Hoodies Hide the Bruises

As far back as I can remember, I didn’t know the touch of love. I knew only cruel words, the sting of belts, report cards crumpled up and shoved down my throat. My sister used to shield me from my parents with her body, but she left home when I was 8. I didn’t have a way to reach her, but I cheered her on in my heart and told myself, “Just a few more years until you’re 18.”

My parents called the abuse discipline. Even though I didn’t feel any love from my father, he felt like a protector for a few years because he comforted me after my mother’s beatings. And he bought me snacks. 

But when I was old enough to talk back, he started to hit me too. I lost my last illusion: The person I had thought was my protector had become another abuser. Years passed after that—years of going to church every Sunday and trying to appear like a normal family to the world. 

One night when I was 16, I was sitting near the kitchen doing homework on my computer. My mom and I were having another dumb argument about moving apartments and what time I would wake up for school. I was already overstimulated with schoolwork and all the small arguments that would turn into big ones. 

So I did what I always did: I put my headphones on and went silent. It was a method I had used for the longest time. I wasn’t in a space where I could speak my mind freely or solve problems, so I shut myself off and hoped the shouting would end.

My mother went to complain to my father, and he walked over to me. I wouldn’t take my eyes off my screen or remove my headphones, and he snapped. He broke my headphones in half and threw them on the kitchen floor. Then he put his hands around my neck, using his full body weight, and slapped me more times than I could count. 

He said over and over that he was going to kill me. He reached for a glass table and threatened to break it over my head. Hearing my father’s threats made me realize this time was different. He could kill me.

Escape to Refuge

My mother just stood there, watching, doing nothing. I didn’t see a hint of sadness in her eyes. No attempt to protect me, which was supposed to be her role. After they left the room, I thought of my sister. I remembered she had moved to New York City, just a 30-minute drive away. I texted her and told her I feared for my life.

It was about 10 p.m. I thought she’d be asleep, but she immediately sent an Uber and said that she and her boyfriend—who she lived with—would be more than happy to take me in. I went to my room and packed as much as I could carry, hoping no one would notice. I gave my sister our mother’s number so she could call and distract her, and while she did, I ran with three heavy bags as fast as I could. The Uber was waiting in front of our building, and I went straight to it. I was texting my sister with tears streaming down my face. When I got to their house, my sister took photos of my injuries. When I told them everything that had happened, I saw the pain in both her and her boyfriend Bryan’s faces. 

That same night, my sister called ACS to let them know I was there and that I couldn’t go back home. The two ACS workers weren’t what I had pictured. I thought they’d have suits and sunglasses like secret agents. Instead a young blonde woman in jeans and a leather jacket showed up with a quiet man who looked like any other guy on the street. The woman took me into a room to take photos of my injuries while the man walked around the apartment checking for food, a bed, and a working fire alarm. They said I could stay there, but I needed to go to the hospital to get everything documented.

We entered the hospital around midnight. My sister stayed with me in the room while Bryan sat in the waiting area. Bryan (who was a stranger to me before that day) and my sister, who I hadn’t seen in person in eight years, treated me with more love than I could imagine. We were at the hospital until 2 a.m. in part because I had no parent to sign forms.

Bad Cop, Good Caseworker

The next day, I went to school wearing a hoodie pulled tight to hide the bruises on my neck. I didn’t let anyone see that I was having trouble eating because my jaw was sore. No one noticed what I was going through. I think that’s why child abuse gets overlooked. Kids who grow up in that kind of environment, like me, just get used to hiding it. 

That same day, I got called to the principal’s office. When I arrived, one of the office ladies informed me that ACS was waiting for me. We were assigned a caseworker—a woman in her mid-40s who, despite having multiple cases a day and no car to travel between them, made me feel like I was the only case she had. She took the time to reassure me and told me she wouldn’t let me live anywhere I didn’t feel safe.

A few weeks later, I went to the precinct around noon with my sister to file an order of protection against my father. Our ACS worker met us there, along with my sister’s best friend Melinda, who had gone through similar trauma. She came to support me. 

I’m not defined by the things that happened to me, but by what I choose to do with the life I’ve reclaimed.

I gave my statement to the cop, who didn’t pay attention to what I was saying. He had Law and Order playing on a TV. When it was time to record my statement, he said he forgot to press record and made me repeat it three times.

My ACS worker told him he was being unprofessional and retraumatizing me. It took him hours to file my case and print the order of protection. 

When I finally got the papers to sign, Melinda held my hand and explained future options, such as becoming independent at 18 or pursuing kinship care with my sister. I was stressed about how this would affect college and everything else, but she made me feel calmer.

I overheard my sister and the caseworker talking. My sister said that when she was younger, she showed up to school with black eyes and broken ribs. Teachers called our house, but no one ever came to check on us. She said she felt guilty for leaving, like she left me to take all the abuse. Words can’t describe how much it hurt to hear that. I wanted to run up and hug her.

But instead, I just signed the papers and handed them to the cops. We had been at the precinct for eight hours and didn’t leave until 8 p.m., after the sun had gone down. Our caseworker didn’t leave our side until our Uber arrived. 

I realized then how different my life and my sister’s life were. When she was young, she was ignored. It didn’t matter how bruised she was or how much she limped. No one cared. We later found out that my mother had had multiple ACS calls made about her, but ACS, as far as my sister and I know, never investigated those beyond a phone call to my parents.

I felt so sad for my sister who had no one to run to. I saw how happy she was that I had a caseworker who defended me for hours and stood up to people who misused their power. Because of my sister, I had a home to run to and people who treated me like family.

From Silence to Strength

It’s hard even to describe how different my days have been since I left my parents’ house seven months ago. I wake up every morning with a new sense of freedom. For the first time, I can make choices that feel like my own. I’m not defined by the things that happened to me, but by what I choose to do with the life I’ve reclaimed.

Despite everything that has happened, I haven’t missed a single day at school. I wake up early to keep creating the future I want, which is to be a lawyer and help mend a justice system that didn’t help my sister or me. I want to help younger people the same way my sister and my ACS worker advocated for me and helped me feel heard.

I’ve been involved in numerous sports and activities in school, including cheerleading and track and writing for this magazine. All my activities create both distraction and a place to express my emotions. My sister is now my legal guardian. She teaches me to speak up and to not let the abuse we went through make us feel invalid. 

We don’t have to become like the people who hurt us. I’ve used my trauma as my own source of strength. And I no longer feel like I’m alone, because of my sister, my caseworker, my new family, and the people who show up, who fight for me, who believe in me.

And most importantly, I’m starting to believe in myself.

Some days still hurt. Healing isn’t perfect. But I’m not the scared, silenced girl anymore. I’m here. I’m loud. I’m living.