Child Abuse & Domestic Violence: Here’s My Story
By: Alexis Heu Vue
Tags: Domestic Violence, Domestic Abuse, Trauma, Child Abuse, Pain

I woke up with heavy eyes this morning. I had another nightmare about the green-colored house I was abused in. Thank God it wasn’t real.

In my dream, I was paralyzed from the waist down. I’m laying on the old wooden floor in the entryway into the house. I stare through the porch windows and could see the dark gray clouds rolling in. The sky is getting darker. The thunder, louder. Yet, inside the house, it was eerily quiet.

Maybe this was how I felt when I got abused. Stuck. Scared. Waiting for the dark days to pass. And living a life that was eerily quiet because I never talked about what was happening at home.

A few minutes pass by and I’m able to feel my legs again. I eventually find the strength to get back up to walk around the house. As I walked through the dimly lit rooms, I could only feel the negative energy and trauma that was left there. I start to remember what happened in each room. I get anxious. I could hear myself breathing heavily. I was alone and terrified. I scream. I’m crying. Then, I wake up.

Maybe I went back to recollect the missing and broken pieces of my soul that I left there. I often felt helpless and afraid back then. I would scream, cry, and then find myself waking up the next morning. Living felt like a chore.

I don’t enjoy talking about my childhood abuse and my experience with domestic violence. In fact, I never talk about it with anyone other than my siblings; who also share the same pain and trauma with me. I never intended to share what I went through with anyone else, but I think now is an appropriate time to tell the story and how it’s still affecting me today.

Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

Growing up, I always knew my family wasn’t “normal.” My younger self saw normal as having one dad and one mom. Normal would be playing, eating, sleeping, and living with mom, dad, and my siblings under one roof. Normal also meant my mom and dad would be there to support me and my siblings at school events, celebrate birthdays and achievements together, and going on fun family vacations in the summer. This would have been my idea of “normal” back then and what I wanted most as a child.

Here’s a photo of me when I was in pre-school. Credit to my cousin for finding and sharing this photo with me.

I was just three years old when my parents divorced. Their divorce happened a month before my fourth birthday. Considering I was so young, I didn’t know what was going on and what it meant for me or my siblings. One thing for sure was that we didn’t get to choose which parent we wanted to live with. If we could go back, I know we would have loved to grow up together. Even with our parents' divorce.

I don’t remember much from that time, only that some of us were left in my grandma’s care — someone who I’ll forever be grateful to have had in my life.

Starting from where I do remember clearly, my second oldest sister and I were on our way to the airport with our grandma. She told us we would be traveling to see our mom and little sister in Minnesota. I was so happy, I don’t remember questioning why our older brother and sister wouldn’t be coming along.

A few hours pass by, and we’re now boarding the Sun Country plane in Sacramento. My sister and I were excited but were also nervous. It was our first time flying. I remember us holding onto my grandma’s rough hands — from gardening and working so much — for comfort because of how loud and shaky it was when the flight took off. The worst part, however, was waking up from my nap during the flight and experiencing pain and pressure in both my ears.

Finally, we landed at the Minneapolis/Saint Paul (MSP) Airport. I knew the time we’d reunite with my mom and younger sister was getting closer. My little five-year-old heart was racing so fast because I hadn’t seen my mom in months.

As we exited the plane, I looked outside the big glass airport windows and saw how bright the sun was shining. It was confirmation that the day was going to be filled with love and light.

While making our way down the escalator to pick up our luggage from the carousel, my mom had been waiting for us at the bottom. I could see how happy she was to see us all. And next to her stood this guy I had never seen in my life before. I would grow up calling him, “Papa,” per his request.

After being picked up from the airport, we drove to our new home — an off-white colored duplex near 7th Street in Saint Paul. When we arrived, my mom had already made a room for me and my sisters, and we loved it. The house felt like home, just like my grandma’s house in California. Though, having my mom and grandma together in our presence, under one roof, made a house feel like home, again.

