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It didn’t take long for me to realize that the man meant to protect me was instead stealing my innocence. To survive, I learned to disappear from life itself—to dissociate, to leave my own body behind. Every man or woman who came after him felt like another brick laid over me, another weight of fantasy and fear I carried in silence, hoping that one day it would lift so I could finally connect, finally breathe, finally soar.

Buried beneath inherited lies and yesterday’s broken dreams, I took on his fears as though they were my own. I carried his shame, his confusion, his hunger. To the world, he appeared extraordinary: a cop, a soldier, a lieutenant colonel, an artist—someone important. But beneath every title was a man addicted to becoming someone, addicted to chasing happiness while never truly facing himself. Because to face oneself requires solitude. It requires shedding the old skin we mistake for identity. And until a person stops wearing the mask that limits them, they will continue repeating the lie that they are merely human—small, fractured, separate from life itself.

The young man who followed him, both by blood and ideology, violated me literally. He inherited the same sickness: a mind shaped by pornography, objectification, and the belief that women existed beneath him, as objects for pleasure, blame, or escape. He learned to look at women through disgust and betrayal while betraying himself in the process. And together, they taught me to see myself as nothing—as though their violence defined my worth.

But I was never what they made me carry.

I was an innocent child, an unlived memory of who they once were before the world hardened them; before fear, ego, addiction, and inherited stories consumed them. Born from a woman’s womb, yet trapped inside a man’s story—a story men repeat instead of confronting, a story that can only be transformed through faith, discipline, truth, and love.

I will never simply “get over” the rape, the years of abuse, the disappearances, the manipulation, or the lies. I will never forget those who protected the people who harmed me while claiming to love me. Their silence became part of the violence. It hollowed me out until I became a shell of a person, unable to hear anything beyond the chaos of my own thoughts, searching desperately for happiness and finding only deeper pain.

And yet, strangely, it was the pain itself that led me out.

The pain everyone wanted me to silence—the pain that forced others to confront themselves—became the trail of breadcrumbs that carried me toward truth. It delivered me from denial. It sharpened my sight. It taught me how to walk through a world that often demeans women for pleasure, power, and dismissal without allowing that cruelty to define my soul.