familiar.

When we arrived in California, I was introduced to a whole new set of people—aunts, uncles, cousins, and close family friends. They all welcomed me warmly, their faces smiling and their arms open. But they weren’t my family, not the family I knew back home. The connection felt different, like a puzzle piece that almost fit but didn’t quite click.

Over time, I warmed up to them. Slowly, I learned their names, their quirks, and their stories. They became familiar in their own way, though never quite the same as what I had left behind. It was a comfort to have them there, even if my heart still ached for the life I’d known on Christina Street.

Starting second grade at Annakirtchagator Elementary in Sacramento was another hurdle. I was "the new kid," a title that felt heavy and lonely. I walked into the classroom on the first day, clutching my backpack and feeling every pair of eyes on me. I didn’t know how to talk to anyone, how to make them like me. I was sad, and kids could sense it. They didn’t tease me or bully me; they just didn’t really know what to do with me.

Most days, I kept to myself, watching the other kids laugh and play as if they had all the secrets to happiness I didn’t. I missed my dad, my friends, my house, even my swing set back home. The weight of it all made it hard to smile, hard to feel like I belonged.

But I tried. Day by day, I showed up. I did my work, listened to the teacher, and occasionally exchanged shy words with a classmate. Even if I didn’t make many friends, I was determined to find my place, even if it felt like the pieces of my world were scattered far apart.

It wasn’t until third grade, in Mr. Gleeson’s class, that things began to shift. That was the year I met Sean. He was in my therapy class, and from the very first time we talked, he had this way of making me feel like everything might just be okay. He was sweet and funny, the kind of kid who could make you laugh even on the toughest days.

Sean didn’t treat me like the sad new kid or someone who didn’t quite belong. To him, I was just Kristine. We sat together at lunch, talking about everything and nothing, and he always made sure to wait for me before heading out to the playground. He didn’t just invite me into his world—he made space for me in it.

He taught me how to play tetherball, laughing when I missed the ball or hit it in the wrong direction. And then, with endless patience, he showed me how to get it just right. Four square became another favorite, with Sean cheering me on and making me feel like I was part of something bigger than just the game.

For the first time since leaving New York, I didn’t feel so alone. I started looking forward to school, to seeing Sean and spending time together. He wasn’t just a friend—he was a reminder that things could get better, that I could find my place here in this new life.

Through Sean, I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could make this strange, unfamiliar place feel a little more like home.

From September to the end of the school year, things began to shift. My world, so heavy and unfamiliar at first, started to feel a little lighter. With Sean by my side, I found moments of happiness and even a spark of hope. School became my safe space, a place where I could just be a kid, away from the chaos and sadness waiting for me at home.

I wasn’t the best student—my mind wasn’t on the work most of the time. I’d stare at my worksheets or the chalkboard and find my thoughts drifting, carried away by the weight of everything I was trying to understand. But no one seemed to mind too much. Mr. Gleeson was kind, and Sean made the days feel brighter.

Still, when the bell rang and it was time to leave, a familiar dread settled over me. Home wasn’t the same. The warmth and safety I once knew were gone, replaced by a heaviness that hung in the air. My mom was trying her best, but she carried her own struggles, and I could feel the cracks beneath her calm.

Each day, I lingered as long as I could at school, soaking in the laughter and lightness, dreading the moment I had to leave it behind. At school, I could breathe; at home, the walls felt too close, the silence too loud.

But even in those moments of dread, I clung to the happiness I was starting to find. Sean, Mr. Gleeson’s class, the playground games—they were small things, but they mattered. They were my lifelines, pulling me through the uncertainty and showing me that even in the hardest times, there could still be joy.

My pain wasn’t just from missing my dad, though that ache was always there, a constant, quiet hurt. There was something heavier, more immediate, that hung over me every day. If I didn’t do things right—if I failed at schoolwork or didn’t meet expectations—there were punishments. Severe ones.

Grandpa Frank’s thick, worn leather belt hung by the garage door like a silent warning. I hated the sight of it, the way it loomed there, a reminder of what could happen. Sometimes, when I fell short, I’d be taken into the garage and spanked with that belt. The sound of it cutting through the air was sharp and terrifying, but it wasn’t just the physical pain that stayed with me. It was the humiliation, the helplessness, the way it made me feel small and powerless.

Their dog, Sugar, was the only one who seemed to care in those moments. He’d bark and growl, lunging to defend me or anyone else being hit in the house. I loved him for that, for the way he seemed to understand what no one else would admit. But even Sugar couldn’t stop it.

Some nights, I’d sit at the kitchen table for hours, my head bowed over my schoolwork, rewriting spelling words until my hand cramped. If I didn’t get them right, there were consequences. Other nights, it wasn’t schoolwork but punishment sentences—lines and lines of the same thing written over and over, a form of penance I could never quite understand.

The house was quiet on those nights, except for the scratch of my pencil and the occasional creak of the floorboards. I’d look out the window sometimes, wishing I could escape, wishing I could run back to New York, to my dad, to a time when life didn’t feel so heavy.

Even now, the weight of those nights lingers. It wasn’t just the belt or the sentences; it was the feeling of not being good enough, of always falling short. That pain was deeper than any bruise could ever be.

I remember that night so vividly, the way the air in the house felt heavy even before it all happened. I had been taken to the garage again, the thick leather belt leaving its cruel mark on my skin. It wasn’t new, but it never got easier. I felt broken, small, and alone.

