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Summary
The story recounts a childhood filled with emotional, physical, and verbal abuse from her father, who deeply scarred her self-worth and shaped her belief that her life was for a man. Despite suffering from trauma, she has found strength in healing, teaching her siblings about self-love, boundaries, consent, and learning to embrace herself, accepting that forgiveness for her parents may never come.
As an Igbo firstborn daughter, I constantly heard the phrases, “Put your waist down; is this how you are going to be sweeping in your husband’s house?” and “You need to know how to cook because no man would want a woman who can’t cook.”
Every criticism directed at me was always followed by how disappointed my imaginary husband would be if I wasn’t a certain way. I learned early on that my life wasn’t for me; it was for a man.
My father was physically, emotionally, and verbally abusive toward my mom and all of us. He’d throw words like ‘worthless,’ ‘useless,’ and ‘a waste of space,’ not caring how much they hurt us. Most of my teenage years were spent crying into a pillow, hiding, running, and sometimes googling how to die painlessly.
My father despised my mom because she didn’t give him the male child he wanted, and then he despised us because he couldn’t mould us into the way he wanted. We constantly heard how worthless we were, how we’d never amount to anything, and how our greatest achievement would be to marry a man.
He constantly policed what we wore, how we spoke, and what we ate because, apparently, men didn’t like fat women. I realised early on in my childhood that I was powerless, and every time I saw my siblings cry after being hit by Dad, every time he said he hated us with his words and actions, my heart broke.
My father was the first man to break my heart. I cannot pinpoint the exact time the suffocating feeling of powerlessness finally settled in; I do not know if it was the time my father hit me till I bled, when I was groomed by a man twice my age, or when the doctor raped me, and the nightmares began.
I was raped two years ago in a hospital by a man I was supposed to go out on a date with. I’ve been assaulted before, but this time was particularly scary because I was threatened with a gun, and I thought I was going to die that day. When he was done with me, I left that hospital with another piece of my soul dead. I cried and cried till I was numb, but I couldn’t do anything about it; I was powerless. I knew that if I went to report him, nobody would believe me, and I knew that if I told my parents, it’d affirm to my dad that I was actually useless and worthless, so I kept it to myself.
That day spawned the beginning of the nightmares that kept me up every night. It always starts with me in a nice dress having fun and a man in a doctor’s scrub walking up to me and squeezing my neck till life slowly leaves my body, and then I wake up with tears soaking my pillow, wishing that God would make it easy and take my life.
I researched various ways to kill myself; some days, I even bought the drugs, but I couldn’t do it, not because I was scared of dying but because I was scared that my siblings would be left all alone in this world with no one to look out for them. I didn’t want to die knowing that my siblings would resent me; I didn’t want to die without freeing them from the toxicity of my parents.
I’m done with uni now and my siblings and I are closer than ever. I teach them about consent, self-love, and how to set healthy boundaries. I tell them that they shouldn’t internalise my father’s words; I teach them to stand up for women and protect women wherever they go.
I teach them to call out male bad behaviours, never play small, and always take up space. I tell them they are worthy and deserve all the love they want. I teach them to relentlessly pursue their dreams and become their own person, and all of these things I say to them, I say to myself also.
As for my parents, I’m trying to forgive them, but it’s really hard when the people who were supposed to love and care for you are the first ones to hurt you. I’ve accepted that my mom will forever be male-centred and that my father will never love me because I’m not the son he’s always wanted. But I accept myself, and I love myself because I know what it feels like to experience nothing but pure hate and disgust for oneself, and I never want to go back there.
I turned 23 this year, and I’ve been doing a lot of healing and self-reflection. I’ve realised that I was constantly seeking the love that I couldn’t get from my father, from the men I dated. I also left the church and found my own path to God because I was tired of being told that I was a disgusting sinner. I already felt disgusting; I didn’t need to be constantly reminded by the church that was supposed to offer me solace. I take my time now to enjoy the little things: my sister’s laughter, a home-cooked meal, listening to my favourite music, and surrounding myself with the kindest of women.
I still have nightmares, and I still think of that day a lot, but I don’t feel shame anymore; I just hold myself tighter when the tears come, and my resolve to never feel powerless ever again strengthens.
This year, I turned 23, and I no longer feel like dying.
Cynthia is a freelance writer with over two years of experience. Her work has been published in magazines such as 21 Mag and Afredia. She is also a hair and lifestyle YouTuber who enjoys the entire process of creating and editing video content.
