What Surviving Abuse in Your Own Home Really Looks Like
Surviving abuse in your own home can be one of the scariest things to face. There ain’t no haunted house scarier than the one you grew up in — not when the monsters wore human skin and tucked you in at night. This post, I’m not dancing around it. I’m not softening the blow. I’m pulling the curtain all the way back, and if it’s uncomfortable to read — good. That means you’re finally seeing what some of us had to survive just to be here.
Let’s talk about what it does to a child when the very people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who hurt you. When every creak of the floorboard, every slammed door, every shift in a grown man’s tone could flip the whole damn world upside down. You learn to read danger like it’s a second language. You learn silence is safer. You learn how to leave your body while still breathing — and that ain’t some metaphor. That’s the survival instincts of surviving abuse in your own home.
The Damage They Left Behind
In my house, the abuse wasn’t just behind closed doors. It was the house. It was in the walls, in the way voices echoed down the hallway, in the way I knew better than to cry out. I was taught early that my pain didn’t matter — that even if I screamed, no one would come. And if they did, they’d just blame me anyway.
There were hands that never held with love. Only force. There were words that tore into my soul deeper than any bruise ever could. There were looks, touches, threats… things that stripped me of my childhood one sick piece at a time. I didn’t get bedtime stories. I got nightmares that started when I woke up surviving abuse in your own home.
You wanna know what that kind of upbringing does to a girl? It makes her question her worth every single day. It makes her feel broken before she even understands what it means to be whole. It teaches her that love is pain, that trust is foolish, and that safety is just a damn fairytale made up for people who got lucky.
This Wasn’t Your Fault — Surviving Abuse In Your Own Home
But I didn’t stay down.
I carried all that trauma on my back like a loaded-down pack mule and still kept walking. Broken, bleeding, confused — but moving. And if you’re reading this and you know that feeling, I want you to hear me clear:
It wasn’t your fault.
It never was.
The shame? That don’t belong to you. It belongs to the sick, twisted ones who used their power to crush the light out of a child. Let that truth settle into your bones, even if it burns at first. Because we’ve been carrying their sins long enough.
This post ain’t here to tie things up in a pretty bow or make anyone feel good. This post is for the ones who had to learn what evil really looks like — up close and personal. It’s for the survivors who wake up every day and fight to not become the monsters that made them.
Speaking Out Is How We Heal
We keep surviving, yes. But we’re also learning how to live. How to reclaim joy. How to trust again. And most of all — how to speak. Because silence protected them. But truth? That’s what sets us free.
Next post, we go even deeper.
You think this was hard to hear? Wait ‘til I tell you how the outside world handled it — the ones who knew and did nothing.
Stay with me. This story ain’t over.
— From the girl who made it out, and is done being quiet.
