Don't call me a victim. Don't call me a monster either. Call me human.

Before You Read My Story

Before I continue, I want to make something very clear.

Please don't read my story and look at me with pity.

I am not sharing this because I want anyone to see me as a victim.

And I am not sharing it because I need someone to feel sorry for me.

I am stronger than you might think.

If I can sit here today and tell you these things—the things I once hid, the things I was ashamed of, and the things I once couldn't even say out loud—it's because they don't own me anymore.

I'm not writing from the middle of that darkness.

I'm writing from the other side of it.

I can look backward now.

I can talk about what happened.

I can acknowledge what I did while I was hurting.

I can acknowledge what others did to me.

And I can do all of that without allowing those experiences to decide who I am today.

So don't pity me.

See me.

See the little girl who survived things she couldn't understand.

See the woman who made mistakes and learned to take responsibility for them.

See the woman who stopped being ashamed of her own body.

See the woman who learned that anger doesn't have to become cruelty, pain doesn't have to become more pain, and somebody else's actions don't get to determine hers.

If I'm telling you this now, it's because it doesn't hurt the way it once did.

The memories are part of my story, but they are no longer holding the pen.

I'm holding it now.

And I'm choosing to tell this story because somewhere there may be someone who is still living in the place I once lived.

Someone who still feels ashamed.

Someone who still feels numb.

Someone who thinks the things that happened to them—or the choices they made while they were hurting—have ruined them forever.

That's who I'm talking to.

I'm not asking you to cry for me.

I'm asking you to look at what can happen when someone decides to keep healing.

And if telling you the truth about where I've been can plant even one tiny seed of hope in someone who still believes there is no way out of their darkness, then I am no longer ashamed to tell it.

Don't call me a victim.

Don't call me a monster either.

Call me human.

Because that's what I finally learned to call myself.

A note before you read: This reflection discusses childhood abuse, difficult experiences with intimacy, and a period in my life when I didn't want to be here anymore. I share these things carefully because someone else may be carrying similar experiences in silence. Please read with care.

---

People have asked me why I keep referring to myself as the monster.

For a long time, I didn't really know how to answer that.

Then, while thinking about my childhood and everything I have been learning about myself, something finally hit me:

The abuse was real. Someone did hurt me.

There are things I cannot clearly remember.

Faces.

Moments.

Pieces of my childhood.

Some of it remains a blur.

And because I couldn't remember everything, I questioned myself.

Did I provoke it?

Was it somehow my fault?

Was there something wrong with me?

For years, I looked at the fighting, yelling, anger, self-destructive choices, and the ways my pain sometimes affected other people, and I used those things as evidence against myself.

I called myself a monster.

Today I'm asking a different question:

What if some of those behaviors weren't proof that I was a monster? What if they were ways I expressed emotions I didn't yet know how to understand?

That doesn't make every choice I made okay.

It doesn't erase the people I may have hurt.

But it helps me understand the child behind those choices.

And understanding her is something I should have done a long time ago.

The Little Girl They Remember

People who knew me in school sometimes tell me about the little girl they remember.

They tell me she was happy, smart, and funny.

They remember her laughing.

They remember things she said.

They remember her personality.

Sometimes I listen to them and feel as though they're describing someone else.

Because I don't really remember that little girl.

She's a blur to me.

What I remember is wanting to disappear.

I remember wanting to go somewhere and never come back.

I remember emotions I couldn't understand and didn't know how to explain.

So when someone describes this happy, smart, funny little girl, I wonder:

Where was she?

Was she there underneath everything I was feeling?

Was humor one of the ways I survived?

Was I smiling while another part of me was hurting?

I don't know.

And I've learned that I don't have to force myself to have answers for memories I don't have.

Maybe both versions of that little girl existed at the same time.

The girl who made people laugh and the girl who wanted to disappear.

The smart little girl they remember and the confused little girl I remember feeling like.

The happiness people could see and the pain they couldn't.

For years, I looked backward and saw mostly darkness.

But other people remembered something I couldn't see.

They remembered my light.

Maybe that light never disappeared.

Maybe I simply couldn't see it.

And perhaps healing isn't about finding the little girl I lost.

Maybe it's realizing that pieces of her have been here all along.

I Learned Not to Move

That numbness followed me into adulthood.

The father of both of my children was my first intimate partner.

He came into my life during one of the darkest periods of my life. He witnessed a moment when I didn't want to live anymore.

Somewhere inside of me, I began believing that I owed him my life.

I didn't love him.

I don't say that to disrespect him or diminish the fact that he is the father of my children.

I simply didn't understand what love was yet.

I understood gratitude.

I understood attachment.

