I, Yevette, use god language and theological questions to reflect on my lived experience as a child victim of sexual and domestic abuse who grew up in the church - unseen and unprotected by an omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent god. I deliberately use masculine pronouns, he/him, in my writings so that I can stay in the tension of interrogating this male-god, the cultural impact of Christian doctrine, and the interpretive power the religious community has had on me as a survivor of childhood abuse and adult sexual exploitation.

Please take the time to read my earlier installations with the prefix Wait Quietly, and my memoir, for context.

The tragic legacy of unaddressed childhood sexual and domestic violence is its insidious nature; it attempts to destroy the victim and then the victim becomes an unhealed conduit. I went from a child victim sexual and domestic violence to an adult victim of sexual exploitation who gave birth to three children, the last being the son of my pimp. I have felt and watched the tragic nature of my childhood destroy me time and time again, and I have watched it harm my children. When I gave birth to them, they passed through the veil of my sufferings. For all the efforts I have made to heal and to change my narrative, our narrative, from tragic to triumphant, what I endured as a child still lives in all my bodies, and now it lives in my children. The tragedy of childhood abuse and neglect cannot be measured; the legacy is not an outcome or series of outcomes which can be calculated. The tragic legacy of unresolved childhood sexual and domestic violence is that it harms, hinders, and ultimately haunts those who will not or cannot address what they’ve endured.

I was going to change the title to The Tragic Legacy of Unresolved Childhood Sexual and Domestic Violence, but then I thought of how trauma is never resolved; perhaps we evolve around it and find some answers, but there is no resolution for what I endured as a little girl. As I matured, I came to understand that there is wisdom in accepting that life is an odd and glorious journey of bliss and unexplainable moments of agony. Sometimes there are no answers. There are no answers when we live in a world of shadows, however, I knew that I still needed to heal; to bind up what had been broken in me. I owed it to myself, and I no longer was waiting on my perpetrators, parents, community or god to do that work or to explain my suffering.  My children were little when I began the process of exposing childhood secrets and excavating.

Trauma does not ask for permission to interrupt, disrupt or inform…

It’s 8:19 pm on March 31, 2026, a random Tuesday. I’m nestled on my couch, eating hotdogs and baked beans and out of nowhere my oldest child sent me this question via text: “When you get the chance, tell me what you think you did right as a mother. There’s no right or wrong answer as a mother. There’s no right or wrong. Just answer as if someone else asked. Take your time.”

Immediately.
IMMEDIATELY.
Immediately my chest physically tightened, my heart grew heavy, as if a hundred hostile, unfamiliar hands had subdued it, and my eyes filled with tears – hard tears, bitter tears.

My son’s question caused my physical body to literally tremble as his pain, my pain, and unanswered questions rose to mock me, to mock us both.

Honestly, I failed as a mother. I had done nothing right.

I began to fall.
Plummeting into old, but related pockets of inter- and intra familial trauma.
Let me fall. If my family will heal. Let me fall...
Through my tears, I can barely write, but I must.
I must.

My body shook with an ancient grief before it was rocked with a palpable guilt.
The collar of my nightgown was soaked.
Soaked.
Soaked, like me old, soiled gowns.
Soaked.
I love and loathe these moments.
I love and loathe tears.

I knew my children would circle back around with questions, I did, and these tears are hard and the memories are tragic. I know my tears lead to release, healing and cosmic reconciliation for all those impacted.

My child’s innocent, honest approach and gracious questions have honored me and unmoored me. There is so much grace in his inquiry. A grace I don’t deserve and neither does god. I abused my children, an extension of the violence and neglect I endured. I became a personification of the abuse, neglect, violence and grief I endured.

In the gentle interrogation of my story, my truth and his pain that I resent not healing before my womb expanded around the gift of his presence.

I hate that I harmed him; that I harmed them.

As a child victim of sexual and domestic violence I went on to perpetuate the same harm and neglect I endured. I was unable to protect them from the residual impact of my trauma, and I openly acknowledge the roots of my child’s questioning.
I harmed and disregarded the well-being of my children.
I know this.
I accept this. I accepted this long ago.

Being culpable or accountable for how I was harming my children deny didn’t my tragic upbringing and it didn’t absolve those who had violated me sexually, psychologically, spiritually, and domestically. I could acknowledge and reference my childhood trauma for why my life was broken, but that didn’t give me permission or a docket of legitimate excuses for failing or harming my children.  In my memoir in chapter 31: A Peculiar Place, there is a moment when I am completely honest with my oldest child about the nature of my addiction as he was being forced, by me, to endure neglect. At the time he was 8. Many people have chastised me for my approach, but I know firsthand what it is to endure abuse in a world of secrecy and complicity; it only serves to cause infection where there is already a wound.

