This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with BDO staff member Tasha Ho-Sang.
My earliest memories of my home environment start at around five years old, possibly even younger. I vividly remember my father’s rage, his tongue bitten and dangling on his bottom lip, signaling the beginning of another episode of violence. He would slap, punch, and even point guns at my mom’s face. Fear, anxiety, confusion, and a deep sense of helplessness filled my small world. I knew when it was about to start, and the knots in my stomach were a constant reminder of my inability to have enough courage to intervene and stop him.
I remember finding random spots of blood on the walls or floors, but the most haunting image was the washcloths. Despite my mom’s efforts to wash them, the blood stains remained. These washcloths, stained with her blood, tears, and pain, stood as a permanent testament to the violence we endured. I would often find myself staring at them whenever I used the bathroom or showered, their presence a stark reminder of our suffering.
One of the most haunting memories I have is of an incident where my mom didn’t want to have sex with my dad because she had a headache. He hit her down onto the bed and raped her. The memory is so vivid – I still remember the smell. Another memory was in our apartment complex in West Philadelphia. When their fights became particularly intense (the times when guns were involved), my mother would send my older brother and me to the community laundromat located between the two apartment complexes. The laundromat was dark and cold, and we often stayed there for hours without access to food or a bathroom. Once, I had to pee so badly that I peed in one of the washing machines that had clothes in it.
It was a vicious cycle. My mom was the only one working, so when she came home, my dad would inevitably find a reason to lash out at her. These fights left her shattered on the floor, tears flowing. I’d try to comfort her, promising to stand up to him next time. But when the moment came, my courage failed me, and I stayed silent.
The domestic violence and abusive relationship I experienced had a direct and profound impact on my childhood. The pain followed me to school, where I struggled to contain my frustration and anger. The abuse at home cast a shadow over every part of my life, trapping me in an unending cycle of trauma and stress.
I became an angry and violent child, struggling with emotions and behaviors I didn’t understand. Fear kept me from asking the many questions that swirled in my mind. I battled frequent bouts of depression, suicidal thoughts, and had very low self-esteem. The trauma left me with PTSD, where certain sounds, observations, and songs could trigger intense reactions.
The trauma I experienced left me hypersensitive to certain stimuli. Even today, loud noises, yelling, and violent media trigger distressing memories from my past. These reminders serve as painful echoes of the violence and instability I endured.
Academically, I struggled to perform and concentrate. I had severe trust issues and found it challenging to maintain healthy friendships and relationships. Effective communication was a foreign concept to me; I only knew to hit or yell when things didn’t go my way, mirroring the behavior I was exposed to at home. This was a cry for help, but instead, I was labeled the “bad kid.”
I didn’t have anyone to confide in about what was happening at home. In fact, I grew up believing that every household was like mine and that all fathers behaved similarly – that is, until I started visiting other people’s homes and realized that my reality wasn’t the norm. Surprisingly, nobody explicitly told me not to discuss the abuse in our house, but my brother and I instinctively understood that it was a topic best kept private.
Initially, my mother would confide in her sisters and friends about our situation. However, as the years passed, she began to conceal the abuse. Perhaps she sensed a judgmental attitude from others, assuming they might think she would return to the situation regardless, or perhaps it was out of fear and shame. Whatever the reason, the silence surrounding our family’s struggles only grew louder with time.
My mom’s boss, Nancy, finally stepped in after seeing the bruises on my mom’s face and body persist. My mom trusted her, while my dad seemed scared of her influence, likely because she’s white.
I remember the moment Nancy helped my mom escape. It was a Friday evening, and my mom quietly threw bags of our things out the window as Nancy waited outside, loading her truck. Despite my dad’s rage, I saw a softness in him – he knew my mom was truly leaving. It was the first time I saw him cry.
Today, my mother and I have a complicated relationship. When I was younger, my mother and I didn’t have a strong bond because she was emotionally drained from the abuse. Despite this, I always felt a strong urge to protect her, a feeling that still lingers today.
There’s a mix of emotions involved. I felt some resentment towards her, but I also understand the fear that held her back. She did her best to provide for us, but I couldn’t help seeing her as vulnerable. I was frustrated and angry, wondering why she didn’t leave, especially since she was the one paying the bills.
As a child, I made a promise to myself never to be as “weak” as my mother, determined not to let anyone control me. But life had other plans, as I found myself grappling with traits inherited from my father – anger, control issues, and a deep fear of abandonment. These struggles have made it tough to nurture healthy relationships, perpetuating a cycle of emotional turmoil. The scars of childhood trauma run deep, but I’m committed to breaking free from its grip. Through therapy and self-reflection, I’m working towards healing and rediscovering myself.
Now, as an adult, I realize the complexities of abuse dynamics. It took her several years, but she eventually found the courage to leave my father. Today, we’re actively working on our relationship, trying to heal from the past and move forward together.
Reflecting on our experience, it’s clear that love and abuse cannot coexist; they are fundamentally incompatible. Patriarchy and dominance get in the way of love. In our culture, we’re taught that abuse is an expression of love. We say, “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!” as we beat our children.
Looking back, what my family needed most was support rooted in empowerment and healing. My mother required guidance and encouragement to recognize her strength and worthiness, empowering her to break free from the cycle of abuse. Similarly, my father, who himself was a victim of childhood abuse, needed support to navigate his own pain and trauma. You give what you’ve been given. Instead of resorting to control as a coping mechanism, he needed assistance in learning healthier ways to express love and build nurturing relationships.
Breaking the cycle of abuse is my priority. I made it my number one job to ensure the emotional and physical safety of my children and create an environment where they feel valued, understood, and supported.
Through conscious effort and dedication, I am determined to provide my children with the loving, nurturing family environment that I longed for as a child. It’s a journey that requires constant reflection, growth, and unwavering dedication to fostering healthy relationships and family dynamics.
In my journey to heal from the trauma of my childhood, I’ve pursued various avenues of self-care and growth. One crucial step has been talking about my experiences with others, allowing myself to confront and process the pain I carried. Seeking professional support through therapy has also been instrumental in my healing process. It provided a safe space to explore my emotions, understand the impact of my past, and develop coping strategies to navigate life’s challenges.
Additionally, I’ve read a lot of books on parenting, relationships, and stress management techniques. These resources not only deepened my understanding of myself but also equipped me with valuable tools to foster healthy dynamics in my own family. Recently, I took a significant step forward by obtaining certification as a parent coach from the Jai Institute of Parenting. This certification reflects my commitment to supporting parents in cultivating greater attunement to their children’s emotional needs and responding with compassion, love, kindness, and respect. Through these efforts, I am actively working towards not only healing myself but also empowering others to create nurturing and supportive environments for themselves and their families.
To other children witnessing domestic violence, I would say this: It’s not your fault. The violence you’re experiencing is not your responsibility to fix. You deserve to feel safe and secure, and there are people who genuinely care about you and want to help. Reach out to a trusted adult, friend, or support organization. You are not alone.
To parents in abusive relationships, remember that witnessing abuse can deeply affect children emotionally and psychologically. Engage in open and honest conversations with your children about what they are witnessing, reassure them that the abuse is not their fault, and emphasize that it’s not their responsibility to fix the situation. Educate yourself about the dynamics of domestic violence and the resources available to you. Avoid blaming yourself for the abuse and focus on taking steps to protect yourself and your children. Seek support from trusted friends, family, or professionals, and never give up hope. Remember that love and abuse cannot coexist, and it is possible to break free from the cycle of violence and create a safe and nurturing environment for your family.
