Simply Irene

Hi friends, it’s Irene.

Before we get into this, I want to be upfront with you. This piece talks about child abuse and domestic violence. If those topics are triggering for you, please feel free to skip this one. Take care of yourself first. Always.

This is my personal story, and it starts like this:

When I was nine years old, I stood over my sleeping stepfather with a chef’s knife held to his throat.

When Everything Seemed Normal

My mother met my stepfather when I was around seven. In the beginning, he seemed like a good man. Charming, even.

He had a car, which felt like a big deal at the time. We drove around, went fishing, had dinners out, did things we hadn’t really done before. Life felt fuller. Warmer. Almost exciting.

We went to barbecues. We explored the city. For a while, it felt like we had stepped into a better version of life.

But that didn’t last.

When Home Stopped Feeling Safe

The first time I heard my mother scream, I didn’t understand what I was hearing.

Then came the sound. A belt cracking against skin. That sharp, snapping noise stayed with me.

I was a quiet kid. I didn’t get into trouble. Home had always been a place where I felt safe. So I couldn’t make sense of why this was happening, or why it kept happening.

Because it didn’t stop. It became routine. And slowly, home turned into the place I feared the most.

Instead of wondering what was for dinner, I wondered who would get hurt that night. My mother. Me. Both of us.

There is something deeply unsettling about being afraid to go home. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt it. It’s like having nowhere in the world where you can fully exhale.

The Violence

He used whatever he could find.

Most often, it was a belt. Sometimes it was his hands. Other times, it was whatever object happened to be nearby. I remember being hit with part of a Christmas tree once. I remember being slapped across the face.

I remember the shame that came with it, especially when the punishment crossed physical boundaries that felt deeply wrong for a child.

It wasn’t just pain. It was confusion. Fear. Embarrassment. A loss of something I didn’t even have words for at the time.

A Moment I Never Forgot

One day, I made a small mistake.

I went outside when I wasn’t supposed to. A friend had come by to borrow playing cards, and I tossed them out the window. They scattered everywhere, and I ran downstairs to help pick them up.

That’s when he came home. I didn’t need him to say a word. I saw his face and I knew.

Upstairs, before my mother even got home, he grabbed a piece of wood from some work he had been doing. A 2×4.

He swung it at me.

I remember the impact. I remember collapsing. I remember crying so hard I couldn’t even scream anymore.

And I remember thinking, over and over again, why? Why was this my life?

The Breaking Point

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I was in my room, covering my ears, rocking back and forth as my mother screamed in the next room. Something inside me snapped.

I ran into the hallway and screamed for it to stop.

For a moment, it did. Then he came for me.

That night changed something in me. It was the night I started drinking.

I found his beer in the fridge and took a sip. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel fear. I slept that night. And that feeling became something I chased.

Trying to Escape

Eventually, he noticed.

And when he did, the consequences were exactly what you would expect.

One night, after another beating, something shifted in my mind. I remember thinking that I could end it. That I could save my mother. And myself.

I got up in the middle of the night, went into the kitchen, and took a knife. I stood over him while he slept.

All it would have taken was one movement.

But I couldn’t do it. Even then, it wasn’t in me.

A Glimpse of Something Better

Not long after, my mother sent me to stay with my aunt and uncle for the summer.

My aunt became a light in a very dark time. She showed me care, stability, and kindness in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

But summer ended. And I had to go back.

The Cycle Continues

When I returned, nothing had changed.

The same fear. The same violence. The same routine.

After a while, it became normal. That’s the part people don’t always talk about. You adapt to survive. Even to things that should never be normal. This went on for a few more years.

Until one day, when I was around thirteen, my mother decided she had had enough.

And we left.

The Aftermath

Leaving didn’t erase what happened. The physical wounds healed. The bruises faded. But the emotional impact stayed with me for a long time.

As a teenager and young adult, I struggled. I drank. I tried to numb feelings I didn’t know how to process. Because when you grow up watching someone you love get hurt, and you can’t stop it, it does something to you.

It makes you feel powerless.

What People Don’t Always See

Domestic violence is not just physical.

Yes, bones heal. Bruises disappear.

But the damage that happens internally, mentally, emotionally, that takes much longer to work through.

Those are the wounds you carry quietly.

Where I Am Now

I’m okay now. Truly.

When I first told this story years ago, it was still very emotional for me. Today, I can speak about it with a different kind of clarity.

Time, growth, and healing have changed my relationship with these memories.

But I still believe in telling the truth about them.

Because life is not always easy. It is not always kind. And there is power in acknowledging that.

There is also power in surviving it.

– Irene