As a child abuse survivor, I know the pain of being harmed by someone who was supposed to protect me. My abuser remains free, never answering for the unspeakable acts inflicted upon me. This is not just my story; it’s the reality for countless survivors who suffer in silence, without seeing justice served against their abusers.

Child abuse is a devastating crime that leaves scars, both seen and unseen. According to the World Health Organization, approximately 1 billion children experience some form of abuse every year. This is an unacceptable violation of the innocence of children and a stark reminder of the work we must do to prevent such horrors.

The legal system often fails survivors, allowing abusers to walk free due to lack of evidence, bureaucratic delays, or insufficient laws. This failure to hold perpetrators accountable adds to the trauma of survivors, who are left feeling voiceless and powerless. It's time for change.

We demand rigorous investigations into every case of child abuse and harsher penalties for those convicted. Mandatory training for all who work with children—educators, healthcare providers, and social workers—is crucial to spot and address signs of abuse early on. Furthermore, we need increased funding and resources for rehabilitation programs that aid survivors in healing and reclaiming their lives.

Join me in calling on lawmakers and justice officials to implement these changes. Let's stand united for justice, for healing, and for a future free from abuse. Sign this petition to make your voice heard and support child abuse survivors worldwide. Together, we can drive the change needed to ensure that no child suffers in silence again.

MY STORY:

My grandmother, Jo Linda Duncan, seemed sweet to others. She appeared to be the perfect grandmother, but inside, she was not. I feared everything about her—her raised voice, her sudden approach.

Some nights, after everyone had gone to bed, I would lie awake and listen to the creaks and groans of the old house. Every sound made me flinch, thinking she might appear in my doorway, ready to scold or punish me for something I didn’t even realize I’d done. The moonlight would filter through the curtains, casting strange shadows on the walls, and I would count the minutes until sunrise, holding onto the hope that the daylight might bring a few hours of peace. The nights felt endless, and I often wondered if anyone else in the world was as afraid of their own grandmother as I was.I remember that night perfectly. She was angry for reasons I still don’t know. I clung to the steps after Grandpa pushed me, holding tight like a child lost in a crowd. My grandmother’s look was one of pure hatred. My grandfather sided with her—I should not have trusted them. She grabbed the fabric on my shoulders from my hoodie, my favorite brown hoodie. She pulled back, I remembered gagging, her voice spoke over the silence and the sound of my struggle, “Go ahead, choke.” I teared up at those words, knowing she didn't care if she was the reason for my death. When she let go, she just dropped me. I heard a crack and a sudden pain in the right side of my ribcage. I ignored it because I was trying to survive this abuse. I knew I just had to accept the fact that I couldn’t fight back.

That night, when I was left alone in the corner of the kitchen, I stood and got an idea when I saw my antidepressants..I sneaked my pill bottle into my jacket pocket, filled the plastic water bottle, and went back to my place in the corner where my food was. I took the medications and set them on the small side table that I called my kitchen table because no one wanted to see my face. I slowly opened the top of the medication and poured a little into my hand, then put it in my mouth, followed by a drink of water. When I felt no change, I took more and more until the bottle was empty. I remember putting the bottle behind the computer and throwing the food I hadn't even touched, because they were eating steak. I was lucky enough to even eat a cooked meal, not just cereal. The chicken and rice slid into the trash as the realization of my actions started to catch up. I tried to go to my room, but I got yelled at and just sat on the floor as I was told to. They treated the dogs better than I was treated. Soon, I was allowed into my room, but I was followed. My aunt Maryanne decided to go through my clothes, and when she found the underwear my grandmother got me. She looked at me in anger. “What is this?” she snapped at me, her voice breaking the silence I sat in comfortably.  I went to speak, but she snapped at me. 

“Where did you get these?” she asked me, her tone echoing that of my grandmother. I spoke silently, a fear lacing my voice, “..grandma got them for me..” I muttered silently.

My grandmother realized her daughter would not be happy with her getting them for me. She looked at me and snapped, “I did not!” She screamed at me, “You little lying bitch!!”. I choked on my words; I couldn't speak.

My aunt Maryanne looked at me and suddenly spat on me, “Speak bitch!” she screamed. I kept silent, so she spat again and then again until her son cried in the room. She walked out and went to the room where her son was crying. My grandmother paced as I sat on the floor and silently looked at her as she complained about me “Guess what?” I suddenly spoke with a horrid smile behind my words. She looked at me as if startled and slowly spoke, “What?”. I smiled slowly and a bit terrifyingly, “I took all my pills.” I giggled as she narrowed her eyes, “You are lying.” She said, “I don’t believe you.”

