Beautifully Unbroken

My father grew up in an extremely violent home and, to escape the violence, he lied about his age at 17 years old and joined the Army. Ironically, he ended up fighting in World War II. Like so many men and women, he sacrificed so much to fight for this country and the toll it took on him was beyond comprehension. You only know this toll if you have been in combat and I would never presume to understand what he went through. When he left the Army, he married his first wife and they had six children together. Unfortunately, the physical, mental and emotional damage from the war did not make him an ideal candidate for this kind of responsibility. His anger, drinking and violence dissolved the marriage; and shortly thereafter, he met and married my mother who was 29 years his junior. Together, they had five children, of which I am the third, and the violence continued.

I grew up in the projects where crime was rampant and different kinds of abuse were simply a part of life. None of us kids ever mentioned the black eyes or bruises on our bodies; it was normal for us and there was no point in talking about it. What mattered when we were outside was that, for the moment, we were away from the violence, and all we wanted to do was forget about the reality of our lives and play. Inside our house was a different story; one we wish we weren’t a part of.

Our family lived in a constant state of fear and, ‘survival mode’, was all we knew. The only escape we had if school wasn’t in session, was to play outside as long as we could. But when the street lights turned on and the sun went down, our dread went up. With our heads hung, we would make the fearful walk back to our houses planning how to avoid getting a beating that night.

If I got home and my dad was already there, a sense of relief would come over me. Not because things would be great, but because I knew he wasn’t out drinking. But if his car was not in the driveway, that only meant one thing; he was going to come home drunk and whoever could not avoid getting in his crosshairs would pay the price. Out of the four siblings, I was one of the favored candidates for his targeted violence. I did my best to avoid being seen but he was good at figuring out where our hiding places were (Nini) and a few more bruises would be visible the next day.

As if this wasn’t enough of an unfortunate circumstance, at the young age of five, my teenage step brother moved in with us and the sexual abuse began. To ensure that I wouldn’t tell anyone what was happening, he threatened to kill my family if I told on him. My innocent brain believed he would so I did what I had to do for the duration of his stay with us. I was already conditioned to live in a constant state of fear, but from that point forward, I felt alone, scared, trapped, and became an extremely angry child. I would end up keeping this soul crushing secret until I was 15 years old.

Back in those days, there were no domestic violence programs; and counseling was rare for the upper class but unheard of in the lower class communities. Because of the variations of abuse, fear became the foundation of my soul and explosive anger became my primary outlet. A violent atmosphere was all I knew and fighting was the only tool I had to defend myself.

When I was in first grade, I was given a serious directive by my father and I would to my best to follow it as long as I was under his roof. On that particular day, I was standing in line for the water fountain when a male classmate pushed me backwards and cut in front of me. He was known for being a jerk and pushing other kids around but this was the first time he dared to touch me. I reactively shoved him back out of the line and he was mad. When he regained his footing, he looked at me incredulously, put his shoulders back, walked toward me and stood above me as if to intimidate me. But this kid was much smaller than my dad and he had no idea the level of anger I was carrying. His first punch was his only direct hit and, although this was my first fight and he was bigger than I was, the anger being released from deep inside made it an easy win for me.

Later that night, my dad noticed my black eye and asked what happened. In utter fear I told him the story and when I was finished he stared at me in silence for what seemed like an hour but was only a few moments. When he finally spoke he asked one question, “Did you win?” More terror filled my body because I didn’t know what the right was so I looked down and shook my head yes expecting him to jump out of his chair and rush at me. To my relief, he answered calmly, yet with a serious warning, “Ok, then you’re not in trouble. But if you ever get into a fight and lose, I will beat the hell out of you.” From that point on I went into every fist fight knowing that I had to win.

By the time I was fifteen I had run away from home three times. The first time I stayed at a friend’s house but her parents discovered me hiding in her closet and sent me home. I did not get the welcome I was hoping for (sarcasm); Dad unleashed his anger on me for having the audacity to run away and “embarrass the family”.

The second time I was a freshman in high school and my friend tole me she was planning on running away from her house. The counselor told her that there were families that took kids in and she could go there. That sounded good to me so I went with her thinking we would go to the same family and it would be fun. We weren’t. I was put with a different family and entered into the abyss of the foster care system. After hours of being processed it was very late but the counselor informed me that it was my obligation to call my parents and tell them where I was. I thought they would do this but I was wrong so, filled with fear I called home. My mom was confused as to why I was calling because they thought I was at a basketball game and hadn’t realized I was missing. For the record, I had never attended a school game of any sort, let alone a basketball game. I quickly hung up and told the counselor they didn’t care; which wasn’t a lie.

Unfortunately, the foster family was only in it for the money. Their whole family would go out to school games or dinners and leave me at the house watching MTV because they needed to have their “family time”. I don’t know what it is like today, but in my time, the foster care system didn’t screen families or their motivation for fostering kids. It was inundated with runaways but they were unable to bring any sort of integrity to the system and once again, I felt rejected and unwanted. I began to plan my exit from that home as well, however, I made the mistake of telling the counselor that this family was stupid and I was going back to the streets. But because I was only fourteen, she was obligated to either take me to juvie or back home. With neither being a good choice, I chose home.

