The Secrets I was Never Meant to Carry - Part 2

Chapter 6: The Aftermath Wasn’t Justice — It Was Erasure

You would think after nearly being thrown through a second-story window, someone would sit you down. Ask if you were okay. Check your body for bruises. Wrap you in a blanket and call what happened what it was assault.

But no one did, three days passed, and no one came to comfort me. Not a single person asked, “How are you holding up?” Because to them, I wasn’t the victim, I was the inconvenience.

My mother didn’t rush home to tend to me, She didn’t rush to hug me or call the police.
She rushed to track down my sister, that was her priority, the golden child, the one who ran not he scapegoat child. I was left with the aftermath with glass in my skin, blood on my shirt, and a silence so loud it nearly broke me. I cleaned up the mess. Alone.

Swept up the broken window like it hadn’t nearly taken my life.
Picked glass out of my back and shoulders with the edge of a damp cloth.
Scrubbed the floor because I didn’t want to give her or anyone a reason to yell again.

And what did I get in return?

My mother’s rage, not for what had happened to me, but for the broken window, the cost,  shame and hassle. She screamed as if I had done it, as if my body flying through glass was a rebellious act, not a cry for help.

I didn’t scream back. I Didn’t cry or tell anyone what it had really felt like to see the edge to feel death close enough to taste. I simply carried on, because I had learned by then that pain wasn’t something to be expressed, it was something to be hidden.

Even when you’re bleeding.
Even when you’re terrified.
Even when the person who hurt you gets to hide while you face the consequences.

That was the moment I stopped hoping someone would save me.
Not because I didn’t need saving but because I finally realized:

No one was coming.

Chapter 7: Realizing I Wasn't Wanted — But Still Trying to Be Loved

After everything, all the violence,  all the blame, all the silence, I still tried.

Tried to be the “good one.”
Tried to be easy.
Tried to make myself small enough to be tolerated, if not loved.

I kept doing what was asked, I didn’t raise my voice and I didn’t push for more than the bare minimum because deep down, I thought maybe, just maybe, if I was perfect enough, quiet enough, helpful enough… they’d finally see me.
Finally love me.

But they didn’t.

I watched my sister throw tantrums and get everything she demanded.
Watched my mother complain about it, then still give in.
Watched her enable, excuse, and protect her, no matter what she did.

Meanwhile, I became the house ghost, present, but never really seen, useful, but never truly valued.

I saw everyone’s contradictions.
I heard the whispered lies and the loud excuses.
I felt every unspoken rule about who mattered and who didn’t.

And even though I didn’t have the language for it at the time, I felt it in my bones:

I wasn’t wanted. Not really.

But I still wanted to be loved.
So I carried the weight.
Kept the secrets.
And hoped someone would eventually choose me.

Chapter 8: And Still… I Stayed

I stayed. After everything. After being bruised, silenced, shoved aside, and blamed, I stayed. I stayed silent, because when I did speak up, no one listened. Because speaking only seemed to make things worse. I stayed kind, because I was terrified of becoming like them, cruel, bitter and controlling. I didn’t want to pass the pain forward, so I absorbed it instead. I stayed small, because taking up space felt dangerous. Because the moment I asserted myself, someone made me pay for it.

I thought if I was helpful enough, soft enough, quiet enough… maybe I’d earn love. Maybe they’d finally see me. So, I got up early, packed my school bag, kept out of the way of everyone. Put everyone else’s needs above my own. I even took the blame for things I didn’t do, just to keep the peace. It was like I was auditioning for affection in a house that had already decided I wasn’t worth the role.

They said I was “too sensitive.” “Too dramatic.” “Too much.”

But the truth is I wasn’t too much. I was too aware. I knew it wasn’t normal. Even if I didn’t have the words, I felt it in my body the constant tension, the held breath, the knot in my stomach that never fully loosened. What I endured wasn’t character building. It wasn’t a tough upbringing. It wasn’t love “with flaws.”

It was abuse.
It was neglect.
It was survival wrapped in silence.

And not one adult stepped in.
Not one teacher asked what was really going on.
Not one family member said, “This isn’t right.”
Not one neighbour knocked on the door.

Because no one showed me how to leave. Because I thought love meant loyalty, even if that loyalty was killing me.

But I know better now.

Staying didn’t make me weak — it made me conditioned.
Leaving didn’t make me heartless — it made me free.

And silence?
Silence wasn’t strength.
It was a shield.

But now?
Now, I don’t need shields anymore.

I have my voice.
I have my truth.
And I have the strength that comes from surviving what should have broken me.

Closing Reflection

No child should have to wonder which house will hurt less this week. No child should be the keeper of everyone else’s shame. No child should have to earn basic love by being less of themselves.

But I was that child. And now, as the woman who survived her own childhood — I’m done carrying their silence. I’m done keeping their secrets.

Because healing starts where silence ends.

Affirmation

“I am not who they said I was. I am not defined by what I endured. I am free to speak, to take up space, and to rewrite my story. I was never too much or not enough. I was a child doing my best to survive. And now, I choose healing.”

Prayer

God, I bring You every moment I was made to feel small. Every time I was overlooked, silenced, or blamed.
I give You the pain I carried — the pain that was never mine to bear.

Remind me that my voice matters. That my truth matters. That I matter.
Help me forgive myself for the times I stayed silent to stay safe.
Help me grieve the childhood I lost and reclaim the life I still have ahead of me.

I am not what happened to me — I am who You are healing me to become.

Amen.