A couple of weeks pass by, my older sister and I stayed in Minnesota while my grandma left back to California. I was sad because my grandma was a mother-figure to me when my mom was still settling in with her new life in Minnesota. And while I love my mom, a part of me wished I could have returned with my grandma.

Then, months pass by and it was time for us to start school. I’d be attending kindergarten. In the early mornings before school, we would be dropped off at daycare while our parents went to work. Then, at 7 a.m., my two sisters and I would walk to school. This was our routine until I started fourth grade at a new school.

Life in Minnesota was not the same. We didn’t have many family members around. I would often call for my grandma whenever I was sad, but she’d be nowhere to be found. We also didn’t have big birthday celebrations that my sisters and I wanted to so badly to spend with our cousins and family in California. Essentially, this made us closer because we knew we only had each other. To play with. To talk with. To share with. And to grow with.

My sister’s and I also got used to calling our new dad, “Papa.” Yet, we missed our biological dad every day and wished we could see and talk to him. And just like my mom, our dad also got remarried and started a new life. I was happy. I was heartbroken.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

A couple of years pass and my ex step-dad begins to show signs of abusive behavior. He was an alcoholic and was often angry. He’d find every reason to drink and invite his friends over to gather and party. They were also alcoholics and toxic.

He eventually started to physically abuse my mom because he always had to be right. He would hit her, but only in their room so that we wouldn’t see it. Yet, my sisters and I always heard it because my mom would scream and cry for help. We’d feel hopeless every time because we didn’t have the strength to bust into a locked room to help her. As much as we wanted to help, all we could do was stand outside of their bedroom and painfully listen to what was happening.

This guy, who we called and saw as a “dad,” was a monster.

We were expected to be “good” daughters. Being a good daughter meant many things. We needed to obey him and make sure all of our chores were done before we could even start our homework. If we didn’t listen to him, we were bad daughters and would suffer the consequences later. We were afraid of him. So, as he wanted, we always listened. He was in control of all our lives.

The abuse got so bad. It was scarier than standing outside their bedroom door. Seeing our mom getting physically beat up in front of us became a norm after school. And during all those times, my mom would cry and tell us to go into our rooms. Even though we didn’t want to, we did. Although, not for long.

My sisters and I had enough. We didn’t care how little and weak we were. We were determined to fight back and make sure he wouldn’t be able to touch or hurt our mom again.

I don’t remember many of these painful days as I’ve suppressed many of the memories from this time in my life. I do, however, remember the one below clear as day.

It was 5 p.m. and my mom was still not home. My ex step-dad was getting angry because she wasn’t picking up her cell phone. My siblings and I were also wondering where she was but thought maybe she was stuck in traffic since it was snowing. He was getting more frustrated as each hour passed. He even lied and told us that our mom was out late cheating with another man and that she wasn’t a good mom. The truth was, she went to the store after work to relieve some stress. That was all. (And he was the one actually cheating.)

When she returned home that day — barely getting inside the house — he goes over and drags her by her hair and pushes her onto the old wooden floor. (The same spot I was laying in my dreams.) My sisters and I are sitting on the brown couch just watching all of this happen. We’re crying, helplessly. Then, we all decided that we’d jump in and try to protect our mom. It was our chance to help her. It was my chance to help her.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps on hitting her. He tells us to move over otherwise we’ll get beat, too. Of course, we refuse. We continue to cry together. We yell back and ask him to stop.

He proceeds to bring out his infamous black belt and starts whipping all of us. We’re crying because we didn’t know what else to do. Who would come to save us? We didn’t have family around. There was no hope. Not even a little. And we didn’t call the police because my mom told us not to. No one was there to comfort or save us.

Again, I would go to sleep with belt marks and small open wounds all over my body.

Many of my childhood nights were spent crying to sleep and hoping that the next day would be better. It wouldn’t get better until the end of seventh grade when my mom found the courage to leave. We were finally walking towards the light and making our way out of the dimly lit tunnel.

