The seventh Piece: The  Confession (Trigger Warning)

 Trust is like a plant. Nurture and love will give it life. Neglect will give it death. 


 I was sitting on our antique dinner chair facing my mother, father, and my uncle who stood next to my father.
I don’t remember how we all gathered. I assume I told my mother if we could all speak. For some reason, that part was left out within my perplexed memories. 

My mother had a baffled expression. My father was still and calm. My uncle’s nerves were protruding through the sweat rushing down his neck. 

I spoke before my voice was chained by fear and anxiousness, “M-Mom…he touched me.” 

My mother’s eyes looked like they were about to jump out and land on me. She turned her head and  looked at my uncle, “Did you touch her?” Not an ounce of shock, surprise, or concern in her tone; the complete opposite of her expression earlier. 

He gave me a malicious stare, as though his eyes were telling me she will never believe you.

 “I never touched her.” He answered in a simple sentence. 

 My vision was a blur. My hands trembled. I started to scratch the top of my thumb nail. I was nervous.

My mother looked at me. Everyones’ eyes were on me. 

“He didn’t touch you. You see. Come on. Let’s go.” My mother turned her back and left. They all turned their back and left. I sat on that chair. I stared at the kitchen tiles underneath my feet. She didn’t believe me.

All the emotions I was feeling, slowly dissipitated. I couldn’t feel anything. She didn’t believe me.

I remember walking to my room and sitting on my bed. Why didn’t she believe me? Did I make it up? Is it okay that he did this to me? Is it right?  The questions continued pouring and an answer was never found. My uncle continued his frequent visits. He continued looking at me… smiling at me. The one good thing is that he never touched me after that. I assumed he was scared, but his distant gestures made me doubt that. 

Every day after that continued as usual; my father’s abuse, my facade, my uncle’s distant perverted gestures…nothing changed, except one.

 I lost something, something that children hold very dear, even adults…a mother’s trust.

The Sixth Piece: My Uncle (Trigger Warning)

 It didn’t take long to get used to faking a smile or laugh. I’ve forgotten how it feels to be happy. How it feels to smile without a centimeter of sadness or shame. I was able to fool everyone around me. I applauded myself for that small accomplishment
 My uncle, my mother’s brother, was a short, slightly thin man who had the most vivacious personality. He could walk in the room with a huge smile and everyone would lighten up. I admired his strength and his love towards his dying wife. 

She was diagnosed with cancer and her death was well predicted by herself and everyone around her. She would make multiple visits to the hospital and with each visit, her life expenctancy slowly decreased. Her long, wavy, black hair was completely gone; she would wrap her head with a colorful head wrap. Her caramel-like skin drastically lost its color; transforming into a pale-like tone. Dark, purple circles dwelled under her eyes. Her lips chipped, cracked and dried. Her life was slowly slipping from her grasp, and she still smiled everytime I saw her. She still forced herself to function, even though death was waiting, she embraced life as if every day was her last. 

The days that my uncle’s wife spent at the hospital, he would spend it with us. 

I convinced myself that he was lonely without her. Who wouldn’t be? Seeing someone slowly die in front of you isn’t something easy. 

My uncle and my father would spent hours talking and laughing. Every now and then, during their talks, my uncle would glance over to me and smile. His smile was different during those three second. I was overwhelmed with the same feelings when I saw my grandfather smile at me. 

One day during spring time, my uncle came over and knocked on our front door. My parents walked outside and greeted him. I followed them and heard my uncle ask my mother if I could accompany him to the hospital since he needed an English translator. In my mind, I thought it was a bit odd since they have bilingual employees in the hospital. My mother gave a quick response, “Yeah. Sure! ” She looked down at me and smiled. I janked my mother’s arm and shook my head, rejecting her response, “I don’t want to.” I grabbed on to the end of my light blue dress. 

 That day I chose to wear my favorite light blue, power puff girl dress. I fell in love with that dress, mainly because it had my favorite cartoon characters; Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. The dress had two thin straps that folded over my shoulders and small flares at the bottom. With the Texas heat boiling us alive, the dress kept me cool and fashionable at the same time. 

Sunny days.