Later that evening, the phone rang. It was Daddy. He always kept in contact, checking on me and reminding me he was still there, even from so far away. That night, though, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Between sobs, I told him what had happened. I didn’t know what I expected, but I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

Not long after, there was a knock at the door. I froze when I saw the police. Fear surged through me—what had I done? I didn’t want them to take my mom away. I couldn’t lose her too, not after everything. A lady officer knelt down and spoke to me gently, her voice calm and kind, like she understood how scared I was. She asked me to tell her what had happened.

At first, I hesitated. I didn’t want to betray anyone, even the people who hurt me. But something in her eyes made me trust her, and slowly, I decided to show her the marks the belt had left on my body. I lifted my shorts just enough, the sting of those welts matched only by the sting of my tears as they spilled down my cheeks.

I remember crying and apologizing over and over, telling her it was my fault. I told her I had done something wrong, that I deserved it, because that’s what I believed. I thought if I admitted it was all my fault, maybe they wouldn’t take my mom away. Maybe everything would stay the same, even if it was painful.

She listened patiently, her expression soft but serious, and told me something I’ll never forget: “None of this is your fault.” But at that moment, her words felt distant, impossible to believe. All I could feel was the fear—the fear of losing what I had left and being stuck in that house, in that life, that house, forever.

That night, after the cops left, the phone rang again. It was Daddy, and I could tell right away something was different. His voice was sharper, more serious, like he was upset but trying not to show it. As we talked, I heard Joyce in the background. At first, I couldn’t tell what she was saying, but then it was loud and clear: she called my mom a bitch.

My stomach dropped. Joyce—Mom’s best friend—said that? I couldn’t believe it. My face got hot, and my hands started shaking. After we hung up, I ran to tell Mom and Grandma what I heard. I couldn’t keep it in. It was stuck in my head, looping over and over like an annoying song you couldn’t turn off.

"Why would she say that about you?" I asked Mom, my voice shaky and angry. "She’s supposed to be your best friend!"

It made no sense to me. How could someone who was supposed to care about my mom say something so mean? I kept thinking about Sean—my best friend. I would never, ever say something like that about him. Even if I was mad, I wouldn’t do it. Friends don’t do that to each other.

It wasn’t just the words; it was the way they made me feel. Confused. Angry. Upset. I trusted Joyce, and she was supposed to be part of the family, like an aunt to me. But now, hearing her talk about my mom like that, it felt like a betrayal.

I didn’t understand why Joyce was being like that, why she was acting like Mom wasn’t good enough anymore. It wasn’t fair, and it made me hate her in that moment. I hated the way her words hurt my mom and me. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was before Joyce—when friends stayed friends and grown-ups didn’t make you feel so lost.

Not long after, Mom and Grandma sat me down and told me about court. They explained that I’d have to talk to the judge, and over and over, they told me how important it was to tell the truth. They drilled it into me like it was the most important thing in the world.

When the day came, I was so nervous I thought my heart might beat out of my chest. The judge was kind, though. He didn’t seem scary at all. He asked me about school, about home, and if I felt safe there. His voice was gentle, and for a moment, I almost forgot how big and serious everything was.

I did what I was told to do. I told the truth. I told him about the belt, the punishments, and the nights I dreaded going home. I thought I was doing the right thing. Everyone had told me that telling the truth was the right thing.

But looking back now, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had lied. Because what happened next really hurt. The truth didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make the pain go away or bring back the family I missed. Instead, it broke things apart even more.

At the time, I didn’t understand how something as simple as the truth could make everything so much worse. But it did. And sometimes, I still wonder if telling the truth was worth the price we paid for it.

Looking back now, I know my mom struggled with back pain, but at the time, I didn’t realize just how bad it was. I thought it was something simple, something you could fix with ibuprofen or rest. I didn’t know about the stronger painkillers or the toll it was taking on her, both physically and emotionally.

Then one day, something changed. Mom got paperwork from the court. I don’t know if it came in the mail or if she went to pick it up while I was at school, but when I got home that day, she wasn’t the same. She was back to the sweet, loving mom I remembered from years ago. Her smile was softer, her eyes brighter, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a lightness in the air around her.

I didn’t know what was in that paperwork, but part of me hoped it was something good—something that meant we could leave California and go back to New York. Back to Daddy, back to the life we’d left behind. I didn’t dare ask, though. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, didn’t want to risk anything that might bring back the shadows I’d seen in her before.

Instead, I just watched her, soaking in every bit of her happiness, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, things were about to change for the better. If this was a step toward going home, I wasn’t going to do anything to mess it up. I clung to that hope like it was the only thing keeping me afloat.

No such luck, though. I wouldn’t find out what that paperwork was or what it said until a few years later. It turned out the courts had decided my mom was unfit to have me, and my dad was getting full custody. I didn’t know what that meant back then—not really. All I knew was that something was shifting in ways I couldn’t control, and it made my stomach twist with unease.

A few weeks passed, and things started to feel almost normal again, at least for a little while. I was excited because my cousins Melissa, Jennifer, and Desiree were coming over to Grandma’s to spend the night. It was something we’d done so many times before, and it felt like a small pocket of joy in a time where those were hard to come by.

