It was easier when I was a child. My abuser was an upstanding member of the community, popular, respected. Nobody would have believed me. Nobody noticed the signs, the bruises, the stiff and sore muscles, the withdrawal, the fear. If they did they never said anything to me about it. I learned to distrust other humans at a very early age, especially grown-ups. Grown-ups were cowards.

But it was easier to pretend it wasn’t real when I was a child. I was able to create a world in which I could make it all disappear whenever I wanted. My teachers said I lacked focus. They said I didn’t apply myself to my work and that I spent most of my time staring out of the classroom window. I hated my teachers. They wanted to take from me my only refuge, my only way to survive. They wanted to take my imagination. It cost me everything, but they never got it.

It’s so easy to pretend that everything is ok when you’re a child. It’s what you’re supposed to do. Be quiet. Don’t talk back. Don’t make trouble. Do what you’re told. Easy.

It gets harder when the years roll away and you are left eye to eye with your abuser and the mess that’s been made of you. You find that if you’re to survive in this new adult world, you’re going to have to clean up the mess. It’s like being stabbed in the heart and then handed a needle and sutures. It’s a lot fucking easier to just lie down and bleed.

Suddenly everyone wants to know what’s wrong with you. You’re an adult now, no excuses, buck up, get over it, be normal. Be NORMAL NOW.

And you want to but you don’t know how. You ask for help and slowly you start to find yourself, your own voice. You realize that except for all of the remembering, you are safe. You learn that you have taken the place of your abuser. You learn to be more kind.

But it never goes away completely. It’s cliché, but there is scar tissue that you have to chisel through on a daily basis. There is anger, fear, confusion. There are days when you can’t do it anymore.

As an adult, it feels infinitely more difficult to protect your abuser. It’s not a matter of screaming their name from some rooftop. You learned long ago that there is nothing that will make things “even Steven”, and you no longer want your abuser to hurt like you do. What you want is to be free of them. What you want is the freedom to speak. The freedom to expose every side of yourself in whatever way you see fit. The freedom to answer questions honestly. Every day that you have to lie, cover up, shrug your shoulders, or just not speak feels like the equivalent of another day of abuse.

I find myself in a dangerous and terrifying place now, where I am bringing a new life into the world. There will come a time when my abuser will stand before me, believing that I will not speak as I place my child in their arms.

But inside, right now, I am screaming.