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

by Rivera, Rosie

  A tip led us to the information that Trino had been invited to a certain party. My brothers decided to go—and bring Chiquis and me along. They also bought along some of the guys who knew him so they’d be able to identify him.

  At the party, I saw my brothers huddled in a corner talking to a few men who looked dangerous and probably carried guns. We sat around at the party and while everybody else seemed to be having a good time, to Chiquis and me, every second that went by seemed like an eternity. We were terrified for Trino’s life. Yes, I wanted justice for his actions, but not like this. If he was shot and killed, my brothers would probably go to jail and Chiquis would be left without a dad. In our heart of hearts, we both still felt that Trino wasn’t a bad or evil person; we were convinced that he needed help.

  Chiquis and I huddled together and prayed: “Please, God, don’t let them find Trino. Please don’t let him show up.”

  And he didn’t.

  • • •

  Over time, the pressure to find Trino became a huge burden on my soul. Every January, when the time for New Year’s resolutions came around, my dad would always say to me: “This is the year we catch Trino, Hija. This is the year we find him.”

  As time passed, my father’s prediction made me more and more anxious. I knew my dad was just trying to motivate me, and he probably was doing the same with my brothers, but I was still afraid of what would happen if they ever found Trino. More important, all I really wanted was to put the whole episode behind me. I wanted to move on with my life; I wanted to live in a world free from the shadow of Trino. The fear and uncertainty of not knowing whether he was around the corner or on the run in some far-away part of the country was eating me up inside. It felt as if the weight of the world was resting on my shoulders.

  six

  downward spiral

  After my confession, I went completely nuts. There’s no other way to put it. I had lived with my secret for so long that as soon as I let it out into the world, all hell broke loose. Far from bringing me peace and comfort, the truth had blown my life up into a thousand pieces and I had no clue how to put it back together.

  On the day I told her about Trino, my sister said she would help me get all the counseling and the therapy I needed to get over what had happened. And as always, she kept her promise. I met with all sorts of experts on depression, sexual abuse, addiction, and during our sessions, I truly understood and believed what they told me: the abuse isn’t your fault, you are worthy of love, it’s normal to be angry, it’s normal to feel scared.

  But once I left the safe confines of their offices, I was thrown back into a harsh world that kept telling me that nothing about me was normal. I hated myself, I hated my life—I didn’t know who I was anymore and all I wanted was to escape. Every day, from the moment I got up in the morning to the moment I went to sleep, I walked around like a zombie, hoping to be put out of my misery.

  I started drinking when I was about thirteen years old and by the time I was eighteen, I had to start the day with a shot of tequila. Before too long, I added drugs to the mix and not a day went by without taking something. I’d hide in the high school bathrooms and get high on just about anything I could get my hands on. First cocaine, then marijuana, and eventually I graduated to Ecstasy. The cycle was always the same. As soon as I took the drug, I felt as if I was soaring on top of the world and numb to the pain, and while I knew all the stress of my daily life was still tucked inside, the drugs allowed me to put it on hold for a moment. I loved how light and carefree they made me feel but as soon as the drugs wore off, I was left feeling scared and guilty, promising myself to never do it again. But then I would, and the vicious cycle would start all over again.

  Now that I had told my family about Trino’s abuse, they finally understood the reasons for my behavior, but that didn’t mean it made things any better. I was still difficult and abrasive, and no matter how hard they tried, I did everything in my power to keep them at bay.

  I knew that if my grades started to drop my parents would get on my case so I made sure I stayed a straight-A student all the way through high school and college. As long as my grades were good, they figured I couldn’t be doing too badly, so for the most part they’d let me be, and that was exactly what I thought I needed.

  • • •

  Sexual abuse messes with you on so many levels. There are the psychological effects, of course, of feeling dirty and rejected, but there is also a physical component. Your body is introduced to sex at such a young age that you’re not yet ready to process it emotionally. Deep down, I was a hopeless romantic. I wanted so desperately to find love and for it to make me feel good, protected and cared for. The problem was, I didn’t love myself; so how could I expect anyone to love me? I still thought that the only way to find love was through sex.

  When I was seventeen years old, I started dating Luis, a boy I met at the Música del Pueblo store my dad owned in Huntington Park. I was working the cash register and he would come in and buy CDs every week just to say hello. He was short, dark, and attractive, funny and a family guy. But what I liked most about him was that he was three years older and that meant he was more mature than any of the guys my age. A month went by and I was crazy in love.

  Luis and I were having sexual relations, but I was taking precautions so I wouldn’t become pregnant. Since killing Trino wasn’t an acceptable option, I had my mind set on going to law school and becoming an attorney to find justice. I didn’t want anything to distract me from my plan, and an unplanned pregnancy certainly wasn’t something I was going to allow.

  Well, something must have gone wrong, because one day I started feeling nauseous and woozy. The discomfort lasted for a couple of days before I realized that not only was I feeling ill, but my period was late. No way! I thought, somewhat panicked. Could I be pregnant? I had to know right away so I rushed out to the drugstore and bought myself a pregnancy test.

