Innerlight Media

UNSPOKEN SCARS: A Story of Pain, Survival, and Redemption

For years, I carried a weight too heavy to voice, a burden that clung to my soul like an unshakable shadow. It started in 2015 when I was just a young girl, unaware that an act as simple as delivering food could lead me into the darkest chapter of my life.

My mother’s sister lived abroad, and as a gesture of care, my mother cooked for her husband every day. It became my routine to take the food to him. But one day, everything changed. That day, there was no one in the house. No voices, no footsteps—just silence. Before I could make sense of what was happening, he forced himself on me. I screamed, but the walls absorbed my cries. When he was done, he threatened me. "Tell anyone, and I'll kill you."

Fear held me hostage. And so, I stayed silent.

But silence didn’t protect me. The next time I delivered food, he did it again. The threats followed, louder than my own thoughts. I buried it inside me, hoping that if I ignored it, it would go away. But trauma doesn’t disappear—it festers.

My mother soon noticed something was wrong. My laughter had faded. My light had dimmed. One night, she confronted me, demanding answers. I hesitated, but I finally broke. We went to his house—my mother, my sister, and I. She confronted him, and when we walked out, I saw something in her eyes I never wanted to see: disappointment. Not in him, but in me. She didn’t know how to tell my aunt. She didn’t know how to carry this shame.

And then she told me: "When your father returns, I will tell him."

I was frozen with fear. I knew my father. His rage was unforgiving. If he found out, he wouldn’t see me as a victim—he would see me as a disgrace. He would beat me until my body bled, until my face was unrecognizable.

I couldn’t let that happen.

The next day at school, the weight of everything became unbearable. I told myself I had failed my mother. I had failed myself. There was only one way out.

I climbed onto the window ledge, ready to jump. Ready to escape. But my classmates pulled me back, asking what was wrong. I couldn’t answer. So, I tried another way. I broke open a sharpener, took out the blade, and pressed it against my skin. The pain felt like relief. Blood flowed, and then—darkness.

I woke up to my mother’s tear-streaked face. The school’s deputy principal had called her. When my mother explained everything, the principal advised her: "Do not tell your husband. This is something that must be handled carefully."

Instead, my mother confided in my aunt. But how do you tell a woman that her husband is a monster? That he stole something from a child that can never be returned? They decided to keep it a secret. And just like that, my pain became another whispered tragedy, buried beneath the weight of shame.

Time passed, but the scars remained. My heart hardened. I hated men. In secondary school, I started dating—not for love, but for revenge. I told myself I would never take men seriously. I would use them before they could use me. And I did. Until someone came along and softened me. But love, as I learned, can be another kind of betrayal.

He left. And the hatred grew.

After high school, I decided to focus on myself. I poured my energy into writing, into building a name for myself. Opportunities came, but so did predators. Many of the men who offered me jobs wanted something else in return—my body. Even those I trusted.

I won’t lie—sometimes I gave in. And each time, a piece of me shattered further.

But I reached a breaking point. I cut off the distractions. I focused on my craft, and slowly, my name began to rise again. Salone Gossip recognized me, and my work started gaining attention. I was recommended for jobs, and eventually, I landed a role in a big company. It was the breakthrough I had been waiting for.

But one wound refuses to heal—the way I love.

When I care for someone, I give too much. I go beyond my limits, even if it means losing myself in the process. In my last relationship, I made mistakes I can never undo. I did things no woman should do, all in the name of love. And in the end, he still left.

I told myself I deserved it. That this was my punishment for the choices I had made.

There are nights I wish I could erase everything and start over. To wipe my past clean. But life doesn’t give second chances—it only gives lessons. And mine is still unfolding.

I have started focusing on building myself again, trying to regain control over my life. But the pain of being r***d still lingers. It haunts me in ways I can’t even put into words. It affects me so deeply that I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I see my reflection, and all I feel is shame. It has stolen my voice—I can’t even face the camera to express myself.

I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want to keep carrying this weight. I have prayed. I have tried. But healing feels impossible when the past keeps chasing you. Maybe I need therapy. Maybe I need someone to remind.