When I was a little girl and had just started a new school, Cabbage Patch Kids were a craze. Parents waited in lines outside stores for hours to get them. They were also expensive. They were a status symbol.

My parents were not the standing in lines for hours for a doll types, which seemed reasonable to me even then. But, as a special surprise, my Grandmom made my sister and I handmade versions that were lovely. She stitched in dimples, did their long braided yarn hair, subtly dyed their cheeks pink and added freckles. My Grandmom has good taste and can do all sorts of traditional handicrafts. 

So of course, I brought my doll to school. I hadn’t made friends there yet. I hoped my doll would get someone to ask about it and talk to me. It didn’t work out. Before the bell rang to go inside, the other kids grabbed my doll and made fun of it. They stood around me in a circle and tossed it back and forth while I tried to grab it. I told no one.

I never told my Mom or Dad my problems. And my sister was too young to understand. But I remember my parents fought that night. They screamed, and I hid under my bed with my fingers in my ears. They had already separated for different lengths of time. You never knew if one would leave. If they’d ask you to choose between them. If the choice you made at four would become a lifelong regret.

I eventually made friends, though I moved again. And then my Dad got cancer before I went away to college. He died three days before my senior year began. He wasn’t perfect, but he was good. He loved me. He used to sing Che Gelida Manina to me. “Your tiny hands are cold,” he’d say.

I ended up with a man I eventually married. He first punched me in front of his friends at our apartment. Not even the two girls there helped. My mother screamed at me.

Of course I married him. I wanted to have what seemed like a normal life. It wasn’t long before he was dragging me out of the bed several times a night. Beating my head against hard tile until I gave him money I’d hid so he could buy cocaine. I’d crawl in bed. Then he’d pull me out again. I’d climb out the window and hide in the garden waiting for him to fall asleep. Sometimes, when I’d sneak back in, he’d still be awake. Then he’d pull me out of bed again.

Eventually I lost my job. Black eyes, lack of sleep, broken teeth. I couldn’t concentrate. I stopped functioning and stayed in bed taking Benadryl to keep me calm. Finally I left.

It was an Andy Dufresne escape getting fully free of him; the numbness, the pain, the utter loneliness of the outcast. That feeling in my stomach. The way I’d hold myself and howl like an animal. My every move and word was watched and judged. I’d become good at hiding long before. He even tried to mug me.

I’ve lived with the same man for 16 years now. He appears fully respectable and respected. He does well at his job. I am disabled. My teeth could be fixed, but the damage of the repeated trauma to my brain cannot. There’s something wrong with my eyes. I can’t drive. My speech is disordered, and I sometimes use Spanish words when I can’t remember the English. (English is my native language, but my brain found a work around.) Of course he’s psychologically and emotionally abusive. Not as extreme as my ex-husband, less covert than my mother.

I moved again a month ago. Shortly before, a man moved in next door. He trespassed in my yard, cut holes in my fence, hung a camera over my yard, hid in bushes. He made friends with the man convicted of sex with minors and possession of child porn and a guy who’d held me against my will for three hours while he was in a cocaine psychosis. They surrounded my house one time when I was locked out with my new puppy. The cop told me to be the bigger person. The victim witness attorney told me no white man with a private attorney would be found guilty in Dorchester County.

Two years ago, three days before the 4th of July, I called my Mother to tell her that my dog, who had Lymphoma, had peed blood on the rug. I also told her about his anger. Punching walls, foul names. I slept in a tiny room with no heat for a winter because I was afraid. I lost some hearing when I got sick as a result.

She said to put my dog down, and she could never tell when I was telling the truth or “being dramatic.” Like I was “dramatic” about being drugged and raped, or the adult cousin when I was a kid. She later sent me an email. She said I’m enough to drive anyone to abuse me. To punch the same hole in the same wall twice because I said he needed to do his taxes. My dog died on the Fourth of July.

I’ve moved so far from my past that I’ve lived in Central America for a few years. And now if I moved any further, I’d be in the Atlantic Ocean.

At some point in my life I was an honor student. I’ve won grants for my film and writing projects. I have awards for my short films and writing. Now if I write it’s because I’m apparently trying to get rich, meet someone new and leave. When I applied for Social Security, that was also supposedly to meet someone new and leave.

The other day I wrote something stupid on social media about not using Influencer and Internet speak, but your authentic voice. A certain red haired, male “comedian,” whose schtick is mocking his paying audience members, somehow saw the post. It started a pile on. I didn’t even know for over a day. I hadn’t logged back on.

And there were messages. “Kill yourself, bitch.” All the kids in the circle around me, throwing my doll over my head. And later, a fight. I’m very stupid for letting rape and death threats on the internet upset me. The internet is stupid. I’m stupid for using it. “Retard.” “Child.” “Shut the fuck up.” “Kill yourself.” “Bitch.” 

I hid in my bed. He passed out on the couch. He woke up. He came into bed. “I don’t know when to believe you or when you’re being dramatic.” I always kept a journal as a confidant. Now I keep records of abuse. Now I keep this.

Power on and through, you legend. Someday you’ll be OK. Someday you’ll have a new puppy cuddled next to you. Someday you’ll throw the egg salad he made a giant fuss over having made in his work hat and boots (he knows raw onions give me agita). Someday the charges will stick. Someday, you’ll get that doll your Grandmom made back. Someday, you’ll be free. Keep writing.

Namaste,

J. Lakis

✌🏻💚💪🏼🖖🏼🌈🌅🐕🐱💐

If you or anyone you know has experienced sexual violence please contact RAIIN, for Domestic Violence in the US contact The Hotline. Both are available 24/7 by phone or chat in English and Spanish.

If you’re considering suicide, self harm or have a mental health crisis: call or text 988 any time to talk or text with someone from the National Suicide Prevention and Crisis Hotline. Help is always available in English or Spanish. LGBTQ+ youth in crisis? Contact:  The Trevor Project.

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