I understood needing someone.

But I didn't yet understand the difference between those things and love.

Because I believed I owed him so much, I let him be my first.

I remember my body shaking.

I remember crying.

I didn't understand what was happening inside of me or know how to explain it.

I was told not to move.

So I learned not to move.

I learned to lie still.

I learned to obey.

Eventually, I learned to become numb.

And I carried that behavior with me.

With the next two partners in my life, I did the same thing.

I stayed still.

I concentrated on what the other person wanted.

I tried to make sure they were satisfied while ignoring what was happening inside of me.

Those partners didn't know about the childhood abuse I carried.

There were still things I didn't completely understand myself.

And that created enormous confusion and shame.

Because sometimes I did want closeness.

Sometimes I wanted affection.

Sometimes I wanted to feel wanted.

But underneath so much of it, I think what I desperately wanted was:

Love.

Compassion.

Gentleness.

Acceptance.

Sometimes we crave those things so badly but are too afraid to ask for them.

We don't know how to say:

Please hold me.

Please be gentle.

Please make me feel safe.

Please see me.

So instead, we try to earn them.

Sometimes we surrender pieces of our dignity trying to satisfy the person we're with.

We may agree to things we're uncomfortable with.

We may ignore what we're feeling.

We may convince ourselves that keeping the other person happy matters more than listening to ourselves.

And afterward, they may leave the experience feeling perfectly fine while we're left alone with ourselves.

Ashamed.

Empty.

Confused.

Sometimes disgusted with ourselves.

Sometimes feeling even darker than before.

I know that feeling.

For years, I judged myself for it.

Why didn't I move?

Why didn't I speak?

Why did I allow things I wasn't comfortable with?

Today I'm trying to ask those questions differently.

Not to punish myself.

To understand myself.

I had learned not to move.

Eventually, I had to learn that I could.

Then I Learned Something Different

I've had four intimate partners in my life.

Only one knew about the childhood abuse I carried.

My last husband.

And he was also the first person I can say I truly loved.

For the first time, I began understanding what love felt like to me.

He knew about my past.

And he was patient.

He was gentle.

I didn't feel judged.

I could laugh.

I could speak.

I could be awkward.

I could be myself.

I began learning that intimacy didn't require me to disappear.

I could have wants.

I could have boundaries.

I could listen to my body.

I could learn to love it instead of treating it like something I owed another person.

And slowly, some of the fear began to loosen its grip.

There is an uncomfortable truth in saying this because this is also the husband who eventually cheated on me.

He hurt me deeply.

But healing has taught me that two truths can exist at the same time.

Someone can give you something meaningful during one part of your life and hurt you profoundly during another.

I don't have to rewrite every good memory because I know how the marriage ended.

And acknowledging what was good doesn't excuse what eventually happened.

He showed me patience and gentleness at a time when I needed both.

I can be grateful for that lesson.

And I can still acknowledge the betrayal.

Both belong to my story.

More importantly, what I learned belongs to me now.

I learned that I deserve to be seen.

Not just my body.

Me.

My humor.

My fears.

My boundaries.

My strength.

My vulnerability.

My heart.

All of me.

There is still a part of me that wonders whether I'll ever meet someone patient enough to understand that part of me again.

Someone who understands that I can want closeness and still experience fear.

Someone who won't make me ashamed for needing gentleness.

Someone who sees the woman before seeing her body.

I don't know what the future holds.

But today I know something I didn't understand when I was younger:

My body is not a debt I owe anyone.

Not because they helped me.

Not because they stayed.

Not because I'm grateful.

Not because I don't want to disappoint them.

Not because I'm afraid they'll leave.

And not because they love me.

I am allowed to want intimacy and still need patience.

I am allowed to be uncomfortable.

I am allowed to stop.

I am allowed to have boundaries.

I am allowed to be loved without disappearing.

For the Person Who Has Never Said It Out Loud

This is one of the hardest parts of my story to share.

But it's also one of the reasons I'm choosing to share it.

Because somewhere, someone may be reading this who has never been able to say it out loud.

Maybe you've felt ashamed of choices you made while you were hurting.

Maybe you gave someone access to your body when, deep inside, you didn't really want to.

Maybe you stayed quiet.

Maybe you became numb.

Maybe you did things you weren't comfortable doing because keeping another person happy felt more important than protecting yourself.

Maybe you were afraid they would leave.

Maybe you thought satisfying them would make them love you.

Or maybe you simply didn't know how to ask for what you were really craving:

Love. Compassion. Gentleness. Acceptance.

Maybe part of you wanted closeness while another part of you wanted to disappear.

And maybe that contradiction has made you question yourself for years.

I understand.