When my aunt Maryanne came back, my grandmother told her what I said. That's when both she and my grandfather looked and searched the whole house and couldn’t find the pills; they even searched me. No one believed me. Later, my aunt called 9-1-1 and spoke to them as I walked into the living room. My grandfather looked at me, “Sit on the couch, please,” He said softly, and my grandmother scoffed, “I don’t want her on my couch, sit on the floor.” She snapped.

My grandfather sighed, “Jo, calm down.”, he spoke softly. I sat down on the floor and soon, I saw the flashing lights of the ambulance. And they rushed in, and put the blood pressure cuff on me, noting that my heart rate was reaching 160, they quickly put an IV in as I began to seize. They stuck a needle into the IV and gave me medication to stop the seizure. Soon, they brought the straight board and put me on it. The cops walked in after questioning my grandparents and picked up the straight board. I started to doze off, but fought to stay awake. Once in the ambulance, they didn’t ask me questions, knowing this was life or death.

We pulled into the emergency room within minutes, rushing through the small town of Colville. The paramedic placed her hand on me. 

The feeling of her hand on my shoulder and her softly rubbing the fabric made my breathing slow. She pulled away, and I started to freak. I learned that I needed the contact to stay calm, even if I was trying my hardest to stay calm and not cry, because that could start another seizure.

I tried to raise my head enough to see what was happening, but the straps that were placed on me beforehand had made it so I couldn’t pick my head up enough. As they pulled me out of the ambulance, I noticed the world had started to spin; it was just the aftermath of that overdose.

I sighed softly, staying silent and not blabbering like normal. It was sad. I had lost myself in the pain I wanted to rid myself of. I smiled softly, realizing I was free. They couldn’t hurt me anymore. When they put me in my hospital room, I realized I started to hallucinate, but I didn’t know it was just hallucinations, I thought it was real, and I was terrified like a kid hiding under their bed away from the storm, or a kid scared to get out of bed when it’s dark, thinking the monster underneath will grab their ankles.

I felt like a kid again in that fear. I felt used, worthless, vulnerable, and too soft. I started to scream as I thought my grandmother was getting close. I had told them I didn’t want them in my room, and they obeyed my words as if it were a law. She didn’t come to see me; she wasn’t even in the waiting room. Now it hurts that my caregiver didn’t show up when I was dying, the life slipping out of me slowly. I waited for it, I wanted to doze off, fall asleep, and never wake up again. Now, looking back at my thoughts, I have realized I am lucky to still be alive. I was a little too lucky. I learned that day one lesson everyone needs to learn; “Abuse is not a sign of strength—it is a betrayal of trust that weakens both the victim and the abuser.” She had been weakened, and in that weakness she had given up on trying to hurt me physically, knowing I will just sit there and take it. That's what I was taught, kids are supposed to be seen, not heard. That’s why I went silent around her, she said I was to stay silent so I did. 

It costed me my dignity, my respect for human kind, and the belief in love and that people can change; No one can change

Being hurt by someone you trust brings a deep, lingering pain that goes beyond physical wounds. It shakes your sense of safety and makes you question your own judgment, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed. The betrayal can create a heavy sadness and confusion, as the foundation of trust you relied on suddenly feels unstable. Rebuilding confidence in yourself and others becomes a slow, challenging process, overshadowed by the memory of that hurt.

I understand that things won’t be perfect for me, or anybody. We still have poverty, abuse, global warming, and murderers. The world would be better if humans just never existed.

Humans, in their pursuit of progress and comfort, have often harmed both the Earth and one another. Our relentless consumption of natural resources has led to pollution, deforestation, and climate change, threatening the delicate balance of the planet. At the same time, conflicts, prejudice, and greed have caused pain and division among people, eroding compassion and understanding. This dual destruction—of our environment and our relationships—serves as a stark reminder that our actions have far-reaching consequences, not only for the world we inhabit but also for the communities we build.

That's why I write, to get away from what haunts me most.

You may ask, what haunts me most.. The trauma I have insured scares me, but I am not haunted by it. I am haunted by what could happen next.

I am haunted by the fears I face, the fear of being held under water, not being allowed up to breath again. 

I am scared of what I can do.

I am scared of whom I will hurt.

(49% of children in their grandparents care have been abused)

“The fear of abandonment forced me to comply as a child, but I’m not forced to comply anymore. The key people in my life did reject me for telling the truth about my abuse, but I’m not alone. Even if the consequence for telling the truth is rejection from everyone I know, that’s not the same death threat that it was when I was a child. I’m a self-sufficient adult and abandonment no longer means the end of my life.”

― Christina Enevoldsen