I sit on Grandma’s knee, bouncing up and down. 
I’m cackling at something silly Daddy is doing. 
Grandma laughs in my ear, singing, “When I was an itty bitty baby…”
***
My little sister lays in the bunk above me, chattering something I’m too preoccupied to listen to. 

My mother stands nearby, one hand on sissy's arm, one hand on mine. Momma’s quiet, sweet voice sings, “Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in you.” 

I hum along, and I am strong.
***
Daddy is spinning Momma in the kitchen. 
She’s laughing, shoving at him, trying to wash the dishes. 
His singing is off-key, too loud, but no one minds. 

“You’re my! Brown-eyed girl,” he serenades her, and she snorts.
***
Daddy walks in the door belting, “Sweet Caroline!” 
Sissy and I laugh, running to hug him, leaving our toys scattered on the floor. Momma sticks her head out of the bathroom, hairdryer in hand. She’s wearing her work clothes and her makeup is messy. Daddy, Sissy, and I are screaming, laughing, singing at the top of our lungs. “Buh, Buh, Buh! Good times never felt so good!” 

Momma pinches her nose, asks us to calm down, please. 
She looks so tired. 
I stop singing. 

Sissy and Daddy do not.
***
Momma works nightshift and sleeps in the day. 

Daddy watches us when he’s not working. 
He makes eggs for us, sings "Mr. Mom" at the top of his lungs... laughs. 

He strokes Sissy's hair, takes her temperature, gives her medicine.
I shriek when he spins me in a circle, making airplane noises, and she giggles. 

As the day goes on he gets short, testy. 
The dishes pile up in the sink. 
He tells me to clean them. 

The dog pees on the floor and he shouts and cusses at her, makes me clean it up.
He sits in front of the TV and doesn’t get up.
***
I tell him there’s a spider in my room.
He tells me, “It won’t eat much.”
***
Sissy throws up in the sink and he screams, drags her to the toilet, while she sobs.
***
When Momma gets up to go to work, dark circles under her eyes, hair greasy, she sighs at the mess and he ignores her.

Later at night, when Momma’s gone to work and he’s playing a shoot-em-up game on the Xbox and yelling at the TV...

I lay in bed holding my baby sister in my skinny arms, singing, “Bubblegum in the baby’s hair,” under my breath while she weeps.
***
Momma’s driving, wiping her eyes every few minutes.
I’m in the passenger seat, unable to look at her.

She and Daddy fought again last night, him yelling, her crying, while Sissy and I hid under the covers.

He’s fine by now, totally over it.
Momma won’t be over it for a week, when he starts yelling again.

She cries silently and I feel like a black hole opens up in my stomach.
***
Kelly Clarkson croons on Momma’s playlist.
“Because of you, I am afraid.”
I push my glasses up, stare out the window.

I don’t understand.
***
Being homeschooled is quiet. 
I’m home alone, I do my work, nobody shouts at me. 

The first few weeks of actual school are so jarring and different for me. 

School is weird. 
The kids are loud and they shove. 

When I go out for recess, I don’t really know what to do. Sissy runs off with her new friends and I’m alone. There’s some kids sitting on the swings, laughing. 

I sit nearby, listening to their rambling, smiling. 
I like when people talk, when they laugh. 
“People watching,” Momma calls it. 

The kids notice me, ask me what I think I’m doing. 
I know that means I’ve been bad, but I don’t know what I did wrong. 
“Just listening.” 

They think that’s funny, I guess. 
I’m confused. I thought they were mad at me? 
They start singing the Agent P theme song with a twist. 
“Doo be doo be doo bah, doo bee doo bee doo bah, Agent Creep!” 

It’s another joke I don’t get. 

I laugh along, because I like laughing. 
The kids leave and I’m alone again. 
I keep singing, swinging a little, while the other kids yell and run around. 
“Agent Creep,” I whisper. 

After school, I tell Momma I made some friends. 
At first she’s ecstatic, but when I tell her about “Agent Creep,” her eyes suddenly look so sad and she hugs me very tightly. 

I don’t understand. 
I want so desperately to understand.
***
I stand outside in the driveway, rain pouring down around me, belting out MCR. 

“F***ing garbage scream out! What will save us! And the sky opened up!” 

Lightning cracks and a horrible laugh rips from my chest. 
I am the thunder. 
My lip is bleeding where I bit it too hard. 

My eyes are streaming and I pretend it’s the rain.