For a long time, I carried shame about my choices too.

I wondered why I didn't speak.

Why I didn't move.

Why I cared so much about keeping another person happy while ignoring myself.

And underneath all of that was something even harder for me to admit:

There were times in my life when I didn't want to be here anymore.

I wanted to disappear.

For years, I looked at those pieces of myself and thought they proved there was something wrong with me.

Today, I look at that woman differently.

I cannot go backward and make different choices for her.

But I can finally have compassion for her.

She was looking for love while carrying things she didn't understand.

She hadn't learned that her body belonged to her.

She didn't know that she didn't owe access to herself in exchange for affection, acceptance, help, commitment, or love.

She hadn't learned that her discomfort mattered too.

Today I know.

Wanting love doesn't mean surrendering my boundaries.

Wanting someone doesn't mean I cannot change my mind.

Loving someone doesn't mean I have to ignore myself to keep them happy.

And needing gentleness does not make me difficult to love.

If you've lived something similar and you've never been able to say it out loud, you don't have to tell me your story.

You don't have to tell anyone before you're ready.

I simply want you to know that someone else has carried that confusion and shame too.

I did.

And I'm finally putting mine down.

Not because the past didn't matter.

But because I don't want shame writing the rest of my story.

Maybe you don't have to let it write yours either.

We Have to Acknowledge the Hurt We Caused, Too

There is another part of healing I don't want to leave out.

Understanding why we behaved a certain way does not erase what our behavior may have done to someone else.

Pain can explain our actions. It doesn't excuse them.

There were times when I was hurting so deeply that my anger, words, and actions hurt other people.

Sometimes people I loved.

Healing requires me to acknowledge that too.

We have to be capable of saying:

I was hurting, but I hurt you too.

What happened to me wasn't my fault.

But how I treated other people became my responsibility.

We have to listen when someone tells us we hurt them.

We have to own our actions without immediately defending ourselves.

And when an apology is needed, we should apologize.

But accountability doesn't mean sentencing ourselves to a lifetime of punishment.

Once we've acknowledged what we did, taken responsibility, made amends where possible, and learned from it, we have to learn to forgive ourselves too.

Forgiveness doesn't mean:

It didn't matter.

It means:

It mattered. I own it. I learned from it. I forgive myself, and I choose to do better.

We cannot change yesterday.

We can decide what yesterday teaches us about tomorrow.

The Emotions Are Still Inside of Us

Healing doesn't mean difficult emotions disappear.

I still feel anger.

Hurt.

Fear.

Sadness.

Rejection.

Frustration.

Sometimes even that old rage that once made me want to react before thinking.

Those emotions are still inside of me.

The difference is that now I recognize them.

I can feel anger without becoming my anger.

I can feel hurt without using my hurt to hurt someone else.

I can feel rejection without allowing another person's rejection to determine my worth.

We cannot always control what we feel.

But we can learn to control what we do with those feelings.

Sometimes that means walking away.

Sometimes it means staying quiet until we can speak without deliberately hurting someone.

Sometimes it means crying.

Exercising.

Praying.

Writing.

Talking.

Or simply admitting:

I'm angry right now. I need time before I respond.

I once thought healing meant those emotions would disappear.

Now I understand that healing means they can exist without controlling me.

The emotions may still knock on the door.

I decide whether I hand them control.

We Are Responsible for Our Own Actions

That's another lesson I've learned.

I am responsible for my actions. I am not responsible for controlling the people around me.

I am responsible for my words.

My reactions.

My choices.

My boundaries.

My apologies.

My growth.

I cannot control another person's choices.

I cannot control whether they forgive me.

I cannot control whether they change.

I cannot control how they choose to heal.

That belongs to them.

Just as my healing belongs to me.

And maybe we'd have more compassion for each other if we remembered something:

Everybody has a story.

We don't know what someone survived.

We don't know what happened behind the doors of their childhood home.

We don't know what they've lost.

What they fear.

What they're trying to overcome.

We don't know what they're carrying silently.

People deal with pain differently.

Some become quiet.

Some become angry.

Some cry.

Some push people away.

Some hide behind humor.

Some spend years trying to understand themselves.

That doesn't mean harmful behavior should be accepted.

Understanding is not the same as excusing.

But we don't have to become the judge and jury of another person's entire life.

We can hold people accountable for how they treat us while remembering that we may never know their whole story.

Hurt People Can Hurt People

People who hurt others are often carrying hurt of their own.

That doesn't give anyone the right to hurt you.

Their story may help explain their behavior.

It does not excuse it.

You are allowed to have boundaries.

You are allowed to walk away.

You are allowed to say:

You cannot treat me this way.

