Growing up as a little girl, I should have had the memories of playing dolls with my friends, family vacations, Vacation Bible Schools at my church, and spending special times with my grandparents. This was not the case – it was all pretty much the opposite. I told no one anything; I tried once but it failed. Fear of not knowing this was wrong, I kept it all inside. I was a good girl, so I did not understand why these things happened to me. What did I do to deserve this?
My life was tarnished, and I continued down the path of hurt. I went to church on most Sundays and talked to God alone. Fear and embarrassment kept me from reaching out for help.
To best describe my situation, I was like the teardrops glistening on the face in the cover of my book beautiful in the light, yet heavy with sorrow. The pain was there, shimmering beneath the surface, unseen by the world but deeply felt within. You never truly know what someone is enduring, even when their exterior appears composed. I was drowning in silence, longing for someone to see beyond the glow and into the wounds I carried.
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