It was never easy to write my mother a letter in which I detailed our nightly encounters with a boogeyman that wore the mask of her husband. I must have re-written it a dozen times before I realized that it would never be less cruel, and it would never be something she would ever want to read. The words in that letter would never change, and there was no way to write her any other letter, that would make it any less devastating.
I held onto that letter for days, unable to gather the strength or nerve to hand it to her. More than once, I crumpled it, unable to go through with slipping the note in her hand. My timing had to be flawless, except, I never knew when it would be less crushing, less shattering and less heartbreaking.
In the letter I told her about the boogeyman and his monsters. I told her that it was not her husband, but an evil being who had taken the form of our father. I told her not to worry, because he must have been safe somewhere, and that he would come back to us someday. I just knew he would.
I told her about the door handle that turned at night, and that no matter where I hid, be it under the bed, in the closet, or in my sisters’ bedroom, he still found me. I told her that sometimes, he’d bring others with him and that it scared me. I told her not to cry because we were still okay, but that I worried about my Lily.
I told her that I thought the monster was what was making her sick, and what had brought the seizures to her. I told her that Lisa was crying, but that she couldn’t see her tears. They were bouncing around inside of her.
I told her that we knew he was beating her and we would hear her cry in the night. I asked her to stop him, we are afraid he might kill her. I told her about the firearm he kept hidden in his closet, and how often he brought it into my bedroom to remind me to keep our secret. I told her I had learned how to use it.
I told her that the next time he drove us at full speed, aiming for a solid brick wall, that he might not wantto stop and that we would ultimately hit the wall. I told her that I didn’t want my sisters to die.
I told her that when she left for the stores, to please let us go with her because when she left us behind, he did things to us. I told her that when she went to Church, and left me at home to keep an eye on him, he did things. I told her that sometimes, I could feel my heart beating so loudly that I hoped she could hear.
I told her that I wanted my father back, and that I wanted my sisters to live. I told her that I could remember the day it all began, and that it was the precise instant he left.
I told her that most nights, it was pitch black around me and that my eyes often struggled to penetrate the darkness, no matter which way I would turn. As the boogeyman would come closer, it would be as a diffused glow ahead of me.
I told her how heavily it weighed on my shoulders and how the darkness would brood and rotate around us all. Listening to the boogeyman’s threats made me feel isolated and secluded, and scared me like I had never known fear before.
I told her that as much as I wanted to run away from it all, I couldn’t move. I was frozen. I couldn’t fight. I was paralyzed. It was as though I was being slammed into invisible barriers all around me and that the piercing moaning of the boogeyman made it hard to breathe.
I told her that hell was our home and that the devil was living amongst us. It was waging a battle against us, trapping us in fear and striking out at us with each ounce of aggression he could muster up.
I told her of the lies he has convinced himself would turn into the truth, desperate to erase his brutality. I told her that I hated him, and living one more moment with him would only guarantee more hatred, betrayal, hostility and pain.
I told her that I knew she didn’t know, and that I knew she didn’t hear our screams. They were silent, bouncing around inside of us. I asked her to help us stop it, because I couldn’t stand one more night in the darkness. I told her my sisters wouldn’t survive.
And then, I told her how truly sorry I was, and how I wished we could go back to before.
Our lives were broken. Handing my mother that letter has turned into the single biggest regret of my life. It turned out to be the day I realized with shock that she knew and perhaps, she just didn’t want to admit it. After the letter, there was no way to deny the existence of the boogeyman, and still, she chose to discard my pleadings with her.
When she showed my father the letter, it only opened the door for more violence, aggression and distrust. She knew him well enough to know that showing him my letter would betray me, and make way for distrust on his part.
I confided in her and in return, she left me feeling confused, ashamed and guilty. Since then, not a single day has gone by where I haven’t once felt good enough for her. She was not my mother, she was someone bad for me. He was not my father, he was the boogeyman.
My broken life was a part of who I was, it was never who I would become. For a while, I felt lost and alone. I lost sight of the fight and I thought I couldn’t do it without my mother. I needed her bravery and strength. I needed her guidance. I thought I needed her for life to be whole again.
I fought against the life I was born into. I struggled from that moment on to become better, and I made a conscious decision to do the right thing, all the time. Myonlygoal was to have others recognize that my broken life as a child, did not dictate my life as an adult.
My father was a master manipulator, a drunk and an abuser. He was a monster who had invaded all that was once good about him.
My mother was and will remain vain and self-loving. There is nothing that can stand in her way of wealth and luxury; not even her children. My sisters have since refused to acknowledge and recognize the darkness that was once around us, and after all the years, they continue to defend my mother’s behaviour.
By putting my broken life behind me, I have remained composed while my sisters developed resentment and antagonism towards society. They have embarked upon an unhealthy path of anger towards the world and everyone in it, everyone but our parents. They were left blinded by the darkness that had surrounded us, and they refused to consider a reality in which our lives were broken by our father, and then again, by our mother.
Un-breaking my life, was as simple as rejecting feelings of self-pity and indignity that my mother had tried to instil in me. As much as a understood that I alone was responsible for my actions and who I would become someday, I had to remind myself that it was my responsibility to fit into a world that didn’t know how broken my life was.
The world owed me nothing more than what I was willing to work for. The world was not at fault for my broken life, or to be blamed for the people who were responsible for it. The world offered me a way to recover, and embark upon a whole new life. It was up to me to take it.
THE AFTERWARDS 