My Broken Pieces : Mending the Wounds from Sexual Abuse Through Faith, Family and Love (9781101990087)

by Rivera, Rosie

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Samalia, Inc., 2016

  Foreword copyright © Myrka Dellanos, 2016

  Lyrics from “I Lift My Hands” reprinted by permission of Samuel Hernandez.

  Lyrics from “Cuando Muere una Dama” reprinted by permission of Divine Publishing.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-99008-7

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION INFORMATION:

  Rivera, Rosie, author.

  My broken pieces: mending the wounds from sexual abuse through faith, family, and love/Rosie Rivera.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-99006-3

  1. Rivera, Rosie. 2. Women television personalities—United States—Biography. 3. Television personalities—United States—Biography. 4. Rivera, Rosie—Family. 5. Rivera, Jenni. I. Title.

  PN1992.4.R5313A3 2015

  791.4502’8092—dc23 2015017328

  [B]

  Designed by Tiffany Estreicher

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  forward

  introduction

  1. looking for a way out

  2. growing up rivera

  3. love game

  4. dark times

  5. the terrifying truth

  6. downward spiral

  7. toxic love

  8. a false start

  9. i lift my hands

  10. breaking free

  11. face-to-face

  12. on trial

  13. loving abel

  14. wednesdays

  15. the unthinkable

  16. a life-changing celebration

  17. healing

  acknowledgments

  Photos

  To Chay: for planting the seed in my heart many years ago. Sister, it now bears fruit.

  To all the women who have suffered abuse: you are not alone; we are sisters of brokenness.

  To Jesus: for becoming broken to make me whole.

  Everyone is broken by life, but afterward many are strong in the broken places.

  —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  foreword

  by Myrka Dellanos

  I first met Rosie Rivera at a People en Español event in Miami on October of 2012 where they were honoring powerful women in media. Her sister, Jenni, was chosen as one of them. Jenni actually nominated her sister to be part of the poderosas list too and the fans voted for her, so Rosie was chosen to give the keynote speech. I had never seen Rosie in person before, but as I sat watching her, the first thing that struck me was her beauty.

  Then she began to tell her story. I recall that she was poised and eloquent as she recounted her sexual abuse as a child and the subsequent physical abuse she endured. My eyes welled up with tears, and my heart pounded as I heard about her years of pain and self-loathing, and the whole room of who’s who in media was completely silent and mesmerized by her words. My teenage daughter was so moved that she told me she wanted to meet her. We went up to Rosie after the event, and I told her I wanted to interview her, not about juicy details pertaining to her sister, but about the Love Foundation and their work with battered women. She was warm and welcoming to my daughter and myself, and we exchanged phone numbers. When we walked away, my daughter exclaimed, “Love her mom!” Teenagers are attracted to people who are real and raw, and Rosie was exactly that. As a journalist, I have been blessed to meet many people, and some I connect with more than others. I had immediate empathy for Rosie, and I realized that day that her story had the power to help and heal others.

  Fast-forward three years, and as I read her book, My Broken Pieces, with so many uncensored details, once again, I am moved with compassion and sadness for Rosie and her family but also for so many young girls and boys who go through this pain but do not make it through to tell their story. However, for all the brokenness in Rosie’s life, there is hope and beauty that outshines evil. This book is a powerful tool in healing especially for so many of us who are wounded souls. What I see through Rosie’s life is that good does win in the end, and if God is on our side (and He never leaves us nor forsakes us), then we can find relief during the rough times, knowing that better days are ahead. Even in the midst of our darkest days, we can echo Rosie’s belief that as it states in Romans 8:28: “. . . all things work together for good for those that love God,” and I am just so grateful for that conviction too. Without it, so many of us would not be alive today.

  My heart was uplifted as I read Rosie’s story, and for all of you who have experienced loss, tragedy, abandonment, abuse and the darkest of days, remember that just as Rosie is alive and thriving today, so will you be. I pray that everyone who identifies with Rosie’s story realizes that freedom from pain, guilt and hate is attainable. If there’s one thread that is weaved throughout My Broken Pieces, it’s that out of our brokenness, God can create a beautiful work of art.

  introduction

  Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I didn’t want to go into show business. While I was growing up a Rivera, that was what everyone expected from me, but I had other plans. Whenever my dad would sit me on his lap in the morning and ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say a teacher, a writer or an astronaut, but never did it cross my mind to become a performer. That was what my talented brothers and sister did, but not me. I was going to be just a great as them, but doing my own thing, whether traveling to the moon or writing a book.