 My mother stared at me and her look was enough to tell me that I was going. I walked towards my uncle’s black, four door truck. He grabbed my waist and helped me get on the back seat of the truck. I will never forget the smile he gave me as ge closed the door. I latched my seat belt and he began to drive. It took about thirty minutes to arrive to the hospital. My uncle decided to park away from other vehicles. I took of my seat belt and placed my hand on the door latch. My uncle turned off the car and looked at me, “Wait. Not yet.” He climbed over the seat and sat next to me. He places his hand on my thigh and smiled, “Let’s play a game. Don’t tell anyone. It’s between you and me.” 

More secrets.

My heart sunk. I couldn’t decide whether I should do as he said or run out the door. Before I could come up with some sort of logical reasoning, my body moved on its own. My uncle was already on top of me. His pants down to his knees and my panties completely removed. I squeezed my dress as he pushed and groaned. The Texas heat was becoming overwhelming. It was hard to breath. I couldn’t think of anything, except one thing I should have worn jeans.

 When he finished with me, he pull up his pants and climbed over the seat. He buckled his belt, inserted the keys in the ignition and started the engine. “Hurry up and get dressed.” My body slowly moved. My legs couldn’t stop shaking. I found my panties on the floor. As I was picking it up, I noticed my hand trembling. My vision blurred. I had to fight back the tears and so I did. I slid my panties on, fixed my dress, and tamed my frizzy, curly hair. Instead of visiting his wife, my uncle drove away. I buckled my belt and this strange thought devoured me as I saw the hospital disappear behind us His wife. How could I do that to her? I’m disgusting. 

 My uncle drove me back to the house. My mother helped me get down, but I almost collapsed as soon as my legs touched the concrete floor.

 My legs were still shaking. “Are you okay mija?” My mother rubbed my arms, her worried eyes tore me inside.

 “Yeah. I think my legs fell asleep.” I pulled myself together and jumped up and down. 

She smiled and hugged me, “I’m so proud of you. You know your aunt is happy that you are helping.” I smiled and ran inside.

 I ran to my room. I couldn’t scream on the pillows or sheets. The images of my father almost made me gag. I stood in front of my door. I looked at my tiny hands and my trembling legs. I didn’t feel like a normal eight year old girl. I felt dirty. 

 The night quickly replaced the day. I realized I was still in my room. I didn’t wan to eat. I didn’t want be around anyone. 

I can’t add another mask to my collection. 

 I had one more dreadful encounter with my uncle after that first day. He used the same routine as last time and I was forced to agree. They didn’t know what was happening. My mother was ignorant. Oblivious. 

I wonder…did my father know? Was he the one who told my uncle? 

I couldn’t bare the silence. I couldn’t handle the filth that devoured my body. Disgusting. 

So, I decided to confess. 

Confess my secret. To break the silence. 

Happiness- To be or not to be?

#positive #feelingsad

 Everyday I wake up and take in the scenery sorrounding me. Everyday I wake up and whisper to myself, “You’re okay.” Some days are better than other which means that some days I am able to believe that phrase a bit more than others. 
  I am a mother. I am a wife. I am blessed and lucky as most people phrase it, yet why do I feel guilty?

 I am suppose to be happy- and I am, don’t get me wrong, but everyday I, somehow, convince myself that I have to be happy because I have all of these beautiful people around me. I have never ending love, yet, I feel guilty. 



I feel like I don’t deserve it. 

I feel like I am not capable of loving someone to its fullest. 

I am forever damaged.

Things will never get better. 

They deserve more. 

I should not be happy. 

 Hence, begins a loop of outnumbered negative thoughts with a purpose of pulling me in and keeping me there. 


  I’ve learned that it all begins and ends with a phrase. A positive phrase. 

Choose any positive phrase you like or love and stick with it. Let that phrase be the guidance to many more to come. 

My phrase: You’re okay.

In time, the unanswered question will finally reach an answer:

To be.

Of course, my answer is yet to become permanent, but with each passing day I believe it more than the day before. 

My Denial

 With my circumstances, denial was an escape from the brutal reality that I suffered as a child. 

Denial gave me security; I felt safe not accepting. 

Denial empowered me with control over myself; I chose who I was, how I acted when in reality I was none of the above. 

Denial kept me away from all external harm of others, but in the shadows, the real harm lurked in secret; myself.

To be or not to be. Even now, I debate with myself. Because denial is safety, and how can we adapt to something so…unfamiliar?


  As I am sitting on the toilet, listening to River by Bishop Riggs and taking care of my business; yes, I am taking a sh**, I yell at my husband, “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE WORD CHAMPION?”
His response, “Why?”