That afternoon, I rushed home, running the three blocks from where the bus dropped me off. I couldn’t wait to see my cousins, to have a night filled with giggles, snacks, and the kind of fun only we could have together. But as I rounded the corner to Grandma’s house, I stopped in my tracks.

Uncle Larry’s and Uncle Al’s cars were parked out front. Seeing them there wasn’t unusual—family was always coming and going—but something about the way they were there, in the middle of a regular weekday afternoon, made me pause.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the house, feeling a strange sense of unease creeping up my spine. I didn’t know why, but something about it didn’t feel right. It was as if, deep down, I knew that whatever was waiting for me inside wasn’t going to be like all the other times before.

I walked into the house, my heart hoping that maybe the girls had gotten there early and we could start our fun. But as soon as I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong. Everyone looked sad—too quiet, too heavy. It wasn’t the kind of sadness that came and went; it was the kind that filled the whole house like a storm cloud.

Grandma and Uncle Larry took me by the hand and led me to his room. I sat down on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling, a strange, tight feeling building in my chest. It felt like forever before anyone said anything. The silence was deafening.

Finally, Uncle Larry spoke, his voice soft and careful, as if the words might break me. “Mommy went to take a nap,” he said, pausing, his eyes glistening with tears, “and never woke up.”

I froze. It was like my brain shut down, refusing to process what I’d just heard. I stared at him, waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake or a bad dream. But no one did.

After that, everything became a blur. I went into autopilot, my body moving but my mind somewhere far away. The next clear memory I have is of my dad standing at Grandma’s front door, Nana and PopPop right behind him. I didn’t even know two days had passed.

Time didn’t feel real anymore. It was as if the world had stopped, leaving me floating in this strange, empty space. I wanted to cry, to scream, to do something, but I couldn’t. I was just... frozen. My mom was gone, and nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

School wasn’t quite over yet; we still had about two weeks until summer break. But for me, it was my last day. I went in to say goodbye, to pack up whatever little pieces of my life I had left there.

Word must have gotten around about what happened because, for the first time all year, kids who never said a word to me stopped to talk. They offered kind smiles and awkward condolences, but none of it really mattered. Their words felt distant, like background noise to the ache in my heart.

Then I saw Sean.

The moment our eyes met, I ran to him without thinking. He was the only one who mattered in that moment—the only friend I had. I hugged him so tight, like he was my anchor in a storm, and before I knew it, I was breaking down, sobbing into his shoulder.

Sean didn’t say anything; he just held on, letting me cry, not caring about the stares or whispers around us. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel so alone. He didn’t try to fix it or tell me it would be okay. He just stayed with me, and that was all I needed.

_________________________________________

Chapter Three

I wish I could say that I had love and support after losing my mom—that the people around me helped me carry the unbearable weight of it all. But the truth is, they didn’t.

Most of the people in my life, including my dad and Joyce, seemed to think I would just figure it out on my own, as if grief was something you could grow out of or push past with time. They didn’t do much to get me the help I needed, and I was too young to even know how to ask for it.

Instead, I carried it all by myself—the pain, the confusion, the loneliness. Every day felt like trudging through a fog, heavy and endless. The people around me kept moving forward, but I was stuck, lost in the silence of my own sadness.

I needed someone to hold me, to tell me it was okay to cry, to scream, to feel broken. But no one did. No one saw how deeply I was hurting, or if they did, they didn’t know what to do about it. So, I buried it all, piece by piece, pretending to be okay because it seemed like that’s what everyone expected.

Looking back, I realize how much I needed someone to see me, to truly see the little girl who had just lost her mom and didn’t know how to go on without her. But no one did. And that silence, that absence of care, became its own kind of wound—one that took 36 years to even begin to heal from.

When I came back to New York, everything felt strange and unfamiliar. My dad was living in the apartment at Nana and PopPop’s house, and while it was nice to be back in a place I recognized, it didn’t feel like home—not really.

I was enrolled in school for the last week of 3rd grade, and let me tell you, trying to make friends at that point was almost impossible. Everyone already had their groups, their routines, their inside jokes. I was the new kid, dropped into the middle of it all, and no one seemed to know what to do with me.

It was awkward and lonely. The kids were polite, but there was no real connection. They weren’t mean, but they weren’t welcoming either. I felt like I was on the outside looking in, watching a world I couldn’t be a part of.

After everything I’d just been through, trying to fit in at school felt like climbing a mountain with no end in sight. I wanted so badly for someone to notice me, to talk to me, to make me feel like I belonged. But that week, more than anything, just reminded me how much my life had changed—and how alone I really was.

As if things weren’t hard enough, my dad sat me down and told me we were moving into Joyce’s house. In just three months, she was going to be my stepmother. I didn’t know how to feel about it at the time—confused, maybe, or just numb. It all felt so sudden, like my life was being rewritten without me.

When I got older and started to piece things together, it all felt... off. Things Joyce said about my mom started to echo in my mind, things I didn’t fully understand as a kid but that cut deeper as I grew. The way she talked about my mom—dismissive, sometimes even cruel—made me wonder if she had been the reason my parents split up in the first place.

I wanted to ask my dad, but I was too afraid of what the answer might be. I carried that anger and confusion with me, like a storm I couldn’t quiet. If Joyce had anything to do with breaking my family apart, then why was she here now, taking my mom’s place so easily? Why did my dad let it happen?

