Breaking the chains, is like flashing lights that remind you of the small things that turn into moments of your life that you wish to forget. Sharing my story wasn’t for sympathy. Watching a grow man in his forties not only break a door in half in front of you, but burning you with cigarettes, while choking you in the process. Being mentally, sexually, verbally and physically abused, I’m the one who still gets blamed for it? I’m the one who caused it? What mess up logic is that? It was two weeks before I was thirteen, I was twelve when this happened, but it all started when I was nine. The same year my parents got divorced. It just gradually got worse. Why do you think I don’t have a relationship with you? Why I went no contact? You think sharing my story was for attention or it was made up. You weren’t there. How would you know what went down, when he lived under your roof? You cared more about marrying him, than even hearing me out. We did have good moments and you gave me the tools to survive, but my life would never be same. The flashing lights slowly became less scary. I was never related to this man, the only relationship I have is with my dad, my four brothers and my dad side of the family. I don’t hate you, but I will never be able to have conversation with you where I don’t feel like I have to walk on eggshells, you cut me off or play the victim. You flip the story to make yourself feel better. You get to live life like nothing ever happened, while I am grieving a person that is still alive and a situation I never asked for, but  destroyed me. A situation that not only changed me, but I would never be the same.