…For any other parent, these times might have felt normal. Kids get angry, they fight, they steal sippy cups, they act out. But for me, whatever went wrong or felt extreme was directly related to my failures as a person and a parent. One evening after school, Richard was agitated and distant.

“Richard, come here.” He sat on my lap. “What’s going on with you today kid? Why are you mad?”

With his head cast down, he whispered, “Nothin’.”

“Well, it can’t be nothin’ son, ‘cause you don’t act like this. You’re being mean to Joshua, and he hasn’t done nothin’ to you. So, what’s up? What’s going on?”

He looked at me in the eyes.

“One of the kids in my class said you was a crackhead, and I told him you wasn’t, but he wouldn’t stop saying it.” 

I asked him, “How’d that make you feel, son?”

“I was mad. I told him to shut up, and he wouldn’t. I wanted to hit him and so I asked Mrs. Patterson if I could go to the bathroom.” 

I began to see tears rolling down his face, and I knew he had gone into the bathroom to cry. A knot formed in my throat, and I hugged him as tightly as I could, then stood him up and locked eyes.

“Son, I’ve been a crackhead, and you know I’ve struggled with drugs my whole life. What that kid said is true, and I’m sorry that he tried to use that to hurt you, but if we accept the reality of my struggle and aren’t ashamed of it, we take away his power. He can’t hurt you with what you already know, can he?”

I knew the concept was too deep for him to fully understand, but I had to encourage him, even at that age, to always work through his pain with truth, not secrets, not lies. He had to remain open to his experiences with me so that he could always access and engage a memory when he needed to. I had been an addict and a criminal for a long time, and my children needed to be prepared for how it would impact their lives as they grew. Everyone around them, at some point, would discuss me and they needed to begin developing their own understanding of who I was. If they didn’t, the shame of my addiction would become their own and the hate of others would taint their love for me.

“So, I know that was embarrassing, and I know it made you mad. You know I’m sorry for how my addiction has hurt you, but this kid has no power over you. You understand that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” I began tickling him, “Cause you love me, and you’re not ashamed of my struggle. Drug addiction is hard. You see me trying to change my life, take care of y’all, and go to school. I should be like a superhero or something, shouldn’t I?”

He laughed, “Noooo, ’cause you ain’t got no superpowers!”

“Yes, I do!” I hugged him, “Richard, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mama.”

“Good, now go tell Joshua you’re sorry for being mean to him.”

“Okay!” And he ran off. 

Because of how I had grown up with secrecy, excuses, divine and communal complicity, I decided I would be honest with my children. No matter what station, class or ethnicity we are born into, no one is impervious to harm. None of us are protected from trauma; to be born is traumatic. Life is traumatic. To live means that we will incur injuries, we will suffer and it is foolish to use mythology and theology to minimize that reality. Trauma doesn’t ask for consent to injure, inform, disrupt, destroy or interrupt.

My tears are bitter, but they are tears of grief and gratitude; precious, powerful and necessary for us both. There can be no healing without acknowledgment. In my imagination, I see my child standing at a window. I failed him in the same manner I had failed, but I have changed the narrative. My son can come to me and he never has to serve a god who cannot reconcile the beauty and suffering of his existence. I have taught my children to use their voices to speak painful truths. How else will we heal collectively?

I don’t resent my child’s random inquiry.

Honestly, though my nose is snotty, my eyes are swollen and my heart is heavy, I’m grateful. I am honored to be here and to be present to answer any questions that will heal my family.

Here are my responses:

"1.  Honesty. I was openly broken – honest. Everyone else wanted me to tell lies and hold familial secrets. I spoke hard truths to my kids. My mom protected her husband and her son, the predators. I told hard truths so if I DIED in my trauma/addiction my children wouldn’t hold my story in the parameters of myth, secrecy or lies, but truth from my lens.

People judge me for this, but in my book I say, I’d rather my children my struggle with truth than a pretty, religious lie shrouded in secrecy. My children know my brother, stepfather and uncle were my abusers and they should know – the fuck.

2.  Effort. I tried and to some degree I have succeeded. I was being raped, molested and touched at 6, 7, 8, and 9 and by 9 I was ingesting narcotics. I have overcome a narrative that serial killers have claimed as the reasons for their violence, but I, as a disenfranchised black woman have created a life narrative. Only killing myself and those who love me…

3.  Unconditional love. I told my children to be free and to question everything. Secretly, I released them from the myths of expectation and perfection that had me bound.

TBH, I didn't do shit right."

My son: "You answered that beautifully. Thank you for taking the time to answer the way you did."

My eyes are swollen.
My heart is heavy and somehow free.
I have no expectation that my process of healing will make things perfect for the future of my children; they may always have questions, but I will be here to answer honestly. Maybe the tragic childhood will end with my children.