Warning:

This piece contains non‑descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to child abuse, physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, alcohol abuse, and the silencing of individuals seeking help.

Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

From the back seat of a smoke‑filled car, my mother would be driving us back to the gas station. My father only allowed us to put in five dollars’ worth of gas, just enough to get around town for errands. The seats were old and cracked, leaving small cuts along my bare legs. I didn’t so much as mind the small cuts would give me something to redirect my focus to. Despite the heat of the California sun, my mother would only roll the windows down an inch as she tapped the end of a lit cigarette outside. The smoke would loft in and hang in the air. I knew I stunk, my hair, my clothing, even my skin absorbed the smell. But that’s just how things were done in the early to mid‑90s.

I hadn’t slept well the night before. As usual, my father had spent his afternoon crushing Budweiser can after Budweiser can. And as usual, I hid in my room. I had recently come across a small container of Play-Doh, purple to be specific. I would roll tiny balls of it and pretend I was a maiden in a castle, preparing a feast for a prince who would fall in love with my meals and whisk me away to somewhere, anywhere, safe. I rarely dreamed of money, travel, weddings, or family. Most of my fantasies involved having a car of my own and driving far away. Far enough to sleep through the night without waking in panic.

Evenings were mostly quiet; it was the dead of night I feared. That was when fights broke out; screams, breaking glass, pounding, and shouts jarring me awake. Last night was no exception. I listened intently, too afraid to leave my bed unless things escalated. When they did, those were the nights I wondered if this would be the day I died… or worse, the day I watched my mother or siblings die. I don’t say that to be dramatic. The abuse seemed endless, and you never knew who would become the unreasonable target of my father’s rage.

My mother had become an expert at covering bruises and marks. Summer never stopped her from wearing long sleeves and jackets. I could tell she believed no one noticed. But at the gas station, I always felt eyes on us; pitying, knowing. No one ever stepped in. They offered pity and averted glances like flowers laid on a grave. I kept my head down; I feared one knowing look from a stranger could bring me to tears.

Not that my mother would have accepted help. She has always been a dependent personality, rarely standing on her own, and she often delegated her parental responsibilities to me. I was the oldest of four, and ill‑equipped to lead a troop of children one to eight years younger than myself.

Payment made, we headed back to the pump to put in exactly five dollars. My mother would likely be back the next day for another five if she could make it that long. As we packed up to head to my great‑grandparents’ house, I felt ecstatic. I often stayed there during the week. It was my sanctuary. A place where I could play with Barbies and toys. A place where I slept through the night, waking only to the ring of a wind‑up alarm clock, deafening, but harmless.

I could tell my mother was irritated by my excitement. I tried to hide the giddy, but a slip of a fond memory would cause a smile, and that would send her into a fit. My mother always claimed that every time I came back from their house, I was “spoiled” or “a brat.” My great‑grandparents lived on a fixed income; there was no spoiling happening. I was simply happy to be a kid. To relax for a few days on “the farm.” To stop being the overly responsible child she always expected me to be.

Then came her speech, the one she delivered every time:
“Don’t tell your grandparents anything. You understand me?”

I knew exactly what she meant. Never talk about the abuse. The hitting. The verbal tirades. The constant fear and sleepless nights. Keep my mouth shut.

She always repeated the same line:
“What goes on in this family stays in this family.”

It wasn’t just a warning about my grandparents. It applied to every living, breathing person; teachers, doctors, friends, anyone.

“What goes on in this family, stays in this family.”

That was my life: built on destructive obedience and fear. In response, I kept everyone at a distance. I never formed close friendships. I just went through the motions of being alive.

Today, I break that cycle.
Because what went on in that family will now be shared with anyone in the world who wishes to listen.