I’m holding my breath. I can feel the heat in my face, my heart is pounding in my chest, the blood is rushing around my head making very loud WHOOOOSHING sounds, and my stomach is in knots. I need my body to be quiet, I’m sure he’ll hear me from the living room. Don’t cry, he’ll come. It’s dark where I’m hiding. My breath is ragged, short, quick and coming in quiet sob-like gasps. I’m clenching my beloved Raggedy Ann doll in the crook of my elbow while I hide, in the bottom of the cupboard. I can see light filtering from the hallway coming through the cracks in the accordion-like door. It’s pitch black in the bedroom where my sister is sound asleep, and from my position in the cupboard, I can see anyone attempting to enter the bedroom and I can keep a watchful eye on my sister. I’ve been hiding in the closet for at least an hour, quietly crying, clutching the picture of dad and I taken at the photo booth in The South, praying for him to come save me. I don’t like it here anymore. I’m s...
"Don't Shame the Family" is the story of how I came to have and live with PTSD. I promise to be as honest and transparent as I can with my own feelings and actions regardless of how humiliated I may feel. If my blog helps one person break the cycle of abuse and realize they're not alone, I will have succeeded.