It took many years for me to find my voice, and in all honesty, I am still finding it. In doing so I find that writing about my abuse is not only bringing awareness to those standing in silence struggling to speak, but it also is a means for me to heal.

Often when I look in the mirror my reflection makes me sick. I have to look away in sheer disgust. I don’t see the woman before me. I don’t see my new hair color. I see the blood of an old bash to my lips, I see the watery eyes of a child begging for mercy, and I see the imprint of a hand that covers most of my exposed profile. I know they are no longer fresh wounds, but they are there.

When someone raises their voice or yells, I am a little girl who is about to enter fight or flight, and I know that the previously mentioned strikes are about to happen if I don’t tiptoe on the eggshells that seem to have suddenly reappeared.

When I try on clothes that used to fit, I hear the snicker, the slurs, and the putdowns during my teen years from my abuser. The sick sexual words directed toward me, that haunt my memory of childhood. I see a distorted image looking back and I must look away and cover myself.

When I do sit down and have a good cry, I hear the screaming, the taunts, and the instruction that crying is for the weak.
I cry anyway.
It is my newfound freedom.

I never believed in all my years that I would speak of this, in fact just five years ago I would have been terrified to even ponder such writing.
Some days I can endure looking at myself, I can look in that mirror and see an image I am pleased with. I can withstand the yelling, and I can wear my tie-dyed pants and feel secure, but some days, I just can’t.
I will continue to rise. I will continue to grow every new day.
I want people to know that many of us wear invisible scars. Not just a little scrape or a random bruise, we have the weight of flesh-tearing lashes, the memory of blood not ever meant to be spilled, and words that should have never been uttered embedded in our person. We live among you, we get through every day, and from my experience, most of us are silly, fun, and seemingly carefree. That is the mask we wear to empower us. I’m ripping mine off. It’s time. It is long overdue. I am no longer a victim, I am a survivor every day of my life. We don’t ask for special treatment, we crave kindness and understanding. Thank you for your reading my words.

Here is my voice.
Teece