I’m so angry. I’m burning up.
I want to break everything.
My blood is boiling and I imagine steam coming off my skin where the rain falls and I’m screaming, “Pull this pin, let this world explode!”
***
I wash the dishes most nights.
Mom works so hard already and Dad refuses to do it the right way.

There’s nothing in the world I hate so much as going to grab clean dishes and finding them greasy. Sissy says she’s allergic to the water because it prunes her fingers.

The house is empty, the water is just on this side of too hot.
My cat meows at a bird outside the window.
***
My head hurts.
My back hurts.
My feet hurt.

I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks.
I’m just so tired.

My voice is raspy as I sing along with Freddie crowing through my earbuds. “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all…”

When Dad gets home from work he slams the door.
I flinch.
He’s in a bad mood.

I don’t sing anymore.
***
I'm lying in bed, curtains closed, lights off, door locked.
“Her Last Words” is playing through my sh*tty, five dollar headphones.

I’m crying for the first time in what feels like years.
I don’t cry easy.

I watch sad movies where dogs die and my eyes stay dry.
And now I am laying in bed, so young and so, so tired, silently weeping, still as a statue, tears slipping down my cheeks and into my ears.
***
“I’m sorry Mom, but this world is just not my place.”
***
I don’t usually like the beach.
It’s too loud, too bright, too much sand in too much hair.
Mom likes collecting sea shells and I like the sound of the sea, so I go.

I take the pills and I take a shower and I go to the beach and watch Mom exclaiming over pretty shells.
I watch Sissy swim out to tag the buoy.
I watch Dad fall asleep in the sand and get sun burned.

Something big and loud is welling up in my chest, and I feel… something.

For the first time in a long time I’m laughing, tipping my head to the sky and letting the sun scorch me. There is a fire in me bigger than the sun.

I kick the waves, I yell just for the hell of it.
I feel drunk.
I stand in the shallows, fish darting around my legs, salt-soaked hair in my face.

“I didn’t know I was broken ‘til I wanted to change! I wanna get better!”

I scream into the wind, and Mom whoops, holding up a big pink shell.
***
The day Mom and Dad’s divorce is finalized, I’m twirling around the living room, singing.

“She could hear those church bells ringing, ringing.”

I should be sad or angry, but I’m just relieved. 
I wish I could feel guilty about that. 
***
When Dad moves out, I will dance and sing and not worry about being yelled at because I get in the way. 
***
“Standing there in a black dress, singing, singing.” 

I won’t have to be scared anymore. 
Mom won’t cry as much. 
He won’t hurt Sissy's feelings anymore. 

The dishes won’t be greasy. 

The dogs jump around with me, excited. 
I’m light as a feather, laughing as Carrie Underwood sings her heart out. 

“Yeah, it’s all gonna be alright!”

We’re in the car... Mom, Sissy, and me. 
Don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care, too full of the music to remember. 

Sissy's in the backseat kicking my chair, singing in her shrill, wild voice. 
Mom is tapping the steering wheel, singing along, laughing at us. 
My face hurts from smiling at them. 

“They might be crazy, but they is my family.” 

Sissy laughs, throws a shoe at me sitting shotgun. 
Mom yelps, scolds her, but she’s laughing too. 

“You f*ck with them, you f*ck with me!” 

I feel huge. 
Sissy asks if we want McDonald’s, her treat, and Mom cheers. 
***
Life is good.
***

This Sisterhood Story was written by a courageous 18-year-old autistic young woman. It the soundtrack of her viewpoint growing up in an abusive home. Sometimes, dear TraumaMAMAs, leaving is the very best gift you can give your child. 

People of faith everywhere want to believe their communities are immune to domestic violence, sexual addiction, and abuse. I know it’s not true because I hear the stories percolating behind perfect facades.

Stories from the SISTERHOOD:

• of victims currently in crisis.

• of survivors who are building lives from the rubble.

• of warriors who are raising their voices to bring an end to the misrepresentation of God’s character in God’s name within the faith community.

One of the ways we counteract abuse culture? By telling these stories.

If something like this is happening to you, there is help.

"Is it abuse or just a really difficult relationship?

Do you find yourself saying things like:

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• "I'm so clumsy, always forgetting things"

• "He didn't mean it"

These are indicators that a relationship marriage may be more than just difficult, it may be abusive.

DIVORCE IS SCARY.
(Custody litigation with an abusive co-parent is even scarier.)

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