But when someone hurts us, we have another choice.

Do we hurt them because they hurt us?

Or do we show them something different?

I choose something different.

Kindness.

Love.

Compassion.

Gratitude.

Some people may think that's dumb.

Some may call me naïve.

But I see it differently.

I see it as giving another human being a chance to experience something they may have never truly known.

What if nobody ever showed them healthy love?

What if nobody offered them compassion when they were struggling?

What if kindness always came with conditions?

What if all they learned was that when someone hurts you, you hurt them back harder?

I don't know their story.

And I don't have to excuse their behavior to have compassion for the human being behind it.

Understanding is not permission.

Compassion is not weakness.

Forgiveness does not mean unlimited access to me.

Kindness doesn't mean I've forgotten what happened.

I can love someone and still walk away.

I can forgive someone and still have boundaries.

I can have compassion for someone's pain without allowing them to make their pain mine.

And I can be grateful for what an experience taught me without being grateful that I was hurt.

I cannot control whether another person changes.

But maybe I can plant something.

One tiny seed of hope.

Maybe I'll never see it grow.

Maybe they'll never tell me that something I said or did mattered.

Maybe they'll even forget my name.

But maybe—just maybe—somewhere down the road they'll remember what it felt like when someone had the opportunity to return their pain with more pain and chose compassion instead.

Maybe they'll offer that kindness to someone else.

Maybe they'll begin questioning the pain they've been carrying.

Maybe they'll realize they don't have to keep passing it on.

And maybe, when they're ready, they will begin to heal too.

That's enough reason for me to keep choosing love.

To keep choosing compassion.

To keep choosing gratitude.

To keep choosing kindness.

Not because I'm naïve.

But because I know what happens when hurt keeps getting passed from one person to another.

Someone has to decide that the pain stops with them.

And if I can leave one tiny bit of hope in someone's heart instead of another wound, that's the person I choose to be.

I Won't Call Myself a Monster Anymore

For years, I looked at the darkest parts of myself and called them a monster.

Today I see something different.

I see the happy, smart, funny little girl other people remember, even though so much of her is a blur to me.

I see the child who wanted to disappear.

I see the girl who didn't understand what was happening inside of her.

I see the woman who became numb.

I see someone who confused gratitude with obligation.

I see someone who once believed keeping another person happy mattered more than listening to herself.

I see someone who eventually learned what gentleness felt like.

I see someone who has hurt people and is willing to acknowledge it.

I see someone who has been hurt and is learning that she doesn't have to return that hurt.

And now I understand:

None of those things make me a monster.

I am human.

A human being who has been hurt.

A human being who has made mistakes.

A human being who has hurt others.

A human being who can acknowledge those things without allowing them to become the verdict on the rest of her life.

My emotions are still here.

Anger doesn't make me bad.

Sadness doesn't make me weak.

Fear doesn't make me broken.

Having emotions I once struggled to control doesn't make me a monster.

They make me human.

What matters is what I choose to do with them now.

I decide whether I repeat the hurt or break the cycle.

I decide whether I react from anger or give myself time.

I decide whether I carry bitterness or search for compassion.

I decide whether the things that happened to me become weapons I use against other people or lessons I use to become better.

I won't always get it right.

I'm still learning.

I'm still growing.

I'm still healing.

But now I can finally look back at that little girl—the one other people remember even when I struggle to remember her myself—and tell her:

I see you now.

You didn't need to disappear.

You weren't a monster.

You were hurting.

You deserved to be protected.

You deserved to be seen.

You deserved to have a voice.

You deserved love without having to earn it.

And you deserved the same patience, compassion, gentleness, and kindness you spent so much of your life searching for.

So if you're reading this while carrying pieces of yourself you're ashamed of, afraid of, or still trying to understand:

Acknowledge what belongs to you.

Take responsibility when you've hurt somebody.

Learn from it.

Make amends where you can.

Forgive yourself.

Set boundaries with people who hurt you.

Feel your emotions without handing them control of your life.

Remember that the person standing across from you may have a story you know nothing about.

Choose love when you can.

Choose compassion.

Choose gratitude.

Choose kindness.

Plant that tiny seed of hope.

Because our past may help explain who we were.

It does not get to be the verdict on who we become.

I won't call myself a monster anymore.

I am human.

And I am finally learning how to love all of her.

If you've carried something like this silently for years, you don't have to tell me.

You don't have to explain yourself.

You don't have to prove your pain.

And you don't have to be ready to tell your story just because I decided I was ready to tell mine.

I simply want you to know:

There is still hope.

Your past doesn't have to write your ending.

And most importantly:

You are not alone.

Suzyanna-