Fragmented Memories: A story of conflict and the search for healing

TRIGGER WARNING: This text contains descriptions of emotional and physical abuse that may be sensitive to some readers.

This story was originally written by me in Portuguese, my native language. You can find the original version at the following link: Memórias Fragmentadas: Uma história de conflitos e busca pela cura.

I want to share something I wrote, and this story presents a deep and visceral account, permeated by experiences of emotional and physical abuse. Whether this story is fictional or mirrors real events, I leave to the readers, inviting them to reflect on the universal themes of trauma and illustrate painful experiences. I hope it prompts them to consider how stories can be people, because all people are stories.

My journey begins from my earliest memory of these acts, when I was just 4 years old in a densely populated city, known for its industrial presence and vibrant community life, but also for crime and the difficulty of accessing basic services in some areas. Sitting at the table, I resisted the meal while my progenitor, impatient, slapped me on the back of my neck, insisting I eat. At that tender age, uninterested in food, I merely dawdled.

As the years went by, such acts of violence intensified, marked by persistent verbal and physical aggression. However, there were moments — rare and fleeting — of tenderness. In the rare instances when he was “well,” he warmly hugged me and sought to capture our closeness in photographs. In public, he always treated me with the visible affection of the “proud progenitor.”

Early in my life, both my parents served in the armed forces — my progenitor in the Navy and my mother in the Military Police. One of my earliest memories dates back to the daycare located within the barracks where my mother worked. When I described the environment in detail, from the wooden floor to the large windows and white walls, she was surprised; she said these memories dated back to when I was barely 2 years old, considering it almost impossible for me to remember so vividly.

As time went on, my mother decided to abandon her military career to focus on domestic duties, taking care of me and my progenitor. The latter, a man who demanded impeccable uniforms and hot meals, found in my mother’s constant presence and tireless work essential support for his comfort and routine. A choice perhaps founded both on security and the expectation that her resignation would boost my progenitor’s success.

Financially, he provided; emotionally, he fell short. In his rare gestures of affection, there was always a trace of unmet expectation, ready to turn into palpable discontent. Love, when manifested, was often conditioned on absolute conformity to his wishes, exacerbating the pressure on my young shoulders.

But it wasn’t his fault, it was my fault.

During my childhood, I witnessed heated arguments between my parents. Harsh words always came from him; there was never physical violence (in my presence), only verbal, directed at her. When conflicts escalated to something more, I intervened and ended up severely punished.

My progenitor, upon meeting my mother, confessed to having no one else in the world. No family, no roots — my paternal grandmother had died when he was young, and my grandfather abandoned him as a child. Raised by friends of his mother or something like that, he was just a sailor trying his luck. However, upon becoming a Navy officer, his scenario changed dramatically; suddenly, relatives appeared — a sister, niece, adoptive family members, and even a son from a previous marriage.

This was a crucial moment, if I can identify such moments in this complex story. From then on, my mother and I became much less of a priority.

Moreover, he often came home drunk, triggering arguments and fights with my mother and me. In my case, these confrontations frequently ended in physical violence. My mother, I believe, didn’t react out of fear of him.

Around the age of 11, he began to treat me differently, labeling me as a rebellious daughter. For me, this change coincided with my growing awareness of what really happened at home. Consequently, I distanced myself from him, as the hero he had been in my childhood seemed to have disappeared (or never existed, once I became aware).

During my pre-adolescence, he lamented my distance, accusing me of no longer showing affection for him (an affection that was never equally reciprocated). He criticized the fact that I no longer wanted to hold his hand in public, only wore dark clothes, and listened to melancholic music. It was during this period that I began to notice signs of depression, or at least its visible manifestation.

It was my fault, I was a rebellious daughter.

I vividly remember an occasion when I was crying in my room, immersed in the oppressive atmosphere that dominated our home, while listening to Evanescence, my favorite band at age 13. My progenitor knocked on the door with determination, warning me to open it immediately or he would break it down. After a few minutes of frantic knocking, I decided to give in, not out of fear, but a mixture of resignation and curiosity. He burst in with a shout, his usual method of communication and imposition, followed by physical assaults.

His speech was cutting: if I didn’t stop crying, he would give me real reasons to cry. Then it started: blows and more blows, with his hand, with his belt, his furious gaze accompanied by red eyes and a red face, a recurring scene in these situations.

To him, I wasn’t dedicated to my studies and wasn’t worth much. He financially supported the household while my mother took on all the other responsibilities. Contrary to his criticisms, I studied diligently. I also spent hours on the computer, immersed in games like The Sims, Age of Empires, and Caesar. We lived in a military village at that time, and I was often responsible for solving technology-related problems, including issues with the shared internet connection with our neighbor.

I was a rebellious daughter, uninterested in anything.

However, I had friends among the children of these neighbors. We spent our days playing on the street, playing hide-and-seek and soccer. With one of them, I discovered the thrill of playing Age of Empires on a local network, enjoying the internet we shared.