The questions ate at me, but I couldn’t say them out loud. I couldn’t risk making everything worse. So I stayed silent, even as the resentment grew. Moving into Joyce’s house felt like being forced into someone else’s life, a life I never asked for and didn’t want. And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of this was how it was supposed to be.

Things with Harry got worse—much worse. What he did to me back when I was living on Christina Street started up again, but this time, the fear was even more suffocating. He didn’t just threaten me; he threatened to hurt my dad if I told anyone. That threat kept me silent, locked in a cage of shame and terror.

To make matters worse, I wasn’t allowed to avoid him. I was forced to spend time with him, even made to hang out with him and his friends. At first, I thought I could just keep my distance, but then things took an even darker turn. Harry decided that it wasn’t enough to hurt me himself. He let his friends hurt me too.

I felt like I was disappearing, shrinking under the weight of what was happening. I didn’t know how to stop it or how to protect myself. I was too ashamed to speak up, too terrified of what Harry might do if I tried.

Every day, I carried this horrible secret, pretending everything was fine while feeling completely broken inside. I felt like it was my fault, like I must have done something to deserve it. The shame was unbearable, and the fear never went away.

I didn’t know who I could trust or if anyone would even believe me. So I stayed quiet, hoping that somehow it would stop on its own, even though deep down, I knew it wouldn’t. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from, and I was trapped in it, all alone.

At first, it was two brothers, Scott and Chris. Then, it became another friend named Chris. And as the years went on, the list grew longer—George, Eric, Earnie, Chad, Christopher. One by one, Harry added them to his twisted game, and I was caught in the middle, powerless to escape.

As I got older, I started to understand just how wrong it all was. I began refusing, trying to stand my ground, but Harry found ways to keep control. He started giving me drugs, things I didn’t understand at the time, things that made my body feel heavy and my mind foggy. He used them to make me compliant, stripping away any chance I had to resist.

Sometimes, he would sit and watch, his eyes cold and calculating, like I was nothing more than an object. Other times, he would sit outside the room, keeping guard to make sure I didn’t try to escape or refuse to do what he told his friends they could do to me.

I felt disgusting, like my very existence was dirty and broken. I was scared all the time—scared of him, scared of his friends, scared of what my life had become. There was no safe space, no one to turn to. The hopelessness was suffocating, a weight on my chest that never lifted.

I wanted to scream, to fight back, to make it all stop, but I didn’t know how. The fear was too great, and the drugs only made everything blur into a haze of helplessness. It felt like there was no way out, like this was all my life would ever be. And that thought was the most terrifying of all.

Harry had a way of twisting everything, even my own feelings. He knew I had a crush on George, and he used it against me. He’d say things to make me believe that what was happening was normal, even that I wanted it. He made it seem like my feelings for George somehow justified everything, as if it was supposed to make it better. But it didn’t.

Years later, I found out the truth. George told me that Harry had lied to him, told him that I was okay with everything, that I wanted it to happen. Hearing that shattered me. It was like being broken all over again, realizing how deep the betrayal ran.

I felt used, like I had been nothing more than a pawn in Harry’s manipulative game. My crush on George, something that should have been innocent and sweet, had been twisted into something ugly and painful. It wasn’t just the physical violation that hurt—it was the way Harry robbed me of trust, of my voice, of any control I had over my own life.

Even now, it’s hard to untangle those feelings. I think about how much different things could have been if someone had seen what was happening, if someone had stopped it. Instead, I was left to carry the hurt, the shame, and the lies, while Harry walked away from it all like it was nothing.

My dad and Joyce were so wrapped up in themselves, in their own little world, that they didn’t even notice how desperately I clung to them every time they left the house. I begged to go with them, pleaded to not be left behind. Looking back now, I wonder: how could they not see it?

It wasn’t like I was subtle. My fear, my anxiety—it was all right there. Every time they walked out that door, I was practically screaming without words, "Don’t leave me here." But they never seemed to notice, never thought to ask why I was so desperate to be anywhere but home.

And when they left, I was stuck. Harry would take me into the basement, away from his grandmother’s reach, away from her ears. She couldn’t hear or stop anything—not with that heavy door and her age keeping her from even trying. It was like he’d planned every detail, knowing exactly how to keep what he was doing hidden.

I can’t stop wondering how they missed it. How do you not pay attention to how your child acts, to the way they cling to you, the way their mood shifts when certain people are around? Didn’t they notice how quiet I got, how much I avoided being alone with him?

It hurts to think about. It hurts to know that the people who were supposed to protect me, the people who should have noticed something was wrong, didn’t. I was just a little girl, screaming for help in the only way I knew how, and no one heard me. No one saw me. And that silence, that absence, is something I’ll never fully understand.

Joyce once said she was happy with her sons and never really wanted a girl. So why the hell did she marry my dad, knowing he had a daughter? It’s a question that still haunts me, especially when I think about how she treated me. Some days, things with her were okay, almost normal. But most of the time, it was a cycle of emotional abuse, sometimes even turning physical. And no matter what, somehow it was always my fault.

My dad refused to see any of it. He didn’t want to know. Instead of talking to me, he relied on Joyce to tell him everything about me—how I was doing, what I needed, even how I felt. Why he trusted her over his own daughter, I’ll never understand. It made me feel invisible, like my voice didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter.

