What They Didn’t See
You didn’t see the day I held my sister in the dark after she tried to hurt herself and wanted to end her life—how I walked in on her banging a toothbrush into her chest, over the scar where a nail once nearly killed her—the fear in her eyes and seeing her ache from the inside. You didn’t see the panic in my body, how I shielded her and whispered the truth to her until she could breathe again. You didn’t see how I gave her up to DSS so she could be safe, even when it broke me to let her go.
You didn’t see the times I starved because the food was locked up with chains and combination locks. I was called a thief for being hungry. I learned how to pick locks like a criminal just to eat. And every time I got caught, they made sure I felt disgusting. Like, survival was shameful.
You didn’t see how I took care of my siblings. How I cleaned them, fed them, protected them, and helped them with school. How I carried the weight of adults while still trying to be a child. You didn’t see how I watched over them at night, just in case someone came into the room who shouldn’t.
You didn’t see the bruises Thomas left. The time he choked me. The exercises that left me on the floor. You didn’t see the chair I sat in for hours, punished in silence. You didn’t see me learn how to dissociate, how to go somewhere else in my mind so I didn’t feel the pain anymore.
You didn’t see the night Jordan was on top of me—and Thomas walked in and did nothing. I was terrified and frozen. You didn’t see how Margaret blamed me, how I was called a slut and told to shut up. You didn’t see how they said I deserved it. Over and over.
You didn’t see how I cut into my own skin, craving release from everything I couldn’t say. You didn’t see the words I carved into my thigh because that’s what I believed I was. You didn’t see what I did to my wrist or body harm, trying to crush the bones in my wrist just to escape. You didn’t see the lies I told doctors because I lived in fear, and I was unheard.
You didn’t see the fake smiles. The dead eyes. The little ways I tried to win love—by being good, being quiet, being helpful. You didn’t see how I hated myself every time it didn’t work.
You didn’t see me praying for rescue. Hoping someone would look a little closer. Hoping someone would see past the staged smiles in court or the perfect lies on paper.
You didn’t see the mirror I avoided. The hatred I had for my own body. The way I thought I was dirty and ruined and not worth keeping. You didn’t see me trying to be a mother to my siblings and a nobody to myself. You didn’t see the days I wanted to die. The nights I made safety plans, I never used. The fear that someday I might.
And you—my biological family—you didn’t ask. You didn’t check in. You didn’t show up. You didn’t challenge what you were told. You accepted surface-level stories and let me drown beneath them.
You believed the adults who abused me over the child who was crying out. You whispered about me instead of speaking to me. You judged what you didn’t even take the time to understand. You turned your back while I screamed in silence.
And some of you still try to act like I’m the problem. But I’m not. I never was.
You didn’t see me. But I see me now. I see the strength it took to survive. I see the courage it took to protect others. I see the softness that somehow stayed inside me. And I will not be erased by your silence. I will not be guilted by your shame. I do not owe you quiet. I don’t belong to the lies. I belong to the truth. This is mine. And I will write every chapter from here on out like I’m finally free—because I am.
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What You Did Wrong
You all not that innocent you did play in a part of it all and could have made a difference.
Anna– Richard: You thought it was funny to hand me a McDonald’s cup filled with beer and tell me it was sweet tea. I was a child, and you laughed when I spit it out. You thought that was entertainment.
Leanna: You let your nieces—us—be taught to smoke cigarettes just to swim in a pool. You stood by while my aunts gave Rose and me our first cigarettes and called it a game. You didn’t stop them. You didn’t protect us from any of it.
Everyone: You looked the other way when Anna let Richard back in the house. You knew what he’d done. You knew Rose was hurt. But you stayed quiet. You told yourselves it wasn’t your business, even though children were being hurt right in front of you.
You saw bruises and didn’t ask questions. You saw hungry kids and offered judgment, not help. You noticed we were quiet, withdrawn, well-behaved—and still, you didn’t ask why.
You talked about us like we were broken. Like the trauma made us less. You didn’t try to understand what that trauma was.
You saw us bounce between homes and thought, "Well, they’re not my responsibility." You let the system carry us instead of fighting to protect us yourselves.
You praised Anna for doing her best while we were starving for attention, hurting ourselves in silence, or being beaten behind closed doors. You saw her tears and ignored ours.
You turned a blind eye to the warning signs. You saw Rose shut down. You saw me trying to act older than I was. You saw how we always stuck close together, how I never let my siblings out of my sight—and you never wondered why.
You mocked our clothes. Our behavior. Our weight. You laughed about how clingy we were or how much we cried. You turned trauma responses into punchlines. Made it into a competition of who's going to do it first in life, like which child is going to have the most body count, have kids first, who's going to be who, and call it fun.
You saw the emotional storms in us but never asked what caused them. You judged what you didn’t try to understand.
And when the abuse finally became too loud to ignore, you blamed the damage—not the source.
You should’ve fought harder. You should’ve made phone calls. You should’ve shown up. You should’ve stood in the gap.
But you didn’t. And we were left to figure out how to survive what you wouldn’t face.
So this isn’t about guilt. It’s about truth. Because I will never heal by pretending it didn’t happen. And you don’t get to pretend you didn’t know.
Not anymore.
“Too bad for those who call what’s evil ‘good,’ and call what’s good ‘evil’—
who pretend darkness is light and light is darkness.”
—Isaiah 5:20