I’m back with more saga, more truths, not fiction, but lived experiences. As I mentioned before, although every event in this story is true, the names have been changed, not to protect the guilty, but to shield their innocent families in the hope that change found them. 99% of my abusers have passed on, but a few still walk this earth.
The earliest years of my life were marked by shattered trust and stolen innocence. “Uncle Joe”, as I called him in Our Secret, was the first to betray me. He was a trusted family friend who offered to check in on us when my parents were out. I was five years old. I didn’t understand what was happening when he asked me to sit on his lap, but I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t right.
What followed were years of abuse by different men and women, “uncles” and relatives trusted by my parents, who preyed on my silence. Was it just me, or were other little girls going through this too? I’ll never know. My saving grace was my mind’s ability to leave the room, to detach, to stand invisible in the corner, watching it all happen, helpless, ashamed, guilty and distant. Too small to understand, too young to carry such a heavy burden.
I now understand that I lost something sacred again and again and again. But I win ! I survived!
By seven years old, I had seen, heard, tasted, and felt things no child should ever know. I stayed silent to protect my younger siblings, believing their safety depended on my silence. I wanted to tell my older sisters during school holidays, but fear choked me every time. They were close with my abusers. What if they told them? What if the threats to kill my siblings came true and it would be my fault?
The fear wasn’t just emotional; it was physical. It sat like a dense knot in my stomach, twisting and tightening with every breath. A cold, sinking dread pulsed through me, making my heart race, my breath shallow. My thoughts spun into terrifying possibilities. I was stuck in survival mode, frozen, small, and silent.
When I was ten, I tried to tell my mother. She beat me with a hairbrush and accused me of lying about a family friend. That day, I learnt to keep quiet. The abuse didn’t just hurt my body; it invaded my mind, twisting how I saw myself. I believed I was broken, dirty, and to blame. I smiled, but shame lived under the surface of my skin. My family and friends saw a child growing up; they didn’t see a soul shrinking. I took on the role of guarding my own secrets.
The abuse continued until I was twelve. By then, the damage was deeply rooted. I believed I was unworthy of love. I carried guilt and disgust with me at all times. And it followed me into adulthood.
Even weekends weren’t safe. My father, often drunk on a mix of brandy and dagga, would become violent. We’d run barefoot down the road, waiting for our mother to return from work, pleading with her not to go home. “Let’s just run away,” we’d beg.
As I write these lines now, I see how deeply those years shaped me. Mentally, they created a maze of fear and mistrust. I doubted everything: my memories, my instincts, and my worth. I couldn’t trust others. I couldn’t even trust love. This led to painful relationships with men, where sex became a tool for acceptance and intimacy felt like a threat.
I became an expert at pretending: pretending to be okay, pretending to forget, and pretending not to be afraid. But inside, I was numb. My voice had been stolen. My tears dried before they reached the surface. I built walls around my heart that were so high, I even struggled to climb them myself. I didn’t feel afraid anymore; I just felt… nothing.
And yet, within that numbness, something beautiful remained. The unconditional love I hold for my children and grandchildren. They are the only ones I’ve ever truly let in. I was ecstatic on the day my four children were born. They have been and continue to be my life.
Today, I am no longer trapped in that darkness. God is pulling me into the light. I now see that I was never truly alone. His light was there, even in my most broken moments, gently waiting for me to lift my eyes. He is lifting the weight I was never meant to carry, helping me step into healing not as a victim but as a survivor. I am a daughter of grace, a woman walking toward wholeness.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do.
I write this now, not only to release what I’ve carried for so long, but to help someone else out there realise:
You are not alone.
You are not what happened to you.
You can survive.
You can heal.
That little girl still lives in me, but she’s not silent anymore. She is learning to speak. To be seen. She deserves to be treated with kindness, not harm. Although the scars will always be there, they no longer tell the entire story.
God was there all along. Even when I couldn’t feel Him, He was guiding me. And He’s with you too. Always.
The next couple of idle reading will be about the men in my life and what good things came out of wrong choices. Stay tuned.
Until then tay strong and know you are worthy!