  I followed the instructions, and three minutes later I had my answer: I was pregnant.

  Like in most of the defining moments of my life, I was alone. Yes, a baby wasn’t in my plans but I couldn’t help smiling as the tears rolled down my face. Maybe this baby was going to be the one to turn my life around. Would Luis marry me? Did this mean I was finally going to have a normal life? I knew in my heart that I wanted a career and I wanted Trino behind bars, but the fleeting illusion of everything finally being okay was a powerful temptation.

  I told Luis the news and like me, he was terrified at the thought of becoming a parent. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. He kept saying: “This can’t be true. This can’t be happening. I’m not ready to be a father!”

  And I wasn’t any more ready to be a mother. I was completely lost. Having a baby meant that all my hopes for the future were, once again, going to be crushed. While my life had been a huge mess since the abuse happened, the one thing I always held on to, the one thing I always excelled at was school, because I knew it was the key to my future. Even through my darkest times, I’d managed to keep up my good grades and that was a source of pride for me. In fact, I had my heart set on going to college and eventually becoming an attorney like Marcia Clark, who I’d seen on TV during the O.J. Simpson trial. I wanted to be just like her—a woman attorney—except I’d win the case and bring justice. She was the first woman trial lawyer I had ever seen and I thought she was bold and cool, crazy hair and all.

  But it didn’t take too much to understand that with a baby, all those dreams would never come true. I’d have to drop out of school in order to raise my child, and who knew what would happen then? I’d probably end up being just another statistic. And there was nothing I hated more than that prospect.

  Days went by and Luis and I discussed our options but we never seemed to get to any sound conclusion. We kept going round and round in circles. What were we going to do? I was broken and depressed and clearly wasn’t equipped to be facing
such a momentous decision. Luis grew more and more impatient with me and before too long he started to threaten me: “If you have this baby, I am going to say it’s not mine,” he’d say. “It will be the shame of your family because everyone will know you had a child out of wedlock.”

  I knew what it would mean for my parents to have a grandchild born out of wedlock and as understanding as they had always been with me, that was something I didn’t want to put them through. They had given me everything a girl could possibly dream of and I wasn’t ready to dump yet another problem on their laps. All the drama surrounding the abuse had been more than enough.

  Finally, Luis gave me an ultimatum: either I went to get an abortion, or he would leave me right then and there. I loved Luis, and I didn’t want him to leave—I already had abandonment issues and didn’t want to be shunned again. But I also didn’t want to get an abortion. I might have found myself far away from God at that point in my life, but I was well aware that killing is a sin and I certainly didn’t want to kill my own baby. I was so terrified of the situation that I was incapable of processing a rational thought: all I wanted was to get Luis to stay with me, and not have to put my family through shame. Soon enough, I came to what seemed like the only viable solution.

  I found the name and location of an abortion clinic, and Luis and I decided to go there without telling a soul. I thought that if no one found out, I could stick to my plans, avoid disgracing my family, and get on with my life.

  That day, before we drove to the clinic, I locked myself in the bathroom and listened to “Reloj” by Luis Miguel on repeat, praying that time would stop so I could spend just a little more time with my unborn child, Esperanza Soledad. I wanted to say good-bye before I even had the chance to see her face, treasuring that precious moment with her.

  It was another beautiful and perfect Southern California day and the Planned Parenthood clinic was in Los Angeles so Luis drove me there early in the morning. There were no jokes, no music playing in the background—we drove in absolute silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I remember I rode the whole way facing the passenger window so Luis couldn’t see the tears rolling down my face—the last thing I wanted was to make him upset. I wanted to seem brave and sure of this decision, but in my heart I hoped he would suddenly turn the car around and take me to his mother’s house in South Central so that we could raise our baby and be together forever. I walked through the doors with a lump in my throat and heaviness in my heart. My mind had made the decision to be there, but every cell in my body was telling me to leave. As I filled out the paperwork, my emotions swung back and forth like a pendulum. Was I doing the right thing? Should I go through with this, or should I run out the door? Would God punish me for being so selfish?

  I signed my name and handed the receptionist the paperwork before taking a seat in the waiting room. Before long, a medical assistant came to get me and I followed her into a small, private room.

  I was given a sedative and as I drifted in and out of consciousness the doctor started to ask me some personal questions, perhaps because she was looking to put my mind at ease.

  “Have you ever been under general anesthesia?” she asked. “Did you eat anything this morning? Don’t worry, honey, this will be fast and you’ll be able to go home and move on with your life in no time.”

  Move on with my life? What life? I felt so selfish. This child already had a life and I was taking it.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “Please!” I suddenly shouted. “Please stop! I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go through with this! I want to keep my baby!” But I was already beginning to fall into a deep sleep. The last thing I remember was looking at her stern face and then the blinding light on the ceiling that I hoped would turn into the light at the end of life’s tunnel. I hoped with all my heart that I wouldn’t have to wake up again.

  When I opened my eyes, I asked the nurse: “Did you go through with it? Please tell me I didn’t kill my baby. Please tell me you heard me when I asked you to stop.”