My facial expression becomes bland and I yell in response, “BECAUSE IT’S PART OF MY BLOGGING!”

Moments of silence passed. 

“I AM THE BEST.” He yells back. 

 I Am The Best echoes in my mind and I smile. 

“Genius.” I whisper to myself. 

To become or to feel like a champion can start with different routes, but it all ends the same… WITH YOU.

Thus, I end this piece with proper hygiene and a positive phrase!

Many thanks to my loving husband.

Rainy Days

What is it about rainy days?

    I look up to the sky.

    Small droplets of water.


    Hitting my face and refreshing my skin.


    The grass. 

    The soil. 

    The flowers.

    The concrete ground.

    Every color enhanced before my eyes 

    revealing the true color of nature.


    Emotion that I hold dear.

    Memories reflected. 


    What is it about rainy days?

    My Birthday

    Today is my 23rd birthday. Twenty three years have passed and I still have to whisper to myself, “You are worth it.”

    When I was a child I used to bounce in excitement when March arrived. My mother’s birthday is March 2nd, my father’s is the 17th and mine is the 31st.I used to think that I was special. We had this one thing thay connected us forever. Funny, isn’t it?

    With each year, that special feeling became a burden. My father’s abuse and my mother’s ignorance washed away everything. Every year after that, my birthday became a question.

    Why was I born?

    My birthday was a burden, a blasphomey, a mistake. I belittled my self worth and purpose. How could I think highly of myself if I had convinced myself that I was nothing?

    Time became my safe haven. 

    Time is still my safe haven. 

    I am now 23 years old and I am sorrounded by infinite love, yet, I still woke up and uttered the silent words, “You are worth it.”

    Thus, I bathed, dressed myself, and drove to a nearby Starbucks. I ordered a Tall Green Tea Latte and guided myself to the nearest seat in the patio. 

    I am sitting down, listening to Promise by Ben Howard and drinking my Green Tea while trying to read my book, but the urge to share my thoughts has won. 

    The weather is one of a kind. The sun is shinning bright and the heat is…warm. The wind is constantly blowing towards my direction as if it is telling me, “Let me help you breath.” 

    You are worth it. 

    It is not much, but it is my repeated beginning. This is part of my healing process. 

    The Fifth Piece: My Room (Trigger Warning)

    After my first night I couldn’t look at that house the same anymore. I felt  trapped. I didn’t know how to escape and my father’s continuous actions didn’t make things easier. 

    It almost became a daily routine when he called me into his room after school. I always walked in and followed his instructions; I would sit down on the bed. He would remove my pants. He would examine me from head to toe; his stare always sent shivers down my spine. He would touch me everywhere; kiss me everywhere. He would, then put it in. I became used to dissociating myself. I would, endleslly, stare at the ceiling. The sound instantly stopped; silence. The colors were gone; darkness, the hope that I once clinged to was also gone; hopeless. When he finished, he would clean me up with some toilet paper and repeat the same words, “This is a secret between you and me. Okay?” He smiled while holding my hands. I hated secrets, but who could I tell?

    Everyday, after he was done, I would go to my room. I would walk in quickly, close the door and make sure it was locked. My bed was next to the window and my little sister’s bed was closer to the door. I stood there, starring at everything; my bed, my dresser, my clothes scattered all over the tan colored carpet, my collection of teddy bears…everything. I felt safe there. That room protected me. That was the one place the monster could not reach me. 

     Why was everything good taken from me?

    My mother always said, “I have to work. ” She would wake up at 6 am and clean houses then she would drive to Wal Mart to clock in for the second half of her day. Everyday was the same routine. Everyday we rarely saw her. That night was no different. 

    My father’s drinking was no stranger to our family. He would drink everyday, anytime and anywhere. That night was no different. I was sleeping, face down, on my bed when I heard my door creak open. I turned my head towards my window and realized it was dark. I turned my head again and closed my eyes. I thought he was just checking if we were okay (ironic, isn’t?) and would quickly leave, but he proved me wrong when he walked to the foot of my bed and removed all his clothes. I stayed quiet. 