My parents were notified that I would be moving back home in three days with the assistance of the counselor to ‘help with the transition’. I knew I was in serious trouble with my dad but I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t have a choice. Sure enough, during the meeting with the counselor and my parents, I could see the anger in my dad’s eyes. But she remained clueless and thought it was going to be a “healthy transition for all of us”. Yeah, right! As soon as she left, my parents took me to the kitchen and said, “For three days we have been collecting this for you.”; there were dirty dishes covering all of the counters and the stove and I was to wash, dry and put them all away. I thought I was getting off pretty easily, however, the beating came soon enough.

It seemed as if everything in my life was culminating into one moment that would cause me to snap and run away for the final time. Although the abuse from my parents had been the standard for 16 years, I was fed up with it. The level of anger I carried daily was destroying me internally; which lent itself to violent expressions of behavior externally. I was living on the edge mentally and emotionally when that pivotal moment came.

One of my chores was to iron my dad’s clothes and I loathed it with a passion. One day, I was already in a foul mood while I was ironing a pair of his dress pants when my older brother tried to squeeze between me and the counter but his shoulder knocked a bag of tortillas onto the ground. Once he got to the other side, he looked down at the bag of tortillas, then looked at me and said, “Pick them up.” Incredulous that he had the nerve to boss me around, I used colorful language to explain that he had knocked them down so it was on him to pick them up. He stuck out his hairless chest, raised his voice, and threatened to punch me if I didn’t pick them up. Unintimidated, I furiously stood my ground and said that he was not dad and to stop acting like he was. In utter disbelief that I dared not to listen to him, he grabbed the iron I had been using and slammed it down on my arm. It burned like a mother but I didn’t give the pain any thought.

In that moment, I think every unjust thing that had ever happened to me rose up and sheer anger took over. The audacity of one more person thinking it was ok to hurt me was too much. Unchecked anger spewed out of my mouth as I picked up the ironing board, threw it at him with all the force I could muster, and then ran out of the house faster than I had ever run before! I ended up choosing the danger of the streets over the violence in my house; because at home I was helpless but on the streets, I had more control. There, I fought whomever I needed to in order to prove that I wasn’t to be messed with and I had a lot of ‘proving’ to do.

But the street life is hard and lonely and, after a year of living this way, I had run out of any motivation to live. One night, during the holidays, loneliness and depression hit me so hard that I finally reached my breaking point. I walked to a place we on the streets called, “Suicide Alley”. This was an area on the highway where the city lights abruptly end and the mountains begin. Drivers are temporarily blinded by the sudden transition and suicidal people would go there, wait for the right moment and then jump in front of a car to end their life; and that was my plan.

As I watched the headlights of a car approaching, a deep sense of relief washed over me because I knew I would finally stop feeling all of the dark emotions that overwhelmed me. When the vehicle was in range, I started to step off the sidewalk, but a physical presence held me back and I could not move. The car passed and I felt like such a failure because I couldn’t even kill myself successfully. As I walked away, the thought went through my mind “Could that have been God?” I had never thought of God as being real and wasn’t sure what to think.

Three weeks later, I would have a personal encounter with Jesus (Triple Dog Dare) that would keep me on this earth with a new purpose; but things were still hard and I had a long road ahead of me. Shortly thereafter, I turned seventeen, got my first job, my first apartment and started climbing my way out of the abyss that life had landed me in.

Although I have suppressed most of the memories of my childhood, memories like these have come back over the years. For as long as I can remember, something in my soul wanted justice and hated it when I, or someone else, didn’t get it. I was always rooting for the underdog and would step in however I could to help someone who was in a vulnerable position. When I was younger, I felt helpless to help myself, let alone anyone else. But as I got older, I found myself protecting anyone and everyone who needed it.

Life is not always easy and can leave us quite broken. However, we can make something so beautiful out of that brokenness if we know that we are not alone. Even in the darkest moments, a spark of hope can be found. My adult home welcomed countless people over the years and was known as a “Safe Haven” for women and young adults alike.

I gave my life fully to God, raised four children and have a beautiful grandchild. My family consists of genuine souls that I could not imagine living life without. Whether blood related or chosen, the bond that links us is sincere Love and a genuine appreciation for our personal journeys.

For over 30 years I have worked with victims of domestic violence and have helped numerous women to escape violent relationships. I have been on stake-outs, investigated finances, designed safe escape plans, helped navigate the court system and assisted victims in succeeding with their newfound freedom both physically and in Christ.

The main reason for this blog is to provide understanding. Many people do not realize why victims of domestic violence can’t “just leave.” Here, you’ll read real stories of survivors who shed light on the invisible barriers—fear, manipulation, emotional blackmail, financial dependence – that keep people trapped. My hope is that by sharing these experiences, others will gain compassion and awareness for victims.

Through shared stories, encouragement, and valuable resources, you will see that freedom is possible. You don’t have to walk this path alone—there is a community ready to stand with you. If you are in a situation that feels hopeless, please know that there is hope and there is a way out.

Until next time, stay safe!