Photo by Yohei Shimomae on Unsplash

I’m so thankful we all made it out alive because who knows where we’d be if she hadn’t built the courage to leave. She didn’t care if she went against Hmong tradition or loss face. “Ua siab ntev” was killing her slowly. (“Ua siab ntev,” in Hmong, means to be patient and forgiving. In this situation, a Hmong woman should put her pride away and hope that her marriage will get better with time.)

I know a lot of people, including family, who have talked down about my mom. Sure, she has been divorced twice and remarried three times, but if only they knew she was physically and verbally abused by her first and second husband, maybe they’d understand why she chose to leave. And if they knew, they should have helped her. They should have helped us, too.

I used to be sad knowing that people would disrespect us and count our family out because we didn’t have a man in our household. To this day, if people — typically more traditional and older Hmong individuals— find out that my mom is a divorcee, they don’t respect me as much because I didn’t have a father in my life. It’s sad they judge us, and they don’t even know our story.

A woman and her children’s worth is not determined if she has a husband or if they have an active father in their life. (I’ll save the rest of this story for another time.) My hope is that people will learn to become more loving and less judgmental.

My mom is truly the strongest person I know. She doesn’t like to show or talk about her pain and trauma, but I always assure her that it’s okay to talk about it. She’s slowly learning to love herself more and tries to do more of what makes her happy. I’m proud of her growth and am glad to still have her in my life today.

I decided to share my experience about childhood abuse and domestic violence because I noticed it was starting to affect me as an adult.

I find myself flinching a lot when people touch me. I don’t like to be touched. Even by my husband. If people get too close, I get nervous. I don’t like it. I feel safer when they keep their distance. When people talk loudly to me, I sometimes ask them why they’re yelling at me. In reality, they’re not. I also hate staying in small rooms because it reminds me of those days. Small rooms make me feel trapped and suffocated. And I find it hard to believe that I’m beautiful somedays because, for years, my ex-step dad would call me “miss piggy” (in Hmong).

I have nightmares, sometimes back to back, about being in that house and being abused again — like the one I shared at the beginning of this story.

I am a crisis counselor and have had emotional breakdowns every time I had a live conversation with someone going through child abuse or domestic violence. I would ask myself, “Will they be safe? Will they make it out alive?” Thank goodness for having supportive supervisors and colleagues who helped me through each conversation to ensure the individuals were safe or received the help they needed. Nonetheless, they provided support and love by allowing me to debrief and get my feelings out.

I’ve not been active in my crisis counselor role for a while because I realized I needed to help myself before I can help others. It can be traumatizing to try and help others when past experiences are still haunting me. I’m also going through depression and anxiety, so until my mental health betters, it’ll be a while before I return to my role. I’m taking it day by day.

I didn’t realize how difficult and painful it would be to share my story. I wrote parts of this with tears rolling down and had to take breaks because the memories are still agonizing. I also discovered that I suppressed so much of what had happened to me until I started writing this piece. Memories that I forgot started flooding my mind.

I no longer want to keep them suppressed. I’m slowly learning to let go of those haunting memories. Let go of my anger. My pain. My sadness. My heartache. My fears.

I’m still finding healing, but writing and sharing this piece is the first step to overcoming this trauma and what I witnessed/experienced as a child.

If you or someone you know is experiencing child abuse or domestic violence, please don’t be afraid to seek help. And don’t be afraid to call 9–1–1. There are people waiting to help you or a loved one. I’ve also gathered a list of free resources and services below that you can reach out to for help. I’ll add to it as I find more resources.

Crisis Text Line

Text HOME to 741741

National Domestic Violence Hotline

Call 1–800–799-SAFE (7233)

Deaf or hard of hearing may use TTY 1–800–787–3224

National Child Abuse Hotline/Childhelp

1–800–4-A-CHILD (1–800–422–4453)

National Teen Dating Abuse Help

Call 1–866–331–9474

TTY 1–866–331–8453

Secure online chat at http://www.loveisrespect.org/get-help/contact-us/chat-with-us

Text “loveis” to 22522

National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN)

Call 1–800–656–4673 | Choose #1 to talk to a counselor

Secure online private chat at: https://ohl.rainn.org/online/

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1–800–273–8255 (TALK)