The only time he and I really talked was when he was watching Law and Order. I’d sit with him and ask questions about the cases on the show, trying to understand the world it portrayed. I was interested in it, wanted to learn, and for those brief moments, it felt like we had a connection. But that was the extent of our relationship—conversations about fictional crimes and justice, nothing about the real pain I was living through.

The rest of the time, Joyce fed him her twisted tales about me, painting me as the problem, the troublemaker, the liar. And he believed her. Every word she said drove a wedge deeper between us, a wedge I knew would never go away.

It broke me. It destroyed any hope I had of being close to my dad. He was supposed to protect me, to see me, to love me for who I was. Instead, he chose her over me, over and over again. That betrayal left scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life, and I’ll never forgive either of them for it. Never.

For years, this was my life—a never-ending cycle of chores, responsibilities, and isolation. By middle school, I had become the household maid. While David and Harry had a few tasks, it was always me who had to pick up the slack when they didn’t do them. My homework had to be finished, dinner made, and the entire house cleaned before my dad and Joyce got home from work. It was exhausting and unfair, and Joyce, in her twisted way, thought it was funny. She’d laugh and call me Cinderella like it was some kind of joke.

Rarely did I get to escape and spend time with friends. There were a few—Lucy, Jessica, and Brooke—but I mostly stuck with Lucy. She lived just down the block, the daughter of one of Joyce’s friends, and her house became my sanctuary. It was my home away from home, a place where I saw what a real family was supposed to look like. Her aunt and grandparents lived across the street, and they took me in like I was one of their own.

Those moments at Lucy’s house gave me glimpses of what life could be, but they didn’t last long. My dad and Joyce would sometimes come down for BBQs or coffee nights, but even those moments were tainted by Joyce’s venom. On nights when it was just her, the things she said about my dad were horrifying. She would talk about him like he was nothing, dragging his name through the mud in front of her friends while they all gave me pitying looks, as if I wasn’t already humiliated enough just being there.

Hearing her say those things about my dad made me furious. Whatever respect I had left for her evaporated. How could someone so two-faced act like everything was fine at home while tearing him apart behind his back? And the worst part? She didn’t care that I was there to hear it. She didn’t care what it did to me.

It was infuriating, demeaning, and just one more thing to add to the long list of reasons I resented her. She pretended to be this perfect, loving stepmother in front of my dad, but when he wasn’t around, the mask came off, and all I saw was the real Joyce—cruel, manipulative, and selfish.

Middle school brought me a small sliver of joy in the form of my closest friends—Brandi, Kyra, Lisa, and Krystina. The laughter we shared, the silly moments, the inside jokes—they were my escape. For a few hours a day, I could forget the nightmare waiting for me at home. Those friends saved me in ways they’ll never know.

But even then, reality crept in. By that age, it was impossible to ignore my dad’s drinking problem. It added another crack to the fragile foundation of my childhood, another reason why my home life felt unbearable. I never wanted to bring my friends over because I couldn’t trust what they’d see or hear. Would my dad be drunk and unpredictable? Would Joyce find a way to humiliate me in front of them? It wasn’t worth the risk.

So, I lived two lives. At school, I smiled, laughed, and pretended everything was fine. But the moment I walked through the front door, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. The weight of it all—the chaos, the fear, the loneliness—sank in every single time.

Looking back now, I wonder how I managed to hide it so well. How did I convince everyone, even myself at times, that I was okay? It’s no surprise I ended up with borderline personality disorder and bipolar issues. Living in that kind of emotional whiplash—happy and free one moment, trapped and terrified the next—was bound to leave scars.

But why? Why was I so good at pretending? Why didn’t anyone see the cracks in the mask? It’s disheartening to think that I suffered in silence for so long, that the people who should have noticed didn’t, and that I became so skilled at hiding the pain that even I started to believe it was normal. It wasn’t. It never was.

__________________________________________

Chapter Four

Middle school was as close to normal as my life ever got, though the hell at home was always lurking in the background. My dad made sure I kept in contact with the family in California, arranging visits back and forth. But even those trips, meant to keep a sense of connection, were tainted by the fear I carried with me.

I’ll never forget my last trip out there. Uncle Al drove me to the airport, and in a rare moment of courage, I told him the truth—I told him I was scared to go back to my dad because of what Harry was doing to me. I had hoped for a lifeline, someone to care enough to help. Instead, his response crushed me. He more or less said he didn’t care and sent me on the plane anyway.

I assume he didn’t tell anyone, because nothing changed. I know that if Grandma Ellie had known, she would’ve done something—she would’ve fought for me. But she never had the chance, because Uncle Al didn’t give her one. That summer, the summer of my thirteenth birthday, was when I realized just how alone I really was.

When I got back to New York, I was greeted by Lucy and Jessica waiting for me at the house. Their faces lit up when they saw me, and for a moment, it felt like things might be okay. Inside, there was a card from my dad and Joyce waiting on the table. It had a simple message scrawled inside: Now go to bed.

It felt odd—cold and detached—but I didn’t question it. I headed upstairs to my room, and there, sitting on top of my dresser, was a stereo. My heart jumped with excitement. For a fleeting moment, I felt seen, maybe even special. That stereo became more than just a birthday gift; it was my escape, a way to drown out the chaos of my life, even if just for a little while.

That moment of joy was a rare gem in a sea of despair, and I held onto it tightly, knowing it might be a long time before I’d feel it again.