    Maybe he will leave if I pretend that I’m sleeping…

    He pulled the bed sheet from my feet and threw it over his head as he crawled towards me. In seconds, his naked body was laying on top of mine. I could smell the alcohol on him . His drops of sweat landed on my cheek. He quickly pulled my pajama pants down. I tried to jerk him off quietly. I didn’t want to wake my little sister who was sound asleep on her bed next to mine. He grabbed my hands, locking them into his. He forcefully, inserted his penis. I held my breath and stayed quiet. 

    Stop. Stop. 

    I had to find my focus, so i stared at my headboard; the textures and lines connected in a rhythmic dance, hypnotizing me. My left eye let a tear loose, but I quickly pulled myself together.

    Crying won’t stop him. I will not cry. I cannot cry. 

    His breath quickened. He thrusted. He touched me. I realized he was finished when he released my arms and let out a silent groan. He leaned over and mumbled in my ear, “Our…secret.” I clenched my hands; the anger that was released in a second was quickly withheld as soon as I glanced over my little sister. 

     It has to be me. 

    My father quickly got up and started to put on his clothes. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to move. He left the room but came back with toilet paper to wipe away the evidence. I layed there, motionless, as he cleaned away. He carressed my hair and left the room, closing the door behind him. I stayed in the same position and kept starring at my head board. 

     I don’t remember falling asleep. 

    The next thing I realize, morning was quickly summoned. I stood up and looked at my bed sheets, my walls, my clothes, and, lastly, my door. The feeling of being safe was overturned with fear. My one safe place was ripped out of my grasp. My room was no longer my room. The tranquility that once consumed me felt like it was suffocating me.

    My mother opened my door and sat on my bed. 

    Maybe she knows. I should tell her. She needs to know. She’ll believe me, right?

    “Good morning sweetie. Let’s get ready. We’re going to the park with everyone.” She twisted my curls and kissed my forehead. I wanted to tell her, but why couldn’t the words come out?

    She walked to my sister’s bed and woke her up as well. I starred at her, “M-Mom…why were you home late last night?”

    “I got out of work late. Don’t worry. If im not here, daddy is. He’ll take good care of you.” She smiled.

    My courage disappeared. I couldn’t tell her. My sister smiled, “Let’s get ready.” She quickly jumped off and opened the door. Our room was across our parent’s room. I could see my father changing. He walked out of his room and stood infront of my door. He smiled and winked at me. 

    Why? Why?

    My body felt heavy and goosebumps appeared, one by one, my hair follicles stood up. I felt like screaming. Screaming for someone or something to take me away from this place I could no longer call home. Take me away from this room. This room…

    “What are you doing? Hurry up.” My big brother called out to me. I recovered my senses and jumped off the bed. 

    “Go away. I dont have to listen to you.” I pushed him and smiled. I grabbed a towel and headed towards the bathroom. I closed the door behind me. I turned on the shower. I could hear my brothers and sister screaming and laughing. I opened the shower curtain and stepped inside, the steaming hot water turner my skin red as I stood there. I grabbed my loofah and rubbed it with soap until bubbles formed. I scrubbed my body. I scrubbed everywhere. Once. Twice. Three times; I scrubbed as many times as I could, but why did I still feel dirty? My breathing was becoming heavy. I fell to my knees and I kept scrubbing. It wasnt until my mother knocked on the door, “Hurry up. We’re about to leave” that I realized that I was no longer scrubbing, instead, I was scratching my legs and arms. I looked at my legs and saw the long, red marks on my body. I quickly turned off the shower and dried off my body. I sneaked in to my room and closed the door behind me. My body trembled, not because of the cold chill you get after coming out from a hot shower, but the fear I felt stepping inside that room.  I wanted to run away as far I could. Why didn’t I?

    I quickly put on  blue pants, a colored tee shirt, white shoes and ran outside. Everyone was waiting for me in the truck. I erased every thought I had from last night and every emotion. I stepped in, my father smiled at me and I smiled back. 

    We drove away. The sun was still shining. The wind was still traveling. The sky was still clear. The flowers were still blooming. Everything and everyone was moving forward except me. 

    The Fourth Piece: A House is NOT a Home (Trigger Warning)

    When I was child I use to have this hidden hope for change. 

    When we moved from New York to Texas at the age of 6, I thought that father would change his drinking habits, my mother would change her work schedule. 

    When we moved into our apartment, age six, I thought my grandfather would change his way of expressing his love to me, or my father changing his abusive behavior.