  But it was too late. The doctor had performed the abortion and there I was, bleeding and in so much pain, ashamed that I had been so selfish. Was this what my parents had taught me? I couldn’t believe that I had wanted a career more than a child. “Family comes first,” is what my father had always taught us, and that day in the abortion clinic, I failed miserably to live up to the values he had instilled in me.

  After spending some time in the recovery room, the nurse informed me that it was time for me to go home. Before I left, she handed me some medication, saying that I needed to take it in order to avoid getting an infection.

  Little did the nurse know that instead of giving me a warning to stay safe, she had given me a way to punish myself. My immediate thoughts were, I don’t care if I get an infection; in fact I would be thrilled to get one. If I’m lucky enough, maybe I will even die! That’s what I deserve for being such a self-centered, monstrous human being.

  By the time I got home, I was feeling so terrible that all I wanted was to hole myself up in my room and cry until I had no more tears left. I dropped the pills and the paperwork on the dining room table and quickly went to my bedroom before I crossed paths with anyone—the last thing I wanted was to have to answer any questions.

  While I was sleeping in my bedroom, my mother found the medicine and paperwork on the dining room table and immediately turned them over to Brenda, my brother Juan’s wife, for translation. It was careless of me to leave the paperwork there but maybe it was a subconscious act, maybe part of me really wanted to be found out.

  My long-suffering mother wasn’t about to let this one go. Yes, she had kept quiet about me dating too many boys and drinking too much alcohol, but this wasn’t something she could ignore. It went against everything she believed in, everything she stood for. The baby I was carrying was her grandchild and I had had no right taking him or her away from her.

  That evening, as soon as I peeked my head out of my bedroom door, my mom came rushing over, with the bottle of pills in her hand.

  “What are these?” she asked me, furious.

  “How am I supposed to know?” I answered, trying to act indifferent.

  “What do you mean you don’t know, Hija? It says here that these are antibiotics and that you had an abortion today,” she continued. “Dios bendito, what in the world were you thinking, Rosie?”

  The sadness in her eyes broke my heart. Yet even though I was just as appalled as she was, I wasn’t ready to let her into my innermost thoughts. As I had done so many times in the past, when the truth was looking me square in the eyes, I built a wall of anger and refused to let anyone in.

  “I don’t care what you think. This is my life and my body. Stay out of my business!”

  All I wanted was for her to leave me alone. Not only was I grieving for my lost child. I could tell by the look on her face that I had also broken her heart, and that was too much for me to bear. I knew she didn’t care whether I got good grades or became some hotshot attorney. All she cared about was her family and she was distraught over what I had done.

  “You know God doesn’t allow this!” she screamed, her voice shaking with sorrow and disbelief.

  “Well, I don’t care what God thinks!” I answered, and I went back to lock myself up in my room.

  Luis and I dated for three months, on and off. We never talked about the incident again, and neither did my mother and I. It was as if it had never happened. I acted as though I’d moved on when in fact not a day goes by that I don’t think about my baby in Heaven.

  At Lakewood High, during my senior year, I was active in several organizations, president of the Hispanic Los Amigos Club, member of the student council, and one of the speakers at the 1999 graduation. Classmates and teachers I hardly knew came up to me that day and said, “Rosie, we are proud of you. We know you are going to have a fantastic future.”


  I wore my best smile and thanked them, but inside I thought, If they only knew.

  • • •

  After high school, I got my first liposuction—another attempt at making myself thin and beautiful in order to find love, marriage, and happiness. Somehow I thought it would be the miraculous solution to all my problems. Needless to say, it wasn’t.

  I enrolled at the University of California, Irvine. Because I had to drive there every day, my dad gave me my first car and to me that meant freedom! I was still living at my parents’ house but I could go anywhere I wanted at any time of the day and night.

  I chose Criminology as my major because I was still set on becoming an attorney. The Trino situation still haunted me and I wanted to work in a profession that would allow me to put him—and anyone else like him—behind bars.

  During my college years, I spent a lot of time with my sister at her house in Compton, where she lived with her five kids. By then, she had probably separated from Juan because I remember we had a lot of fun, and my sister was always more fun when she was single.

  Every morning we’d wake up and Chay would get the kids ready. Chay would rush off to work and then I’d take my morning shot of tequila and drive myself to school. I wasn’t drunk, but it felt good. I wanted to be a little numb in order to face the day ahead.

  I’d spend the day at school going to classes and lectures, doing homework, studying in the library. I didn’t want anyone to notice me so for the most part I kept to myself and at the end of the day, I’d get behind the wheel of my car and drive back home to Chay’s house or my parents’ house.

  During the weekdays, I was really good. I’d stay focused on school, making sure, as always, that my grades didn’t lag. But come Friday, when all my work was done, I would go all out. I would go clubbing, hang out with friends, and if for some reason my friends were busy, I would go get drunk by myself. I’d get all dressed up to go to these trashy little clubs with the sole purpose of getting super wasted and maybe finding someone to sleep with.