Hush Little Baby: A True Story of my Childhood  

Part 1: The Beginning of my Nightmares 

Nightmares come in all shapes and sizes. Mine was of a shadow man. He was a shadow because I do not remember what he looked like exactly. However, the horrible things he did to me live on in my distant memory; my nightmare began at the tender age of 3.  

In a room that smelled of must, mildew, and cigarette ashes was the place I learned about the true nature of life. The room was small, and the sheets had absorbed that terrible odor. The smokey room caused my breathing to become shallow, and tears formed in my eyes. It is weird how I can remember everything in such intricate detail.   

I believe I can picture everything in my mind’s eye because it was traumatic.   

This shadow man told my sister, cousin, and me we would play a fun game. Of course, as toddlers, we were excited. Instead, what would ensue would be the beginning of my life’s struggles and torment. One horrible person amongst a list of others has brought so much pain to my life.   

Next, we were taken into that musty bedroom filled with horrible smoke alone. The man did not have all of us together, probably because he could not face us together. Next, the evil man told me to take off my underwear. Not thinking much of this, “it must be part of the GAME.” I did as I was told and discarded my underwear onto the dirty floor.  

The man proceeded to touch me inappropriately in my private areas. Instantly I knew this was wrong and started to cry. The pain from the act was tremendous. I was then led into the bathroom, where he placed me in the bathtub with my sister and cousin.   

We all sat there and cried as the burning sensation intensified. I do not remember what happened after that and have wiped out most of my childhood from my memories.   

The memory is short because of blocking out the after events. However, even with such a small memory, it has caused me a lot of anxiety and depression. Rightly so. Sadly, the demons that live among us continue to torment their victims.  

Part 2: Devil in Disguise of an Old Lady  

Now, fast forward five years, when I was eight years old. My aunt and her then-husband took my siblings and me into their home.   

We had left our abusive grandmother’s home after a couple of years of her wrath. She was an evil woman dressed in a sweet-looking, old lady exterior. However, she was the devil in disguise because she was one of the cruelest people I knew.   

I can remember the times when she did not feed us. I would go all night hungry and, on the weekends, too. Many times, the only time we ate was at school. She fed us enough sometimes to not kill us, but we still starved.   

After being saved, I had a picture of myself; my ribs were poking through my blue shirt, and my arms were skinny. Looking back, I can still feel the terrible stings of starvation as I was slowly dying.  

Then, the devil had a parrot named Bubba. Bubba would peck us when she would tell it to, and it listened. In the middle of the night, she would wake me up to use the restroom. Bubba would be on her shoulders pecking at me to use the bathroom; sometimes, I would be on the toilet for an hour, too afraid to go. If she is not the devil incarnate himself, I do not know what she was (she did not seem human). How could a human harm another human out of spite?  

Even worse, she would invite her friends over to eat and make us watch!   

My brother eventually told his friend what was happening. The friend told a teacher. The teacher told social services and took us away to foster care.   

I do not remember foster care, except for the cookie lady’s house. The house was where my siblings and I were reunited after being in different homes. She was the cookie lady because I would sneak out at night, grab a step stool and eat the cookies at the top of the cupboards. Of course, I would get caught and swatted on my bottom. Being swatted on my bottom would bring back flashbacks of the devil’s abuse. I was so petrified that I would wet the bed. That is also the reason my grandma would wake me up at night.   

After all this, our aunt and her then-husband took us in, and it was no haven. That topic is for part 3 to discuss and will be posted later. My mother never raised us, and all the guardians supposed to keep us safe betrayed us. Below is a poem I wrote about my mother.   

Mother Dearest, where were you? 

Mother I cried every day, did you not hear my pleas? 

As the devil plundered, plundered my body, mind and spirit? 

The devil had a face, his face was many,

The face of my attackers, the face of my depression ,

The days were endless, as I cried for your help 

Still, you did not answer 

Mother Dearest, where were you? 

I wanted people to hear my story, because though it is a sensitive topic, I feel it will help someone. I may have had a traumatic childhood, but I have come out stronger. I know how ugly life can be; I also know how beautiful and precious it is. Please, do not pick up that needle to hide from hour feelings, do not eat away your feelings, or do anything drastic. Life does get better and if you fight for it, it is yours! I never took up a bad habit, but instead decided to survive and live for myself.  

Part 3 to come later! Please subscribe to my page and follow to get updates on posts. Thank you. Keep shining! 

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