  But the summer I turned eight years old, everything changed. My dreams were all but destroyed. The sexual abuse I suffered and kept secret for so many years corroded my soul, and it wasn’t long before I lost all sense of self-worth. The beautiful, wide world I had once dreamed of conquering suddenly collapsed and my universe turned dark. I started to believe, deep down in my heart, that I was truly worthless. The innocence of a golden childhood surrounded by so much love and affection faded to black.

  For years, I woke up every morning hoping that the day ahead would be my last. All I could see around me was a world of suffering and endless pain, and no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to envision a life beyond the next day. I lived this way for eighteen years and could have continued that way for many more, had it not been for one simple discovery that changed my life.


  The first time I told Chay that I wanted to write a book, she said, “Yes, Sister, go for it! You are going to be great! Your book will inspire so many people!” My big sister encouraged me from the very beginning, and while I knew this was what I had to do, the process wasn’t easy. I had to relive and confront many difficult moments from my past. Yet in doing so, I discovered a very important lesson: that as long as you don’t know your narrative, as long as you don’t own your story, you will never be able to heal. Telling my story here has helped me understand parts of my life that I had never even thought about, and I truly hope that whatever hardships you are going through, these pages may help you understand that you are not a lost cause and you are not alone. God loves you and that is the biggest blessing of them all.

  In order to tell my story, I had to first understand it, and if it hadn’t been for God’s guidance and steady hand, I would have never been brave enough to share it in these pages. But as vulnerable and exposed as I may feel by putting this out there, I know that there is a greater good, and today what matters most to me is to help others who have experienced sexual abuse. And God’s love is there to remind you that you are beautiful and important to this the world.

  It is my prayer that what you are about to read will give you the strength to know that whatever happens, there is hope. This book is not about simply being a survivor, but about living a richer, fuller and happier life.

  That’s why I want to say to you: If all you have is broken pieces, give them to God. He can mend them, heal them and utilize them for good. He wants the broken pieces you think everyone else has rejected. And no matter how lost or shattered you feel, I am here to tell you that life’s pieces can be mended and restored.

  one

  looking for a way out

  It was Saturday night and I was at my brother Lupe’s house downing shot after shot of tequila. I’d been at it since the moment I woke up that morning and like every other weekend I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I had just dropped out of law school, I was being a lousy mother and I was failing at my job selling real estate, and I was married to an abusive man. My brothers and sister were traveling the world, taking it by storm while I was wasting my life away smoking and drinking in seedy nightclubs, hoping that the sun would never come up so I wouldn’t have to face another day. My family was the best anyone could ask for, but somehow that wasn’t enough—all I could think of was what an utter failure I was and I couldn’t see how things would ever get better. I was stuck.

  I took another shot of tequila and stared blankly at the wall. This was a new low: I wasn’t just sad and depressed. I was at a point where I physically couldn’t stand to be in the world anymore. My head hurt from thinking so much and my body ached all the time—I always felt as if I had just been beaten up. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to live anymore. I couldn’t. For as long as I could remember, I had been living with this death wish but that night something clicked inside me and I finally decided to take action. I decided I had to end my life once and for all. Nothing mattered to me anymore, not my loving parents, not my sister or my brothers. Not even my daughter Kassey, who was two at the time. Ever since she arrived in my life she had been a powerful reason to stay alive, but on this night not even the thought of her was enough to keep me afloat. I feared that all I could ever be to her was a disappointment and that she would probably be better off without me.

  I could feel myself slipping so I dialed my brother Juan. Juan is the closest to me in age and if there is one person in the world who I know will always have my back, it’s him. But when he picked up the phone, I could tell from the background noise that he was clearly in the middle of something.

  “Sister, can I call you back in about an hour? I’m about to go onstage,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  Of course he doesn’t have time for me, I thought, wallowing in my self-pity. Why would he?

  Next I tried to call my other brother Lupe, but he was probably onstage because his phone went straight to voice mail. So I finally decided to call my sister, Chay—no matter what I was going through, my big sister never judged me or made me feel like anything less than a warrior. She would get me out of this one. I needed so badly to see myself through her eyes, to believe that all the good things she thought of me were true.

  “Hi, Sister, how are you?” I asked, doing my best to hide the tears in my voice. But it was impossible to keep a secret from Chay. Right away she knew something was up.

  “Sister, don’t cry,” she said in her sweet voice. “I’m about to start my show but can I call you in about two hours? I promise I’ll call you the minute I get offstage.”