Despite his aggressive nature, my progenitor transformed into a loving parent at parties and events with his colleagues. He always called me to give him a kiss (usually when he was drunk), and he did the same with my mother. In public, we were the image of a perfect family — or at least that’s what he tried to show. Until, at the beginning of high school, he decided to pull me out of the private school I attended, citing my lack of interest in studies. It might seem like a “privileged” problem, but I had always been an excellent student and always attended private schools.

It was around this same time that my parents separated. My mother discovered an affair that revealed other infidelities throughout their relationship. We found out that he was paying for his lover’s child to attend the same school I did. The separation triggered a series of new problems: alimony, my mother’s emotional and financial fragility, and a growing sense of helplessness in my life.

My mother had a habit of involving me in her own problems, perhaps in the hope of fixing the marriage or recovering something lost. Some people in her family even suggested that the failure of the marriage was her fault, portraying my progenitor as a dignified man ($$$).

It was during this turmoil that I decided to share with my mother my attraction to a girl. I had mentioned it before during a barbecue while they were still married, but perhaps she didn’t take it seriously at the time, probably because of a few beers (two were enough). When I brought it up again, her words were painful, and I ran to my room, locking myself in while I cried.

My mother then decided to call my progenitor, who was living two and a half hours away by car. She told him what I had said. In less than two hours, he was knocking on my room door, threatening to break it down if I didn’t open it. Once again, I gave in to the pressure and was brutally beaten as soon as the door opened.

I didn’t want to know about anything, and about anyone’s feelings.

At that moment, I didn’t cry. He delivered his blows, but I swallowed my tears. In fact, at that time, I barely cried. And the more he noticed my lack of tears, the more violent he became. When he finally left the room, already arguing heatedly with my mother, blaming her for everything, I fled to the bathroom and locked the door. Inside, there was a top-loading washing machine, and as soon as I heard him leave, I was overcome with uncontrollable rage. I took out all my pain and frustration on the machine, punching it repeatedly until my mother, outside, started crying when she saw the dented lid.

I had been an excellent student until then; my math teacher called me Violet (from The Incredibles) because of the resemblance, including my demeanor and hair. I always sat in the front row, in front of the teachers. But gradually, I began to distance myself. In high school, I increasingly lost myself in my own world. In my second year, I started skipping classes to draw alone in the courtyard and, as a result, I failed. Over time, I completely gave up on my studies, seeking only a way to escape from it all.

This phase of my life became a blur, like many other parts. It’s as if my brain obscured them to protect me. I’m sure I don’t remember all the terrible things that happened. Recently, I have been discovering several of those boxes of bad memories that my brain stored away.

At 18, I went to live with him in hopes of finishing my studies, as he had moved to a city where that would be easier. But things only got worse; I became a maid in the house, forbidden to have friends over and forced to follow his orders to the letter. Any deviation resulted in more physical and verbal assaults.

In a heated argument at his house, he shouted at me that I would never be anything in life, that I was worthless, that I would end up as a prostitute. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), at that moment, the first thing that came to my mind was: “Just like so-and-so had to do?” Instantly, a violent slap followed by screams tore through the air, all because I had insulted someone close to him who had made similar choices out of necessity (even though this person never liked me).

I made friends in that city and found some emotional support there, somehow. At one point, I started taking violin classes at a nearby Baptist church, something he had forbidden me to do in childhood (for unknown reasons). He didn’t allow many things; karate and swimming at age 10 were exceptions because they were offered in the condominium where we lived at the time. With the separation, he sold the apartment, and my mother started renting a place. He claimed to have paid off all her debts.

I then decided to draw, something I had always loved, and sell my creations on the internet. It was the first time I heard a compliment from him, at 19, when I drew something at a client’s request. Later, to please him, I decided to draw a photo he had in a frame from when he became an officer. With the money I earned, I bought a graphics tablet and started exploring its possibilities, selling my drawings. When I showed him the result, he rejected it, saying it didn’t look like him, despite it being an old photo from when he was younger. I never tried again. During this period, I attempted to complete my high school equivalency, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind and psyche were exhausted.

At some point, my mother moved to a neighboring city, claiming that her family was there. And so, between comings and goings, daily conflicts, fights, and assaults, I moved between his house and hers. But I didn’t get along with her either; I felt like nothing more than a tool, a utility.

Once, I had a puppy with my mother’s permission, but she constantly complained about it (it was a Lhasa Apso, too small to cause so much trouble). One day, she called my progenitor to resolve the issue, and he came. Once again, I became the target of his anger, beaten until I screamed in pain. When I couldn’t take it anymore, he pushed me into the corner of the room and raised his foot to kick me. Instinctively, I protected my head, which was the target, and closed my eyes. It was the first time my mother intervened. She placed herself between us and ended up being kicked by him.

He took the puppy and gave it to his girlfriend at the time, if I remember correctly, because I “wasn’t taking proper care of it.”

I only cared about myself, I was irresponsible.

