I always wondered how I grew up to be a decent human being despite all of the abuse I endured as a kid. I credit the person I am to my grandparents. They gave me the stability I needed. A real home. Even if that home was only temporary.

Grandma was the first adult who spoke to me and not at me. To her, I existed. I mattered. One of my favorite things about being at grandma’s was music. Grandma sang while she cooked, sang while she combed my hair, and sang me to sleep when I had trouble sleeping. Music was important to grandma. It was a way of expressing how she felt without really having to say anything. And so because of her, it became one of the ways I coped with difficult situations.

Grandpa was a man of integrity, and he modeled that for me everyday. He was also a very smart man and believed in the value of knowledge, he said it would be my ticket out one day. He was right. Grandpa collected books from his travels and built his own library full of those from different parts of the world. It was an impressive collection. Sundays, he would grab a book, Crack open a beer and we’d sit out on the porch and read together.

I spent summers at my grandparents and returned to hell when school was in session. I lost grandpa when I was a kid. It was my first real loss and a devastating one.  I lost someone who kept me safe, and loved me for real. After his death, grandma needed time to grieve, which meant I could no longer come stay for the summer. I didn’t even cry when I heard that. I couldn’t, I didn’t allow myself to. Life went back to having no meaning. I completely checked out, it was the only way I’d be able to survive what awaited me. The rest of my childhood is a blur. I floated in and out of consciousness. When I look back, all I remember was the abuse. Nothing else. They robbed me of my childhood and any semblance of normalcy.