Life seemed to go back to its routine after school started. I was back to the books, trying to focus on anything that could keep my mind busy. But then January came, bringing with it a blow that shattered what little stability I thought I had.

Lucy, Jessica, our friend Holly, and Lucy's boyfriend Joe were in a car accident. Joe was old enough to drive, and the accident happened on their way home from school. I still remember that day so vividly. I had taken the bus home, as usual. There was always this 30- to 45-minute gap between when Lucy would get back and when I would arrive. But that day, as I walked through the door, something felt off—like the air around me had changed, heavy with an unease I couldn’t explain.

I tried to shake the feeling, sticking to my normal routine and diving into my homework. Then the phone rang. It was my boyfriend, Danny. His voice was heavy, uncertain, as he told me there had been an accident. That was all he knew. The words sent a jolt through me.

I dropped everything and ran down to Lucy’s house, desperate for answers. When I got there, I could see the pain etched on everyone’s faces, and my heart sank. I learned that Holly was in bad shape, Lucy and Joe had injuries, but Jessica—sweet, funny Jessica—had died at the scene.

Hearing those words felt like the floor beneath me had disappeared. Jessica was gone, just like that. Someone who had been a part of my life, who shared laughter and memories with me, was suddenly ripped away. The weight of it all was unbearable.

That moment changed everything. It wasn’t just grief—it was a reminder of how fragile life is, how quickly everything can be taken away. It left a hole in me, one that never quite healed. Jessica wasn’t just my friend; she was part of the family I chose, a family that felt like safety in a world that so often didn’t. And now, she was gone.

Jessica's funeral was a testament to the kind of person she was. The church was packed, filled with family, friends, and countless others whose lives she had touched. It was overwhelming to see so many people gathered to say goodbye to someone who had meant so much to me. Joyce took me to the mass, but when it came time to go to the cemetery, I couldn’t do it.

I hadn’t been to a cemetery since my mom’s funeral, and the thought of reliving those emotions was too much for me to bear. Instead, I chose to go back to school. Joyce told me I could go home if I wanted, but the idea of being alone in that house was unbearable. I needed to be around people who cared, even if I couldn’t find the words to express how I was feeling.

When I got to school, Brandi, Kyra, Lisa, Gina, and Krystina were waiting for me. As soon as they saw me, they surrounded me with hugs. Their presence was comforting in a way I couldn’t describe. They told me they were there if I needed anything, and even though I didn’t say much that day, just knowing they were there gave me a small sense of stability in a world that felt like it was crumbling around me.

That day was heavy, filled with emotions I wasn’t sure how to process. But my friends gave me something to hold onto—a reminder that I wasn’t completely alone, even when the weight of loss felt unbearable.

I tried to be there for Lucy as much as I could after the accident, but how do you comfort someone who watched their best friend die right in front of them? It changed her in ways I could see but couldn’t fully understand. I did my best, though—offering her pieces of myself, trying to help her feel better in any way I could.

Even though I wasn’t there that day, the weight of it all hit me hard too. Lucy and Jessica weren’t just my friends; they were my sisters in every way that mattered. They were my guides through the chaos of growing up, the ones who taught me how to make my hair look cute, how to put on makeup that made me feel like a different person—like I mattered.

I’ll never forget how they orchestrated my first kiss with a boy I actually liked, Joey. I was terrified, not just because it was my first, but because every interaction I’d had with boys up until that point had been something dark and twisted—things no girl should ever have to endure. But Lucy and Jessica made it feel safe. They made me believe, even for a moment, that things could be normal.

Now Jessica was gone, and nothing felt normal anymore. I tried to be strong for Lucy, to show her the love and support she’d always shown me, but there was a part of me that was breaking, too. Losing Jessica ripped open old wounds I thought I’d buried deep, leaving me raw and exposed.

I kept replaying all the memories we’d shared, clinging to them like a lifeline, but the pain of knowing there wouldn’t be any more moments with her was suffocating. And as much as I wanted to help Lucy heal, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was barely holding myself together. The grief was overwhelming, and it left a void I wasn’t sure would ever be filled.

That summer was a blur of pain and confusion, but there’s one day I’ll never forget. I’d gone to hang out with two guys from school, Johnathan and Donald. Donald’s parents weren’t home, and like a scene out of a bad after-school special, we ended up breaking into the liquor cabinet. Thirteen red Solo cups of straight vodka later, I made the brilliant decision to try and ride my bike home.

I didn’t get far. Somewhere along the way, I rode straight into a parked car just a few houses down. I don’t even remember leaving Donald’s house. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital, disoriented, crying, and calling out for Jessica, my mom, and—secretly, in the deepest part of my fear—my baby. I had been so scared I might be pregnant because of Harry, and in that moment, the weight of everything came crashing down.

I remember hearing the curtain pull back and seeing my dad and Joyce walk in. I was a mess, but when I called out for my mom again, Joyce tried to swoop in, saying, “I’m here.” That was when something inside me snapped.

I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Not you, bitch—my mom.”

The words came out before I could stop them, but God, it felt so good. For so long, Joyce had tried to erase my mom from my life, like her memory wasn’t important, like the grief I carried didn’t matter. She’d hide the picture of my mom I kept putting up whenever I missed her, as if pretending she didn’t exist would make me magically forget. Joyce wanted to replace her, to make me believe she was all I had.