After some time, I started taking Web Design and Software Development classes. Since I was little, I had always been fascinated by technology and everything related to it. I remember my first computer at age 10; I waited for my progenitor to leave the house, took apart the entire CPU, removed all the components, and managed to reassemble it before I got punished. I wanted to understand how it worked and what all those parts inside were. Back then, I dreamed of growing up to become a hacker, like Angelina Jolie in the movie “Hackers.”

My progenitor, at one point, bought an Xbox, claiming it was a gift for me, but with the condition that I could only play it at his house. Sometimes, we also played Wii together, and those moments were rare and strangely human between us.

I completed the Web Design and Software Development classes in record time. It was a course where I went to the establishment, sat in front of a computer, and the instructor would release the modules. There was a limit to how many modules could be completed per class, but my instructor was very understanding. I ended up becoming friends with him, and he knew how much I loved it, so he was flexible with me.

Around the age of 20, I attempted suicide. Looking back now, I see it was an attempt to escape, not because I truly wanted to die. I woke up in the hospital with my progenitor beside me, arguing with my mother. The first words I heard upon regaining consciousness were from him, in a furious and disdainful tone: “If she dies, we’ll bury her.”

For a while, I lived with him, and here things get a bit more confused in my head. If I’m not mistaken, this happened when I was 21, and it was the breaking point that led me to flee from all of it. I arranged to meet a friend in the neighboring city during a holiday since I always spent weekends at his place. Everything was set, but on the day in question came the surprise: I would have to take care of his girlfriend’s child because they had a party to attend. I got upset and argued with him, explaining that I had already made other plans and he had agreed. He started using emotional blackmail, but I insisted on meeting my friends and returning before the party to stay with the child at home.

I went, had fun, and said goodbye to my friends, explaining that I needed to return earlier. I tried to catch the last bus, which took more than an hour to arrive. I tried calling my progenitor several times to inform him that I was late, but he didn’t answer.

I finally managed to catch the bus and arrived at the bus terminal, only to find out that the last bus had already left. I panicked, not knowing how to get home. I kept calling my progenitor without success. I managed to speak to one of the bus drivers who was heading to the garage with the lights off, and he offered to give me a ride. Fortunately, no one else asked for a ride on the way, so he deviated a bit to drop me off safely at home that night. I didn’t have money for a taxi.

Before entering the building’s elevator, my progenitor finally called, and I answered, trying to explain what had happened, but he was already yelling. I reached the door of the apartment, still trying to explain, while his girlfriend and her child were on the sofa watching a 3D movie. I went to my room, still trying to explain, arguing that I had canceled my plans to “take care” of someone who wasn’t my responsibility. He followed me, pushed me into the office, and began to beat me. I screamed, but no one came to help. He climbed on top of me on the chair and continued hitting me. I screamed, but nothing changed.

He finally got off me, and I ran to my room, trying to close the door. He kicked the door and threw me onto the bed, mounting me to prevent me from leaving. He grabbed my neck and raised his fist to punch me. I was out of breath, my face probably red. I couldn’t breathe, think, scream, or do anything; I could only look into his eyes and feel that this was the end. Then he let me go, got up, and said, “Is this what you want so you can do something against me?” and left the room.

I was irresponsible, no one could count on me.

After that traumatic episode, I managed to close the bedroom door and tried calling my mother, but couldn’t reach her. I called her boyfriend at the time, who promptly came to pick me up with her by car, in a sort of escape. We stopped by the beach so I could catch my breath, and her boyfriend suggested we go to the police station. My mother was crying, afraid of him, but her boyfriend convinced her, and we ended up at the Women’s Police Station. When we got there, I went in alone and reported what had happened. The person who attended to me filed a police report but asked if I really wanted to proceed, mentioning that it could ruin my “progenitor’s career”. My memory of this part is vague, but I remember going to the Institute of Forensic Medicine for a physical examination.

On another day, my mother finally had a moment of clarity for the second time and tried to protect me. She called the place where my progenitor worked, desperately yelling, and his superior was notified that if something similar happened again, he would lose his rank.

A few days later, I decided to run away from home, and he ended up giving me 500 reais, apparently to get rid of the problem. With those 500 reais, I spent almost 100 on a ticket to another state, far away. I went to live with two guys I had met through an online friend. It could have gone all wrong, but they were angels in my life. From that point on, I was fortunate to meet many people who took me in and gave me the strength to move forward.

Currently, I live in another country, far from all that, although I still carry the emotional scars. Unfortunately, at 34 years old, I still have to deal with the consequences of the past, things that shouldn’t be brought to me after everything.

I understood that it was never my fault. I wasn’t just “the rebellious daughter.” I had a thirst for knowledge and a desire to be someone. I always had to worry more about others’ feelings than my own. At some point, I stopped caring about myself, but I was never irresponsible. Most of the time, I couldn’t count on anyone, but now I have support. Perhaps he will never be held accountable for his actions, but my conscience is clear knowing that I did my best to survive and I made it.

It took many years of therapy, medication, and a long process to recognize and name the things that happened. It took a long time for me to see myself and realize that I exist.