  I hung up the phone thinking two hours were an eternity. There was no way I’d be able to hang on for so long. Every cell in my being was hurting and no amount of tequila or drugs was ever going to numb the pain. I needed it to stop.

  • • •

  It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself. When I was sixteen and still dealing with the aftermath of what Trino had done to me, I tried to slit my wrists. But as soon as I saw the first flow of blood trickle down my arm I chickened out and pounced on the medicine cabinet, looking for a bandage. Part of it might be that when confronted with the reality of it, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t want to die by my own hands. But more than that, I didn’t want to offend God. Even though at the time I wasn’t living a Christian life, I was terrified of going to Hell. No matter how much pain I was feeling right then, I knew committing suicide meant spending an eternity in Hell and that was something I wasn’t willing to risk.

  Nonetheless, over the following years death was always on my mind. At twenty-five, I was a single mother, my husband of three months was abusing me, and I felt like the loneliest person in the world. I walked around like an open wound, waiting for something or someone to give me the final blow. No matter how much my family tried to convince me of the contrary, in my eyes my life had no value. I wished for something to happen, something to put me in harm’s way so my life would be finished. Every weekend I’d drink myself unconscious, do massive amounts of Ecstasy, and I’d sleep with random guys I’d pick up at bars while never once using protection. In my twisted mind, I went so far as hoping to get AIDS.

  But nothing ever happened.

  Now, drinking alone in my brother’s house, I somehow wasn’t afraid of Hell anymore. I believed that I was invisible to God. I knew He existed, was certain that He existed, but He was ignoring me. He clearly didn’t care. Why else would He have allowed me to fall this low? This life already felt like Hell and so I figured the Hell that God was going to send me to couldn’t possibly be any worse. I still didn’t have it in me to take my own life, so the next best thing would be to find someone to do it for me. So I came up with a plan.

  I was going to set off walking from Lupe’s house in Playa del Rey toward South Central Los Angeles, a neighborhood notorious for being one of the most crime-ridden areas in the country. In my drunken mind, it all made perfect sense: in the time it would take for me to get there, there had to be at least one degenerate willing to pick me up, rape me, and kill me. Surely I couldn’t be that lucky.

  • • •

  At around two thirty a.m., I started walking north on Lincoln Boulevard. I was wearing a tight black miniskirt and a revealing colorful top, which was bound to attract attention. But by the time I reached Loyola University—about half an hour into my journey—not a single soul had paid me one bit of attention. There were plenty of cars on the street but no one stopped to look at me twice. As much as I wanted to end my life then and there, there was also a part of me that was hoping someone would just stop and talk to me. But I was getting nothing. Clearly, I wasn’t only invisible to God, I was also invisible to all of humankind. Was I really that unwanted? I had just lost eighty pounds, undergone a tummy tuck, and I looked better than I had in years. Wh
y, then, was no one even noticing me?

  I desperately needed to get someone’s attention and if wandering down the street like a mad woman wasn’t going to work, I needed to up my game. I took off half of the top I was wearing, and hiked my skirt up even higher. It was chilly outside and I could feel the cold wind from Marina del Rey engulfing me. I took off my high heels but my feet were too numb to feel any rocks on the cold concrete. If only my heart could have been as numb as my feet.

  All I could hear was silence. Not a single car honked at me, not a single person stopped to ask me whether I needed help. There was just silence and the low hum of cars racing by. It was as if I was the only soul in the world and around me was absolute darkness, the confirmation of everything I was feeling in my heart. I remember looking up at the stars and screaming, “God! Why don’t You just get rid of me? Why?” I yelled. “You allowed all the awful things in my life to happen so why don’t You just let me go?”

  I was only twenty-five, but felt as though I had lived a hundred years.

  “Please, God,” I begged, my face covered in tears, “if You care anything about me, I beg You, out of love, to take my life.”

  But yet again, nothing happened.

  It had been a few hours since I’d had my last drink. My alcohol level had subsided enough that I was regaining some of my senses but not enough to deter me from my plan. My feet ached and I was starting to shiver, but I was desperate to find a way out. I continued to walk down the street, thinking of how to end my life.

  The sun still hadn’t come up by the time I finally decided to lie down in the street near the curb. I remember thinking: “I’ll lie down here and fall asleep. Chances are, some drunk driver is bound to come barreling down this street; he won’t see my body and will run me over without my having to feel a thing.” More than dying, I was afraid of the pain and this would guarantee that it would be over fast.