But that night, I said what I had held inside for years, and it felt vindicating. For once, I didn’t bottle it up. I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that no matter what she tried to do, she would never be her!

Looking back on that night, I can’t help but wonder why no one really listened to me. I was crying, terrified that I might have hurt my baby. I know I was drunk, and maybe I wasn’t making any sense, but how did no one stop and ask why I even thought that? Not Joyce, not my dad, not even the doctors or nurses. If someone had just asked me, I know I would have said something.

I mean, I had the nerve to tell Joyce off, right? I called her a bitch to her face without even thinking about it. So why couldn’t I speak out about what was really happening to me? Why couldn’t I just say the words?

Was Harry’s hold on me really that strong? Even drunk and out of my mind, I was still too scared to say anything. He wasn’t even there, but it felt like he was. Like his threats and his control were burned into me so deep that even in my weakest moments, I couldn’t escape them.

I hated myself for it. I hated that I didn’t speak up. I hated that I was so scared of him, of what he’d do to me, or to my dad, if I said anything. But mostly, I hated that no one saw through it. That no one asked, or was it that no one cared? 

After the hospital incident, the doctors told my dad and Joyce I needed therapy. Of course, that only lasted a few months before it was dropped. Big shocker there. My dad didn’t even take me himself; it was always Joyce. Like I wasn’t his responsibility anymore, just hers to deal with.

Looking back, it makes me so angry. I was his child, not hers. Why couldn’t he step up for me? Why couldn’t he take me to therapy, talk to me, or be there for me in any real way? Instead, all we had was our time watching TV together, and even that felt like the bare minimum.

To this day, I haven’t forgiven him for how he abandoned me emotionally after marrying her. He gave her all the control, all the power, and I was just... left to figure things out on my own.

And the drinking—his drinking. I know that day I drank myself into oblivion, part of me did it because I was angry at him. Angry that he could drink himself into his own little world while ignoring what was happening in mine. Maybe I thought if I did the same thing, he’d finally notice me. But he didn’t. He never really did.

__________________________________________

Chapter Five

Freshman year was a whirlwind of ups and downs, but mostly downs. My body was changing so much, and it felt like everything was out of control—inside and out. Harry didn’t stop, if anything, it felt worse. Every time I tried to resist, there’d be marks, but he was smart. He knew exactly where to leave them so no one could see.

I started feeling disconnected from reality. Some days were fine—great, even—and those were like little breaks from my own life. But most days? Most days were a mix of physical pain, mental exhaustion, and emotional numbness. Between my dad’s cold indifference, Joyce’s constant criticisms, and Harry’s...evil, it felt like there was no escape.

I think back and wonder, How did no one see? How did no one notice this little girl practically begging for someone—anyone—to help her? I tried to hide it, sure, but deep down I was screaming for attention, for love, for someone to look at me and ask, Are you okay?

But no one did. No one stopped to really see me. And now I just wonder...if one person had paid attention, if one person had cared enough to notice, could things have been different? Would I have been saved from all of this? Or was I just destined to be invisible?

There were boys I liked. I even dated a few, but something inside me wouldn’t let me truly connect with them. Every time I got close, my mind would spiral with fear—What if I slipped? What if I accidentally said something about what Harry was doing to me? Would they think I was easy? Would they look at me with disgust, call me a whore, or worse...would they believe I somehow wanted it? Welcomed it?

That thought alone made my stomach twist and my heart pound with shame. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t let anyone see the truth, so I kept them all at arm’s length. I smiled, I laughed, and I played the part of a normal teenage girl. But it was all fake.

Inside, I was breaking apart. There was no hope of being truly loved, no hope of being understood, because how could anyone love someone as broken as me? I hated myself for the secrets I carried, hated myself for the lies I told just to survive. And the worst part? I hated that tiny part of me that still dared to hope someone might notice—someone might care.

But no one did. And maybe no one ever would.

When Dad and Joyce would leave the house, and Dave was home, I always gravitated toward him. He was the only sibling who didn’t shatter my trust, the only one who made me feel safe in a world that seemed bent on tearing me apart. Dave didn’t care that I was a girl or that some of the things he taught me were considered “guy things.” He showed me how to fix things, shared stories, and laughed with me in a way that felt so genuine, so different from everything else I knew.

The time we spent together meant everything to me. In a life so full of betrayal and pain, Dave was my anchor. He was proof that not every man would hurt me, not every person would take advantage of me. At that point in my life, he was the only male I trusted.

But even with that trust, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth about what his brother, Harry, was doing to me. I wanted to—I wanted to so badly—but the words wouldn’t come. What if he didn’t believe me? What if he saw me differently afterward, like I was broken or dirty? Or worse, what if telling him made everything worse?

So I stayed silent, even as my heart screamed for help. I held onto the moments I had with Dave, letting them be a small light in the endless darkness, even though the secrets I kept felt like they were eating me alive.

Sophomore year wasn’t much different from before in some ways—same friends, same home life, the same struggles—but something changed for me that year. For the first time, I found something that truly felt like mine.

I had the chance to take a few electives, and I signed up for TV Production and Photography. At first, I thought they’d just be fun classes, a way to escape everything else. But as I got deeper into the assignments, I realized I’d discovered something I genuinely loved and was good at.

