The Eighth Birthday
I sat outside on my patio this morning, flipping through my daughters photos, my fingers tracing the edges of each picture. There was my JoeJoe, my grandson, beaming at his eight birthday party his cheeks puffed out as he blew the candles on his cake. Yesterday, he turn eight. I paused, staring at the picture, my chest tightening as a familiar, old ache began to stir deep inside. I would miss this birthday due to work conflicts, but was able to see the beautiful pictures of his party.
Eight.
It was such an innocent age, a time of laughter and carefree moments. Yet for me, it had always carried the weight of something darker. I shifted in my seat, I allowed myself to travel back in time, the memories flooding back as I stared at the photographs. First, there were the images of my children, and grandchildren one after the other, celebrating their eighth birthdays, grinning with joy, surrounded by friends and family. And I remembered, with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, how different their childhoods had been from mine.
I place the phone in my lap felt heavy now, not just from the weight of the memories it held, but from the contrast between the life I had fought to give my children and the one I’d known myself.
I was grateful. Grateful that I had been able to change the narrative, that none of my children, or now my grandchildren, would ever spend their eighth birthday in a hospital bed like I did.
But as I turned flip through the phone and looked at more pictures. laughing faces, birthday cakes, wrapped presents. I couldn't help but think back to that day. My own eighth birthday. The one I spent in a hospital, alone, scared, my small body bruised and broken.
The one I would never forget.
It had been a bright day, much like the day in the photograph. I was just seven, so close to turning eight, and I wanted nothing more than to go outside and play. My mother was in her room, drugged out, lost in her own world. When she was like that, you couldn’t bother her. Not that you’d want to.
So I asked my stepdad, Dick, for permission instead. He barely looked at me when he said, "Clean your room first." His voice was cold, distant, like it always was.
I remember rushing to tidy up, eager to get outside, to escape. My room wasn’t perfect, but it was clean enough for a kid. And, like any kid, once I got outside. Back then the streetlights told you when to go home. I was so happy to be free, even for a little while.
But when I finally made my way home, they were both waiting for me—my mother and Dick.
My mom’s voice rang out first, loud and angry, talking about my room. My room? I followed them, confused, as they led me back to it. The second I saw it, I froze. It was completely destroyed. The bed flipped over, drawers pulled out, clothes scattered everywhere. Not the way I had left it. I tried to explain, but Dick didn’t care. He never cared. My mom just yelled "Shut Up"
"Lay down," he said.
Those two words always came with the promise of pain. I knew what was coming. This time, though, the blows didn’t stop at my legs or back. The belt snapped against my face, harder and harder, until the pain became unbearable.
I tried not to cry—tears only ever made it worse. But this time, something inside me snapped. I fought back. I kicked and clawed, trying to shield myself from the blows. But it only made him angrier. The more I fought, the longer the beating went on.
I remember looking at my mother, hoping—praying—that she would step in. She didn’t. She just stood there, watching. Silent.
The arm that had been broken twice already felt weak, throbbing as the blows kept coming. And then, with one final kick, I flew across the room, landing in my bed.
When it was finally over, they left me there, bruised and bleeding, telling me to clean up the mess—my mess. I was given a bucket and a brush and told to scrub the blood from the carpet.
I tried, but I knew something was wrong with my arm. It felt just like it had when it was broken before. My body ached, my breath came in sharp gasps, and when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My face was swollen, my eyes blackened. I was just seven years old, and I knew I couldn’t stay in that house another minute.
So, I climbed out of my bedroom window and ran. I was scared, so scared. but I knew I had to get away. I made my way to my grandmother’s house. By some miracle, a neighbor spotted me along the way. He pulled over, took one look at me, and without a word, helped me into his car. Angels appear at the strangest times.
When I arrived at my grandmother’s, I thought I had finally found safety. But instead of comfort, I overheard her on the phone with my mother, furious, not for what had happened to me, but because she didn’t know what to do with me. "She can't stay here," my grandmother said, and my heart sank.
I’ll never forget my brother, who lived with my grandparents. He saw me, saw the blood, the bruises, and he begged, with all the innocence and love only a child can have. He dropped to his knees, sobbing, pleading with my grandmother to let me stay. "She can have one of my rooms," he cried, but no one was listening. I remembered thinking you would give one of your two bedroom for me?
He tried to comfort me, gently touching my face, even though every touch sent waves of pain through my body. I still remember his tears falling onto my swollen skin, his voice breaking as he tried to make things better. My grandfather, normally quiet and detached, watched in silence. And then, something in him shifted.
