” A girl who has lived through trauma has lived through a situation where her body, her mind, herself was not own. Where she felt disjointed, ripped from herself, safety, and sanity. It was a moment, an experience, a something where her trust was smashed, her worth was gone and all that there was was pain”
– by Kendra Syrdal

Everyone comes into this world to explore and learn about themselves. Instead, I was taught what fear feels like and to imagine life disappearing in an instant, never knowing when that might happen. As a child, I couldn’t comprehend human behaviors or how to protect myself. I learned through trial and error, navigating the unpredictable responses of my abusers while waiting in captivity for whatever came next. Reflecting on this now, knowing I was just a child, breaks my heart. I had no idea how to handle a grown 30-year-old woman who was supposed to be my mother. She robbed me of my ability to trust, feel safe, and maintain a sound mind. Many times, I escaped into fantasy worlds to survive. It was the only refuge I had, as my mind refused to recall the earlier events of the day because they were too much to bear. How could a child with no resources find peace at night? Often, my body and mind were so exhausted from crying that I fell asleep effortlessly.

I often thought I could fill an empty vase with my tears. That’s how much I cried and how alone I felt. I knew no one was coming to save me. My father was no help; he made things worse. So, everything fell into my hands. I walked around carrying my own fate, unnoticed by anyone. It’s terrible to place such a burden on a child. I don’t know how I managed, but I told myself to keep pushing every day. There was a time I considered suicide, but that story is for another time and beyond the childhood years of this narrative.

By the age of five, I was abused, mocked, and taken advantage of for no reason. Nothing was my own. My mind, my body, my sense of self were never given the chance to blossom like every beautiful young girl deserves. Everything belonged to a 30-year-old adult who did as she pleased. Many times, I felt disjointed from my own body due to the inflicted injuries. I would play doctor, patching myself up until the bleeding stopped, only to face the next injury.

Playing doctor was often a board game for children. My version, however, was a harsh reality, lacking the knowledge and experience that should come with adulthood. I was just a child, stripped of everything: my beauty, my ability to believe in the goodness of the world. I was belittled, called a witch and a bitch—words I didn’t understand at the time. From her tone, I knew they meant something demeaning. I knew what a witch was, but not a bitch. I can still place myself back in that moment, in that room, feeling bewildered as she stood over me with disgust, hurling those words. They were words no child should know. Understanding their meaning now is deeply painful. All that remained was a profound sense of suffering—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.