For a long time I have felt the need to share a part of my life that I have kept silent. During my childhood, I experienced situations that have left deep marks on my being.
From a very young age, my home was a place of shadows and silence. My mother, trapped in her own torments, vented anger on me that I did not understand.
I remember one afternoon, when I was six years old, when I accidentally spilled a glass of milk on the table. The liquid ran down quickly, soaking some documents my mother had left there. Seeing the disaster, his face transformed into a mask of fury. Without saying a word, he took me by the arm and led me to the bathroom. With each stroke of the leash, she told me that I should learn to be more careful. That night, as I lay in my bed with my body aching, I promised myself to be invisible to avoid his wrath.
The years passed and the attacks became more frequent. Hurtful words became my daily bread. “You’re useless,” “You’ll never amount to anything,” he constantly repeated. At school, teachers noticed my withdrawal and the marks on my arms, but they never asked. For my part, I immersed myself in books, finding in them a refuge and an escape from the reality I lived at home.
One day, during a literature class, the teacher asked us to write about our heroes. While my classmates talked about historical figures or fictional characters, I wrote about an elderly neighbor who, on more than one occasion, offered me refuge when things at home became unbearable. Upon reading my essay, the teacher took me aside and, in a soft voice, asked me if everything was okay at home. For the first time, I felt like someone really cared about me.
With their support, I sought professional help. Therapy allowed me to understand that I was not responsible for my mother’s actions and that I deserved a life free of violence. Over time, I found the strength to walk away from that toxic environment and build a life based on respect and self-love.
Today, looking back, I recognize the scars I carry, but I also value the resilience I developed. My story is a testament that even in the darkest times, there is always a light waiting to be found.
By sharing this confession, I hope that those who have gone through similar experiences will know that they are not alone and that it is possible to heal and find peace.