When my mother showed up, furious and grabbed me by my hair and was ready to drag me back, my grandfather stepped in. Shoved her down, he grabbed her by her foot and pulled her away from me. Without a word, he dragged her out onto the porch and flung her into the front yard. "Tonya’s had enough," he said, his voice steady but firm. "She’s going to the hospital."
For once, my mother didn’t fight him. And so, my grandparents and brother took me to the hospital, while my brother cried, begging to come with us. But they wouldn’t let him out of the car. I can still see his face in the car that day.
At the hospital, the doctors admitted me immediately. I had a broken arm, again, cracked ribs, and bruises covering most of my small body. But once I was checked in, my grandmother left. She didn’t stay. She just left me there, alone, like I was some kind of problem that had to be dropped off and forgotten.
I ended up staying in the hospital for over two and a half months. Two and a half months in a sterile room, watching the world from a window, trying to heal. My body slowly recovered, but my mind stayed bruised, the fear still pulsing underneath my skin.
On my eighth birthday, I remember staring out of the window, wondering if anyone would come. Would anyone remember? Would anyone care?
That evening, my father showed up. I hadn’t seen him in what felt like ages, but there he was. He walked into the room, kissed my forehead gently, and stared at me for a brief moment, I thought everything might be okay. But he didn’t stay. He couldn’t. I heard him in the hallway, yelling at the doctors, his voice rising with anger I didn’t fully understand. Then the door slammed, and he was gone.
I waited for him to come back. I waited and waited, but he never did. no one else came to see me that day.
So, I spent my eighth birthday alone in that hospital room, wondering why none of it seemed to matter to anyone.
I closed my phone and looked up, my eyes focusing on the world outside. My grandkids are free from all that harm and darkness. Seeing JoeJoe in my minds eye running freely with his friends, laughing, his whole life ahead of him. The pain of those memories was still there, always just beneath the surface, but it no longer had control over me and have not made an impact on my family. I have done something right! I wasn't such a screw up after all!
For so many years, I buried the hurt. I drowned it in alcohol, tried to silence it with anything I could. But when my own children turned eight, I realized I had to face those demons. The first time my daughter turned eight, it triggered something in me, a reminder of my own birthday, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I threw her the perfect party, made sure she had everything she could want, but inside, I was fighting the memories. Fighting the past and the demons that were attached to the memories.
But I didn’t want her or any of my children and grandchildren to ever know the weight I carried. I made sure that none of them, or now JoeJoe, would ever have to spend their eighth birthday in fear, or in a hospital bed. I had broken the cycle.
That’s why I share my story. Not because my children listen, they don’t, nor do they want to, and I guess they really don't need to. They’re living the lives I fought for so that is good enough. But because there are others who are still trapped, still scared, still suffering. And they need to know there’s a way out.
Healing is never easy. It’s a journey that takes time, pain, and courage. It took me years to confront what I had buried, years to understand that those traumatic events didn’t define me. I know there are people out there who feel like they can’t break free, who feel like they’ll never heal. But I’m living proof that it’s possible.
That’s why I do what I do. This is what really pushes me to have all the programs and stuff that I do. It is not just to sell something. Yes I have lots of things you can purchase if you want to, but I try to offer myself raw and real. This is why I show up daily, and try to do my part to motivate people at no cost to no one. Also my social medial stuff is planned and schedule to help not to just sell like so many other. I share my story because someone needs to hear it. I help others because I know what it’s like to feel powerless, to feel small, to believe that there’s no escape from the pain. And I know what it feels like to finally come out on the other side.
If I can survive, if I can heal from all of that, so can they. I know there are plently of people that have gone through way worse than me, and I honor them, and know that they to can heal, I have seen it with my own eyes with many people that I have help. The best feeling in the world is seeing the light come back on in someone's eyes that has been dark for so long. And maybe by sharing my story, by helping others work through their own pain, I can be the voice for someone who still feels voiceless, just like that walking angel of a neighbor was for me all those years ago.
I may not have all the answers. I’m not perfect, and I made plenty of mistakes along the way. But I stopped the cycle. I gave my children a life free from the fear I had known. And for that, I am grateful beyond measure. And in doing so, I found a purpose I never expected: to help others break free, just like I did. To help them heal.
The narrative had changed, not just for my children or my grandchildren, but for anyone willing to take the brave steps toward healing. And that's what I hold onto every day and why I make myself available and show up everyday here on social media. As always be Blessed Beautiful Souls!
The Unique TonyaLe
©2024TonyaLe
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