Right now, I’m betting my life on a vision.

I grew up with a mother who often made statements like, “I should have aborted you when I had the chance,” “You'll never amount to anything in life,” “You're worthless,” “Why don’t you jump in the lake and drown yourself,” “Don’t ever wear red lipstick, because your lips are too fat,” and “You're so stupid.”

My mother’s sole mission in life was to crush my spirit. And, it worked. 

Her harsh words skewed my self-image and self-worth as a child and an adult, and these days, I have to practice self-love on the daily to conquer the self-doubt that inevitably creeps up.

And for ten years, I experienced what I can only describe as torture.

From childhood to early adulthood, my body suffered a series of attacks that haunt me to this day.

I remember my mother grabbing and biting my right arm, as I accidentally tripped over a cord and bumped into her, messing up her freshly painted nails; I remember my mother repeatedly banging my head into the living room wall, because I missed the bus; I remember my mother whipping me with a belt for what seemed like an hour (because my newly coiffed French braid had unraveled), which led to the metal buckle of said belt hitting my eye, forcing me to tell my grade school teachers that my black eye was a direct consequence of playing basketball with my brothers; I remember my mother choking me as I sat on a toilet seat, because I purposely decided not to wish her a “Happy Birthday,” as my anger over the daily torture sessions began to accumulate; and I remember my mother bruising my body — to the point where I was always short of breath from excessive crying (the pain inflicted on my flesh was that bad) — while fully clothed or in my underwear (she would command me to remove all clothing for weigh-ins that led to whippings), for offenses such as getting a "bad" report card or gaining weight.

My mother was charismatic in the public eye and monstrous at home. 

No one ever suspected the brutality she executed in her household. And, I never reported her because throughout the years, she would threaten me with statements such as, “If you ever call the police, I will tell them your father is sexually abusing you, and they will put him in jail and violate you during an examination.” 

My father, who practiced conditional love with me (as is the case with many immigrants), left our home when I was 13 years old, and I barely saw him until I turned 18. Even though we didn’t have much of a relationship, I loved my father enough that I didn’t want him arrested for something he had never done to me. So, I remained silent about how my mother treated me.

I eventually escaped my mother’s home in June 1998 — two weeks after my high school graduation — and moved in with my father for a few months, before I moved to New York City.

A cousin who had accidentally witnessed my mother’s wrath towards me in my younger years once told me that I was an “emotional orphan,” and added, “I would have committed suicide if I went through what you did.”

To outsiders, I was born into a perfect family.

And, I eventually reasoned that the torture that was consistently delivered to my mind and body was well-deserved, courtesy of the privileged family I was born into.

As a child and an adult, my temperament was drenched in anxiety, bitterness, depression, terror, powerlessness, hurt and hopelessness.