I Tried

The cries and screams echo through my mind, even now in adulthood. I see the imagery vividly—huddled on the bed with my siblings. The countless times I checked on you, when the cries would cease and my young mind wondered if this was it—if this was the end.

The naked truth of feeling cowardly as your hands grasped my shoulders—you whisper to run next door. I try and try. Mom, I promised I tried. The small bathroom opening, as he screams and shouts, laying out kitchen knives, is too exposed. I’m too exposed, Mom.

I can picture it—running as you block him, my small feet hurrying over the shattered glass that now litters our living room floor. I run and run, pounding on the neighbor’s door, screaming for help. But within seconds, reality rips me back into my small body as I stare up at you, tears rushing down my face.

I can’t.

Ten years later, that memory still haunts me—why was I so afraid? Why couldn’t I be courageous? To tell my story like all the ones I’ve read about—the brave, beaten kid standing up to the tormentor. Lord knows I’ve visualized it, daydreamed about it my entire life. Instead, I sit here wondering if I’m broken, if I’m selfish, if I’m cowardly.

Mom, I tried.

I tried to be your person when the rest of the world victimized you and shamed you. I tried to hold you up when the depression and guilt of a mentally and physically abusive man stole my mother from me—an empty form going through the motions of life, unaware that I was there, living the nightmare with you.

Mom, I tried.

I tried to suppress the thoughts of the picture he painted—of you, of me, of our family. I tried, but Mom, it was easier to immerse myself in books and school. It was easier to be swept away in extracurriculars than to go home and be a terrified strength for you.

Does that make me selfish, Mom?

Because I swear, I tried.