Growing up in an abusive home you think it's normal. You tell yourself, "They didn't mean to hurt me." You try to tell yourself that they love you, that this will be the last time. Deep down you think, "Maybe I deserve this because I am the problem." You blame everything they do on yourself. You put yourself down without reason. That, maybe, if you were better they wouldn't hit you. You try to find ways of excusing them for what they do to you. That this is temporary.

I’ve watched many movies and shows about how families are supposed to be. How they are caring to one another, how they are there for each other when things go bad, and how they are there to take care of you when you get sick. If you needed help they will be there for you, no matter what.

Then there's me. I grew up with an abusive mother and a father who didn't want to be around. I kept thinking that this is normal, this is how it is supposed to be, but envious of what I saw on television.

Growing up wasn't horrible or maybe I just didn't start noticing it until I turned 12-years-old. It started with her words. My mother would call me names and belittle me. I could never trust her enough to tell her anything that was going on in my life because she would immediately judge or criticize me. Then she started hitting me and I thought, "Well, at least I have no broken bones." The black eyes, the bruises, the constant blaming. See, when there was something wrong in my house it was my fault. She would instill fear in me and isolate me from going anywhere and because of that I just felt so alone at times. I was tired of the situation because I would try to excuse her behavior.

So, one day, she punched me right in the face, I was about 13-years-old and I just thought to myself "just run away, maybe this torture will stop." The next morning the police were notified and I was sent to live with my aunt. My mother was investigated but nothing happened. A few months went by and I thought things would get better but shortly after my return home, I received a kick or two in the stomach. I tried to report it and nothing was done, they just sent me back home, back to my nightmare. You know me though, trying to think positive I thought maybe things would get better. I kept trying to see the good in someone who was hurting me so much, even to the point where they just broke me.

I was just shy of turning 16 and one night my little sister and I were arguing. My mother heard us bickering and automatically puts the blame on me. Words were said and BOOM there goes her leg kicking me, her hands slapping me. I finally had enough and pushed her away from me, standing up for myself. I got ahold of her cell phone and called the police and they advised me to stay elsewhere. She screamed, "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I thought. "Wow, I'm free," and I was happy because I knew anywhere was better than at home.

I went to another aunt's house and lived there until I moved in with my now husband. It wasn't easy, though. Growing up at 16 was no fun but it had to be done. I missed so much school, I almost failed. I had to learn how to do things because I was never taught them. I still struggle sometimes emotionally, sure, but I have learned to pick myself up from all the bad that has happened to me. I fought like hell to escape the nightmare I was living in. I tried to report it, I tried to speak up but it was hard escaping my abuser.

They try to control you with fear, to diminish the good in your heart. For those out there that have been abused or are dealing with it, know you're not alone, you don't deserve to be treated this way and you need to speak up. The last time I left my house I told myself to never let my abuser have a hold on me again, and I never did.