What I Survived

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What I Survived Would Break Most Adults

There’s no soft way to say this: my father tortured me and my sisters.

It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t a mistake in the heat of anger. It was intentional, deliberate, and at times seemed to be his idea of “fun.” That word—fun—still stings, because it twisted something innocent into something cruel.

What we endured was the kind of abuse most adults couldn’t handle. Yet we were children. And children don’t get the choice to walk away. We lived it. We bore it. We survived it.

I want to be clear: I’m not writing this for pity. I write it because survival matters. Because telling the truth matters. Because too often, people shy away from naming what happened. They soften it. They say “abuse” like it’s a catch-all term. But sometimes you need the harder word: torture.

And here’s the part that still amazes me — I survived. Not untouched, not without scars, but I survived. What should have broken me, shaped me instead. It’s why I don’t panic when others do. It’s why I don’t carry guilt the way some people do. It’s why I see through illusions, pretenses, and false authority.

I know now that being cracked isn’t the same as being broken. It’s where the light gets in. And the truth is, I am still here — carrying what would have destroyed most.

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