I’m Still Learning How to Heal from a Childhood I Didn’t Deserve

My mother told me that when I was born, my father disowned me. He said I was too ugly to be his daughter. He refused to hold me or carry me in his arms. It wounded her deeply, and she became hard on me. Though she wasn’t well educated, she made sure I learned to read and write. But she punished me harshly for the smallest mistakes.

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So I grew up timid. Always hiding. Always afraid to do anything wrong and face more punishment. When I was five years old, I had fallen asleep on the couch and needed to be carried to bed. To avoid wetting the bed, I was usually sent to the bathroom first. One day, my brother’s friend, who lived with us, offered to take me. I woke up to a sharp pain. I remember he was trying to force himself into me. It was difficult for him, but he was set on it. I pretended to be asleep so he wouldn’t hurt me more. I remember I was too afraid to tell my parents. I feared they might punish me instead. So I kept silent and endured the abuse until he eventually left our home.

At school, I avoided male teachers. Once, a male teacher picked me up and placed me on his lap. I remembered the event with that boy and screamed. I ran away. I thought he wanted to hurt me. I had my first menstrual period at nine and cried because I thought someone had touched me again. I couldn’t remember clearly. At home, I hid my blood-stained clothes under the bed. I couldn’t bear the sight of blood.

I believe what happened to me affected my ability to make friends. I kept to myself. Yet I was an outstanding student. My teachers noticed and often gave me extra attention and praise. I had a calm outward demeanor, but I often found myself fighting with boys in class, especially when they showed interest in me. I suppose I was calm, but carried a passive-aggressive edge beneath the surface.

My mother’s anger was relentless. She beat me frequently and called me cruel names. She even told me she regretted giving birth to me. When I was twelve, I ran away from home. I had had enough. But my uncle found me and brought me back.

At thirteen, we moved into a new house. My parents began traveling frequently, leaving me in the care of a family friend. He also started abusing me sexually and warned me to keep silent or face deadly consequences. He even threatened to impregnate me before I entered high school. So I confided in one of my pastors and begged him not to tell my parents. But he believed it was necessary and informed them. The man was arrested. Instead of comfort, I was punished harshly and labeled a bad girl. The days that followed were unbearable. I was accused of sleeping with every man who visited the house. The pain of the false accusations fueled a bitter hatred within me. I hated men with every little thing in me.

One day, my father called and said he had noticed my academic performance was slipping because I was following boys. That wasn’t true. It was a lie. I was trying hard. I was the best student in my class. His words broke me deeply. I decided to end my life.

But the next day at school, our principal called me to her office. She told me she was proud of my efforts and that if I kept going, I would make the school proud. So during school hours, I asked a friend how she’d feel if she heard I was dead. She said she would cry her eyes out and never want to make friends again. She even spoke to one of my teachers about what I said. I thought someone wanted me here alive.

After finishing my BECE, while waiting for the results, I was enrolled in Pre-SSS classes. One day, my uncle brought fake results, claiming they were mine. It was like they were bent on making me miserable. The scores were worse than even the lowest in my school. While I was trying to explain, I received a resounding slap. I lost consciousness for a few seconds. When I came to, they continued beating and insulting me with every ounce of energy they had. My mother told me she sent me to school to learn, but instead, I was learning how to have sex with boys.

That day, when I left for class, I swore to heaven and earth that I was not returning home ever again.

Luckily, my little brother came home from school with news. I had scored eight ones. My mother came to tell me in class. But she never apologized for her cruel words or the beatings. I returned home that day because of my brother. He was so proud of me.

I gained admission to one of Ghana’s best schools and was happy to leave home. But by then, severe anxiety and clinical depression had developed. My housemistress, a counselor, tried to help. But I trusted no one. I was withdrawn and unstable. I was often in and out of the hospital, but I managed to survive secondary school.

Because of everything, I wanted to attend an all-girls university, though it wasn’t possible in Ghana. In my first semester, I joined a church on campus. It was my one place of happiness. But during a scheduled visitation one evening, a pastor tried to assault me. Even men from the church. The terror caused me to pass out. That was the last day I attended church.

I am currently neither married nor dating. I struggle to build meaningful relationships and fear intimacy. The thought of sex scares me. Being alone in a room with any man makes me panic and sweat. My father has passed on, and my mother avoids discussing marriage with me, even though all my siblings are married.

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I have battled suicidal thoughts many times and continue to struggle with them. I want to get married someday, but I doubt I could be a good wife or mother. I long to heal fully, but I don’t know when or how. I have sought therapy many times, but it hasn’t been very effective. Six years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but I haven’t been consistent with treatment or medication.

I don’t look unstable. People see someone who is kind and say I have a sweet spirit. I try to be patient and understanding with others because I know what silent battles feel like. But when it comes to me, I forget to be gentle. I forget to give myself the same grace.

—Doreen

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