Journal Entries by Members/Sharing corner

Lying in bed, I scan my body to assess the damage. He was not careful this time and left marks – visible for the world to see. I rise from bed and as I get ready for school, I must be creative in my fashion choices because my school uniform does not cover the large hand-shaped bruises. As I glance in the mirror, his voice creeps into my head: "you are a spoiled brat," "you are stupid," "you'll never amount to anything in this world." Stop! I cannot allow myself to succumb to last night's flashbacks because I will break down. The agony is too much for me at only ten years old and all I want to do is to curl up in bed and cry. My father’s voice echoes in my mind and I can’t shake the nauseating feeling of his hands on my delicate skin. With resolve, I focus on being somebody in the future and finding some sense of order in my chaotic world.

By any measurement, my life is privileged. I have an amazing mother and brother, food, shelter, and attend a good school. So why does it feel like I am living in Hell? Maybe because this secret is becoming harder to keep. I am cracking up inside, and fear for my mom and brother. To stay sane in this nightmare, I’ve matured faster than other kids. Adults have described me as a leader, resilient, and determined. If only they knew I have no choice. I exist day by day and try my best not to let the walls cave in on me – I am surviving. 

Time marches on. My dad returns to medical school in Grenada, but the solace of freedom is impermanent. He graduates from medical school and returns home. My dad, my protector, is also my abuser, and soon things get worse – fast. My father is unhinged and uncontrollably violent. He has hurt me every day of my life and his presence makes me physically sick. I have developed severe anxiety and depression and every single sound makes me jump. I have not slept a wink due to nightmares. My hair is falling out in chunks. Every time I set eyes on him, a sense of foreboding and horror engulfs me. Finally, at fourteen, my mom informs me that we are fleeing. Our cross-country escape gives me hope. At last, I get to be away from the beast that has continuously haunted me.

Coping in a new environment is challenging. Even in his absence, I still hear echoes of my dad’s voice, threatening me. I struggle emotionally and spend years in private therapy. Every time I make progress with a therapist, my father somehow finds out, calls, and threatens to sue the therapist for treating me without his consent. The sessions end. Undeterred, my mother helps me join an equine therapy group. I find solace in the animals and other children's stories of abuse and healing ensues, coupled with nights reading and journaling. I am a survivor – not a victim.

My concern for abused children who don’t have someone like my mother to rescue them motivates me to start a community website, DearMadi, that supports children surviving parental abuse. I hope to offer an escape from the emotional dungeons that abusers can confine us within.

Today, at 19, as I dress for my first day of college, I gaze at myself in the mirror and see a different person from who my father 'prophesized.' I am not stupid, spoiled, and will amount to something exceptional in this world. 

I have not seen or spoken to my father in five years, but if I did, I would tell him he was wrong. I am somebody. Gazing into the mirror, I cannot hold my tears. Now they do not come from sadness, they come from feeling grateful that I managed to overcome that trauma.