They don’t knock before they enter. They don’t give warning signs or soft landings. They just arrive—violent, jarring, electric—and suddenly you’re not where you were a moment ago. You’re back there. In the thick of it. In the memory. In the fear. In the skin that never really felt like yours again after what happened.

I didn’t expect this one. Not this particular trigger. Not that day.

But there it was—a vivid reminder of the violence I endured. A memory I’d buried under years of silence, scar tissue, and carefully constructed armor. A reminder of the man who was supposed to love and protect me, but instead became the monster I had to survive.

Growing up, I used to watch other little girls with their fathers. I’d see how they ran into their arms without hesitation, like the safest place in the world was tucked beneath their dad’s chin. I’d see the stars in their eyes when they talked about him, the way their whole face lit up just from being seen. And I remember wondering, even at a young age, why.
Why was their world made of stars and bedtime stories and daddies who kept the nightmares away—while mine was made of silence, broken things, and the echo of doors slamming too loud?

Why did their eyes shine, while mine only ever knew how to search for escape?

I learned to run.
To hide.
To never cry.

Even now, those words still echo like a threat pressed into my spine:
“If you want something to cry about, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I didn’t know then that I was being trained—like a soldier, like prey.
Trained to suppress, to shrink, to anticipate the storm before it ever broke.
I learned how to take a hit and get back up like it meant nothing.
Like I was made of stone instead of soft skin and brittle bones.
I learned how to fight a grown man who stood twice my size,
because not fighting meant surrender.
And surrender felt too close to dying.

No child should know the weight of that choice.
No child should have to become their own protector
before they even know how to tie their shoes right.

But I did.

I didn’t grow up with lullabies or soft hands or the smell of safety.
I grew up with bruises—some visible, most not.
I grew up knowing that silence could be mistaken for peace,
and that the loudest rooms were often the most dangerous ones.

I learned to bare my teeth and turn into a beast.

Because softness was dangerous.
Kindness got you hurt.
And silence got you killed—maybe not all at once, but in pieces.

So I became sharp edges and fire.
I wore my black eye like armor,
and I lied—through my fucking teeth
because who was going to believe me anyway?

Who believes the troubled girl?

The one who always runs.
The one who’s always fighting.
The one who wears black like it’s battle gear
and greets the world with a middle finger and a smirk.

They never saw the child beneath all that noise.
They never looked past the rage or the eyeliner or the bruises.
They saw a problem. A rebel. A cautionary tale.
Not a survivor.

And so I leaned into it.
If they wanted a villain, I gave them one.
If they expected me to fall apart, I made sure I shattered quietly,
out of sight, where no one could say I was being dramatic.

Because it’s easier for them to blame the girl who bites
than to admit the monster wore a father’s face.

And it didn’t stop
not even after I moved out.

Because monsters don’t respect doors or distance.
They follow. They linger. They wait for you to flinch.

But one day, I stopped flinching.

I pulled a blade.
Looked him dead in the eye.
And made my threat.

And for the first time…
he saw something he finally believed.

Not his daughter.
Not the scared little girl he used to break like glass.
But a stone-cold monster of his own making.

One who was done taking hits.
Done playing prey.
Done waiting for someone else to come save her.

I told him if he ever laid a hand on me again,
I’d bury him six feet deep
and smile while they put me in chains.

Because at least then
at least then
I’d finally be free.

But even still…
it took me years to say the words.
Years to stop covering it in sarcasm or silence.
To stop saying “he was just an asshole”
and finally admit the truth:

He was abusive.

Not difficult.
Not complicated.
Not misunderstood.

Abusive.

Because there’s a kind of heartbreak in that admission
a quiet, aching kind.
The kind that doesn't scream. It just stays.

Because no matter how many times I stood my ground,
no matter how many battles I won,
there was still a little girl inside me
clutching hope with bleeding hands
who wanted to believe she could have stars in her eyes, too.

Not fear.
Not rage.
Not survival disguised as strength.

Just love.
The kind that didn’t hurt.

But I didn’t get that.
I got the monster.

And learning to live with that truth
was its own kind of war.

So here I am.

Living with the ghost of that little girl
the one who still wanted stars in her eyes
for the man who was supposed to protect her.

And now…
he’s ash in the ground.
Right next to the woman who stood by and did nothing.

That silence was its own kind of violence.
And sometimes, I don't know who I'm angrier at
the monster who raised his hand,
or the one who watched and stayed silent.

But I survived them both.

And now I look at my children
these wild, beautiful, fierce souls
and I make a vow.

They will never know that kind of violence.
Not under my roof.
Not in my presence.
Not in my bloodline.

They will have their own battles to face.
Their own truths to untangle.
Their own wounds to stitch when the world proves cruel.

But they will never have to flinch when someone comes close.
They will never think love has to hurt to be real.
They will never feel small in their own home.

Because the cycle ends with me.