Hyperboles in Motion

As a small girl, I was bound to silence by a curse bestowed on me, decreeing that I never tell anyone of the dark truths harbored under our roof. Should I ever speak of it to anyone, my family would be scattered to the far winds where we would all suffer--apart from one another and alone, for the rest of our lives.

Burdened by the responsibility of this curse, along with the fist-sized bruises and the normalizing of knife-like words, I found escape in the power of storytelling.

In the beginning, the stories I told were solely for me. They were the arms that I fell into to find solace, and the encouragement I needed to believe that there would be something better 'out there' waiting for me one day.

It was always the same sort of theme back then: an unloved child who ran away from home finds herself amidst the magic of the world and its truth.

Sometimes, the girl would find her way back home to show everyone who hurt her how strong she'd become, how loved she was by others, and make them see how wrong they were.

She would finally prove that she was enough.

In some versions, she would bestow the healing magic of her love (for she truly loved them despite what was done) on those who had caused her so much pain, because she realized that, they too, were in pain and didn't know how to give anything else back; her love in the end would save them, and all would rejoice.

She would finally prove that she was enough.

However, more often than not, the stories would end after a harrowing escape with the resolution to never return home--because home was a place of pain and secrets and blame--and a solemn promise to herself that she would find her way and make her own happiness in the world.

The girl would finally prove to herself that she was enough.

The End.

These stories I would tell myself, whether I was a changling left to a family not mine, or a lost princess hidden away by evil magic in a dark wood, or a foretold child of lore met with hardships but destined for great things, were the dream worlds I insulated myself with in order to cope with the very real and traumatic one I physically inhabited as a child.

It was much easier to imagine my parents as demons, shapeshifters, or bogeymen, because in all the stories I knew, such creatures were obstacles to overcome and vanquish. For all their complexity, such monsters were simple to understand in that they lacked humanity; in the absence of humanity, the monsters' behaviors were less complicated to process, but it also rendered them less accountable in the mind of the girl who wanted their love so desperately.

I left home at seventeen. Now, at thirty-nine, I am working to break the spell.

As an adult, there are moments when look back at the child I was and marvel at the resolve to keep herself whole and full of hope, despite the physical abuse and psychological torments inflicted. It makes me realize how undervalued the magic of optimism is, and how it is our most powerful weapon we have as children. Especially when the monsters seek to render you powerless, voiceless.

Unfortunately, when we grow up, we forget how powerful we once were.

I am only beginning to realize just how much I've allowed myself to forget.