Unaltered Voices

I’m not sure what your relationship with my mother was like before I was born. She told me you weren’t at the hospital when I arrived, which makes me think you two weren’t in a real relationship. I have a lot of memories of you and your sisters, but none of you ever knew the hurt I experienced at home. I never told you, but sometimes I was afraid to go back. I never knew what to expect, so I was always on high alert. One of the women you were with once told my mother that I stayed up late. She didn’t know who she was talking to, but I caught how she looked at me and knew I was in trouble. Her words pierced me during the drive home—it felt like I was hemorrhaging, and my tears mixed with the pain. I never spent a summer with you while she was around again. It was also through her that I learned my mother tried to give me to you. Allegedly, your mom told you not to take me. I ended up caught between two people who weren’t ready to be parents, and I suffered for it. Neither of you wanted

Consider this letter a farewell—a final chapter in the story I’ve been trying to rewrite for far too long. This is the last tear I will shed for what could’ve been. No more will I grieve over you like someone clinging to a love that was never real. No more will I convince myself that things would change if I just tried harder. Happiness and peace are my portion now, and I refuse to let you steal them from me any longer. I have come to terms with the fact that you will never acknowledge the damage you've done. You have convinced the world, and even parts of me for a time, that the problem was mine. But I’ve finally seen the truth. To those who preach, “That’s still your mother,” I say this: respect is earned, not owed, and I owe you no more of my peace. Recently, I read a book about love. For the first time, I saw clearly what love truly is—and what it is not. It was a painful pill to swallow, but I realized that you never loved me. not in the way a mother should. Your actions hav

Healing is often a painful yet transformative process. As we release the hurt, the sting of past decisions can feel overwhelming. However, I've grown to appreciate those moments because I understand what's happening beneath the surface. That doesn't mean it's easy, but I've learned to embrace this part of the process more than ever. Recently, I reflected on my life—my decisions and the countless times I settled. My heart sank as I thought about how often I compromised in my career, relationships, significant purchases, and almost every area of life. One vivid memory came to mind: I worked a job that paid me $11 an hour. Sitting at my desk, I recalled someone saying, "Your skills are transferable." Yet, I worked for a company that didn't value me or my contributions. It hit me like a ton of bricks: I settled. I was enduring so many challenges at that job: being lied about, undervalued, and made to feel inadequate. The environment was toxic—severe abuse

There are so many faces. When I look in the mirror, who shall I be today? I do not see myself anymore; I have not since childhood. I felt small, scolded for who I was, and belittled for not comparing myself to my siblings. Abused and manipulated to believe the treatment was a way of life. I grew to hate them and myself. So much anger, so much pain. How can I function in life? In my most profound depth, I want to be a good person, but my hatred is greater. I can not hurt who hurt me. What would everyone think? Because I am a despicable person, only my abusers I have to fall back on.   I pretend to be everyone I see. It makes me more interesting. I lost myself years ago. Neither my thoughts nor my emotions ever grow. So I pretend to be you to impress her. She is unaware this is your personality, which I am mimicking. She is falling in love with you, not me. Once I run out of things to say, I watch dating shows and YouTube to gather more personality. When s

  I screamed and cried out for help, but just as always, no one came. The lashing continued as I cried, saying I had done what I was supposed to. I swept the porch after school. As the tears flowed and the welts formed on my skin, I could hear my grandmother trying to get through the locked door. She eventually did, saying, “She swept the porch. Nookie told me earlier she was out there when I asked where she was.” My grandmother’s voice told me she was tired of it, but it did not save me. She left the room, and the abuse continued. My mother did not listen; she said I embarrassed her in front of my friends, closed the door, and continued. Yes, the reason changed. It did not matter if I was innocent; she would get her frustration out on me. I grew more assertive to stand in the chair while still tied and charged at her. Lose or win, I would do what I needed to because I was tired. We threw each other around until it stopped. I had to sit in a tub of water, bruised and crying, to die bec

  My now 20-year-old was several weeks old when we were out in the rain, awaiting a ride to take us somewhere unknown. I had no idea where we were going because the altercation that led to this was unexpected. My boundaries always made me the villain in every story my family told, and that day was no different. My mother had to uphold an image, and because I said something to her son in front of the company, the image cracked slightly. It was so slight that it led me to put my things outside to move out while my child's aunt (dad's side) held her. While taking my stuff outside, my mother blocked me from getting the remainder of my things and my baby. I repeatedly asked my mother to stop putting her hands on me; by the third shove, we were fighting. She bit a plug out of my chest because of the position she was in, and when I stumbled over an uneven step, I got up with a shoe cleaner can in hand and struck her. The gash across her face got the police called on me and my family,