    When we moved from our apartment to our house, at the age of 8, I thought about the same changes. I even thought my big brother would change his mind and come back to us, but he never did. For some odd reason i thought this house was going to change everything. We moved into a good neighborhood, our elementary and middle school were five minutes away, and we were even improving financially. Everything was going great, so that meant something, right?   

    I thought if I became used to this new reality then nothing would get worse. Its laughable, how wrong my theory was. 

     Driving to our new house was beyond exciting. It was not far from our apartment, about 15 minutes. When we arrived, my father parked the truck in the drive way and there it was. We all jumped out of the truck and screamed in excitement.

    It was a small, simple, brick ranch style house. A shade of brown and tan like-color covered the front. Five white pillars, the color faded and rusted, stood infront of the entire entrance. I walked towards the door and saw a big window on the left side, “That’s going to be my room.” I whispered to myself.  

    My father opened the front door. Once we walked in our excitement decreased. We didn’t expect the house to be so mistreated. The carpet and vinyl floor were dirty and worn out, dust was everywhere and on everything. The house looked like it wasn’t properly maintained throughout the years  

    I wondered off and headed towards a small corridor where the rooms were located. My room was located a few feet away from where the narrow hallways begun. I peeked in, the sun protruding without permission enlightening ever corner of the room; the walls were dirty and needed repainting, the closet was small but usable, the floor was covered in dirt and dust. Even though the room was a complete mess, when I stepped in I felt safe. I stood in the middle of my room for the longest time, “This is it.” I told myself. The next thing I know, my mother is calling me, “Mija, come here!” I looked for my mother and found her in the backyard. My eyes widened when I saw the jungle infront of me; the dark green grass reached my forehead. I could just walk through it and become invisible in an instant. It was huge. We could run, jump, hide, play, or simply lay on the ground and enjoy the open sky. 

    This was my home; I felt safe. Safe from my past. Safe from the hands of my grandfather. Safe from everyone and anything. 

    How can a child’s hope crumble so quickly…so easily. 

    Once we finished the touring of our home we were going to go back to our apartment and prepare everything to move in the next day. My father decided to stay and stay the night. I don’t know why, he just did. So, I gladly volunteered to stay the night with him. I wanted to be the first out of all my siblings to spend the night in our new home. 

    I looked to my mother, and I could sense she felt insecure, “Can i stay with daddy, please?” I pleaded while my siblings pouted and pleaded my mother as well.

    “O-Okay. ” Her words forced and remorseful. My brothers and sister crossed their arms and puffed. I smiled and ran to my father. We seperated a couple of blankets we had in the truck. We waved goodbye as my mother drove away with my siblings. My father and I walked inside. We decided to sleep in the living room. My father placed the thickest blanket on the floor so we could lay down.

    I looked outside and the sunny sky was quickly replaced with the moonlight. The wind hummed the sweetest lullaby. The night felt comforting. 

    My father sat next to me and I smiled at him. We continued talking about our new home. My mind was filled with ideas on how my little sister and I would decorate our room, and I shared it with my father. He looked at me. He didn’t say a word. He just placed his hands on my thigh and kept quiet. My breath paused and my memories of my grandfather flushed in. I kept talking to distract myself from the memories, but my father continued sliding his hands upward. I froze. I stopped talking. The action felt new coming from him, but my feeling felt nostalgic…this wasn’t the first time. 

    He smiled and looked at me, his hands caressing my inner thigh, “Its okay. This will be a secret between you and meawa

    Secret? I don’t like secrets. 

    The light from the moon suddenly disappeared and everything went dark. The wind stopped humming, not a single sound…silence. I no longer felt the comforting feeling like before, instead fear devoured everything.  My vision blurred and my mind traveled elsewhere.

    In seconds…

    My sunny days were snatched from me. My nights were no longer peaceful and fearless. The home I thought would bring change into my life and make me feel normal betrayed me. 

    My memories after my father’s words are hazy. As much as I try, I can’t remember the rest of that night. I don’t know if my mind decided to bury those memories to protect me or to just simply avoid it. Then again…what’s the difference?

    The sunlight woke me up the next morning. 

    My father was sleeping next to me. I stood up and stared at the wall in front of me. Through the glass porch doors, I saw birds playing. “Beautiful.” I thought to myself. 

    I looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the kitchen and realized that I stood in a house where I could no longer call home.