Recently I was asked to give an example of a loss of innocence in my personal life. As I reflected on what to share, I couldn’t help but think of all the different times in my life that chipped away at my childhood.

There was one episode that stuck out above the others.

I was about 11 or 12 years old and visiting my dad. I was excited because he recently gave me a PlayStation for my birthday. I was so happy that it already came with a game inside the console. My mom (who had divorced him when I was two) thought the pre-loaded game inside the console was funny but she didn’t smile. I also liked that my dad didn’t leave the PlayStation inside of the box; he took it out and put a game inside for me.

When I got to my dad’s house, a shabby single-wide trailer that’s floor was soft and where incense was always burning, I noticed my dad had gotten me two new bikes. One bike was yellow and looked a little too big for me but the other bike was entirely too small. My 11-year-old self always thought it was weird he wanted me to leave the bicycles in the living room but I always did as he asked. I sat down on a mushy couch and called my dad’s name from the living room. I waited.

I heard voices and moving and waited some more.

A blond woman with dried blood on her nose walked (stumbled) out of the bedroom, followed by my dad. I got upset because I didn’t want to share my dad. He just got back into town after being in prison since I was 4. My dad introduced me to his girlfriend whose name was “Fuzzy.” Fuzzy smiled a lot but she never met my eyes.

He then told me to go play at the park. I left but I forgot something (God only knows what it was) when I walked back into the trailer, Fuzzy, for whatever reason, had a red mark on her face and was crying. I don’t remember much after that, I remember leaving my dad’s and walking to my aunt’s house and refusing to see him. My aunt, God rest her soul, made sure he didn’t see me. I remember talking to my mom that night, asking her question after question about who my dad really was.

She told me.

My 11-year-old self started to understand why none of his presents were ever brand new. I also understood why his house always had a chemical and incense smell. Why my mother never left me over there for more than a few hours and why she always stayed close by. I started to understand why all of his friends smoked and smelled like liquor, why he always made me leave when they came over. I was 11 when I learned the pull of drugs could be stronger than the pull of paternal love. It took me years to understand what abuse is and how it affects marriage and family. Now I’m well passed that 11-year-old girl, but the pangs of that day still haunt me.