The Name That Wasn't Mine

When I was a child, I thought I was bad.

Not just misbehaving or difficult—I mean bad to the core, rotten in a way that made sense of the things that were happening to me and my sisters. It’s strange how early that belief takes root. Before you even understand what abuse is, before you know how to speak the words for what’s happening—you start to believe you deserve it. That you’re the reason the people who were supposed to love you are hurting you instead.

In my case, it wasn’t just the beatings or the shouting. It was the silence. The way Charles could punish us without raising his voice. The cold pavement outside under my bare skin. No shoes. No jacket. Just my underwear and the lie he told us—“The police are coming to take you away. You’re bad kids.” That was the kind of punishment that stayed with you. Not just because it hurt your body, but because it shattered something inside your spirit.

And the worst part? I believed him.

That night, sitting outside in the cold with my sisters, I didn’t ask why he was doing it. I asked what I had done to deserve it. That’s what abuse does. It rewires your brain. It turns guilt into your shadow, following you everywhere.

There were times when we didn’t eat. Times we had to split one plate four ways. I remember chewing on leaves from trees just to feel something in my stomach. Hunger taught me desperation. It also taught me how invisible we were. How easily children can be forgotten.

Sometimes, I wonder if Charles looked at us and saw her—Sarah. Our mother. The woman who left. Maybe we were reminders he couldn’t bear. Maybe punishing us was his way of punishing her. I don’t know. But it always felt like we were carrying more than just our own pain. We were carrying the weight of their broken story, and somehow we became the villains in it.

I remember once, I was four or five. I walked in on Charles holding my sister down in the bathtub. I didn’t know what I was seeing, but I knew it was wrong. When he saw me, he turned on me. I ran. And I still remember the crash of the dresser, the weight of it coming down on me, the silence that followed. He left me there. Didn’t check. Didn’t speak. Just left.

That kind of moment marks you. Not just the bruises, but the knowledge that the person who’s supposed to protect you is the one who might destroy you.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand: we weren’t bad kids. We were kids in a bad situation. We were loud because we were trying to find joy. We cried because we still had hope someone might hear us. We fought back because something inside us refused to die.

In that house, hope looked like rebellion. And rebellion got punished.

So no, we weren’t bad apples. We were seeds trying to grow in poisoned soil.

And if you’re reading this—if you’ve ever asked yourself the same question—I want you to hear me clearly: You were never the problem.

Sometimes the orchard is sick before the fruit ever has a chance.