Every photo I took, every frame I planned for a video, gave me a sense of purpose and control I hadn’t felt in so long. It wasn’t just about meeting deadlines or getting good grades—it was about creating something that mattered to me. I learned how to capture moments, how to see the world differently through a lens, and for the first time, I started to dream about a future where I could do this for the rest of my life.

I poured everything into my assignments, losing myself in the process of fine-tuning my skills. The more I learned, the more I wanted to grow, and the more I realized that photography wasn’t just a class—it was a part of me.

For once, I had hope. I had pride. I had something to hold onto, something that made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I could carve out a future that wasn’t defined by pain or fear but by something I loved.

Later that year, I started dating someone who genuinely encouraged me with my new passion for photography. Brian was different—he was sweet, kind, and he made me feel special in a way I hadn’t felt before. He didn’t just compliment me; he believed in me, in my talent, and that belief gave me a confidence I hadn’t known was possible.

For a while, things felt almost normal. We’d talk for hours, and he’d listen without judgment. He was a bright spot in a world that often felt so dark. But, as with everything good in my life, I couldn’t hold onto it. My insecurities—the secrets I carried about my home life, the weight of everything I couldn’t say—pushed him away.

I didn’t know how to let someone in. Every time he got close, I built walls higher, fearing he’d see the mess I was hiding and leave anyway. In the end, I sabotaged what we had. I destroyed it before it could destroy me, or so I thought.

But life has a strange way of working sometimes. After some time apart, we reconnected—not as a couple, but as friends. And even though it wasn’t the same, I realized something important: not every connection has to end in ashes. Some can grow in a different way, even after being tested.

Brian’s encouragement stayed with me, even after the relationship ended. He reminded me that I had something worth fighting for—my talent, my passion, and maybe even myself. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

I wish I had been able to open up to Brian. I wanted to--so badly. He was kind and patient, and part of me believed he might have been the one to help me. Maybe he could've helped me tell my story, to get someone to finally listen and make it all stop. But fear had its grip on me, stronger than any hope I had.

 Harry's threats weren't just words. I'd seen what he was capable of. He and my dad had gotten into physical fights before, and Harry hurt him badly. I still remember the way my dad looked afterward-beaten, humiliated. So when Harry swore he'd kill my dad if I ever told anyone, I believed him. Why wouldn't l? I'd witnessed the damage he could do.

Even though my dad and I didn't have the kind of relationship I wanted, I didn't want to lose him. The thought of being an orphan, left alone with Joyce and Harry, terrified me more than anything. I felt trapped. No matter how much I wanted to scream, to tell someone, I swallowed my words and kept my mouth shut.

I carried that weight in silence, scared and lonely, wishing someone could see what was really happening. But no one did. Or maybe they didn't want to. I couldn't let myself hope for rescue-it hurt too much when no one came. So I stayed quiet, caught between fear and the fragile threads of the life I was trying to hold together.

That summer, I turned sixteen. Sweet sixteen—a milestone every girl dreams of, filled with laughter, friends, and memories to cherish forever. I’d watched my friends celebrate theirs, and I had always imagined mine being just as special. But Joyce? She didn’t want to throw me a party.

I mentioned it one day while at Lucy’s house, and her mom and aunt weren’t having it. They told Joyce straight out that if she didn’t host a party for me, they would. I guess the idea of someone else stepping up to do what she wouldn’t embarrassed her, so she threw something small at the church hall. It was nothing compared to the parties my friends had. It wasn’t extravagant or full of thought, and looking back, it showed everyone just how little I meant to her.

But I didn’t let it get to me that day. I looked past the simplicity of the decorations, the lack of effort, and the subtle digs because what truly mattered to me was that I had my friends and family there. I chose to focus on the love and support from the people who actually cared for me.

It rained that day, and as I got ready, listening to my stereo, the song “Holes in the Floor of Heaven” came on. I remember staring out the window, thinking about my mom and Jessica. They weren’t there with me physically, but in that moment, I felt them. I imagined the rain as their way of reaching me, letting me know they were watching over me and celebrating with me in their own way.

The rain didn’t ruin my day; it washed away the loneliness. For a few short, precious hours, I felt surrounded by love, and it was enough. Enough to make me smile, to make me laugh, to make me feel like I wasn’t alone. And for me, that was worth more than any party Joyce could’ve thrown.

My junior year brought an incredible opportunity that made me feel like I was finally on the right path. I was accepted into an advertising art and design program at a school outside of my high school. For part of the day, I got to leave the usual routine behind and dive into something I was genuinely passionate about. It was such a prestigious opportunity—not everyone could qualify for this. You had to have the grades, be caught up on all your other classes, and show real potential. And I had all of that.

I was so excited because this class felt like the next step toward my dream. I had already fallen in love with photography, but this class opened the door to a bigger world. I started thinking seriously about photojournalism—telling stories through pictures that could inspire, inform, and move people. This was a way to take my love for photography and give it even more purpose.

Having Brandi in the class with me made it even better. We were the only two from our high school, and it was comforting to have someone I knew to share this experience with. Together, we navigated the new school, the projects, and the challenges.

Walking into that classroom every day felt like I was finally doing something meaningful for myself. It wasn’t just another class—it was a step toward a future that I was excited to build. It was the first time in a long time that I felt proud of myself, like I was proving that I could rise above everything I’d been through and create something better for myself.