I looked up at a frazzled teacher.
“Young lady, answer the question!” barked Mrs. Stone.
I had lost myself in a daydream. I didn’t hear her question, and I was unable to answer. Instead, I looked at the floor. I didn’t care about anything. The abuse had taken its toll, and I was no longer participating in much. I was mentally and physical exhausted. I was so skinny and so broken that the only reason I had survived up until this point was Jesus. There was no other explanation.
In exchange for my silence, the teacher revoked my recess privilege for the day. As I sat on the concrete steps by the entrance to the playground, I tightened my finger around a small section of my hair. With a quick jerk, the hair was a clump in my hand. The brief pinch on my scalp brought me back to reality. The other kids were playing, but I had nothing. Because of my uncle’s abuse, I had subconsciously started pulling out one strand at a time. The comb-over Mother gave me did little to hide the bald patches. Hair grew back like spikes next to new bald areas. I had a new nickname at school—Spike.
At lunchtime, I waited in the cafeteria line, where a group of girls taunted me. Their insults were nothing new. I lowered my head in shame. Because the girls were holding up the line, kids started to go around us to get their lunch trays. Then out of nowhere, a pair of tennis shoes stopped parallel to mine.
“It’s not nice to make fun of people. Especially those who are smaller than you. Leave her alone, okay? We don’t want any trouble.” The owner of the mystery shoes grabbed my hand. He ushered me in front of him and grabbed two lunch trays. He asked the lunch lady for an extra milk.
“Thank you for . . . I’m Chris,” I said sheepishly as I followed him out of the lunch line.
“I know your name. Sorry those girls were mean. Just follow me and no one will bother you, all right?”
We walked out the side cafeteria door. The kids outside stared at us intently, fixated on his every step. I knew right away that this boy must be popular. He carried both trays as we walked behind the gym. He sat down on the highest concrete step outside the gym and placed our lunches side by side. I stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do. He had sun-kissed skin, blond hair, and the bluest eyes. Who was this boy? How did he know my name? Why was he being so nice to me?
“You can sit down now, Chris. I don’t bite.” He pushed my tray closer to me with a wide-eyed smile. I stared at his boyish grin and gave a little laugh as I sat down next to him.
“What’s your name? Thank you again for getting my lunch. I could eat two of these.”
“I’m Danny. Don’t worry. Since we’re friends now, no one’s gonna mess with you—I promise.”
I stopped chewing and lowered my sandwich to my lap. Who was this boy? I nodded my head in appreciation and grabbed my milk carton as I finished chewing. I didn’t say another word while we ate. When we were finished, he picked up our trash and walked me back to class. Almost every day until Danny Swanson graduated from the fifth grade, he ate lunch with me. When I was with him, no one called me Spike. Danny was my only friend at school.
After three years without my father, I was resigned to the reality that I was, now and forever, the family outsider. I was slogging around this new normal, until another shock came. One afternoon, unexpectedly, Mother came home to tell us she was getting married to Herman—and that she was pregnant. I was in the sixth grade, attending middle school, and while I got to see father a few times in the first months when he was in jail, after that, visitation was severed due to the allegations against him.
Social workers and policemen had been showing up at our doorstep a few times a month, and I found out later that these visits were a result of my father’s tireless efforts to save his kids from all the abuse he believed was going on. My father was in and out of jail for years on various charges ranging from domestic abuse to failure to pay child support and contempt of court—all of it relating to the issues within my family.
From his jail cell, my father sent hundreds of written requests for intervention. He wrote to the St. Augustine courthouse, the state’s attorney, local Department of Children and Families (DCF) officials, and even the governor. Father pleaded with anyone who would listen about the neglect and mishandling of our court case—and of us. But every time he sent a letter, he was directed to someone else, who would then send him to someone else. His efforts to save us were paralyzed. It is my understanding he was placed in contempt for calling the police to our house so much on suspicion of abuse. I was always wondering if Herman’s position in the sheriff’s office made it difficult for any allegations to stick.
My father desperately wanted to win back custody of his children. He wanted to prove he was innocent of the domestic abuse charge leveled by Mother. But he was shut down at every turn. Any time police showed up to investigate the abuse claims, Mother made sure she was at home, coaching me on exactly what to say when they asked me if she was hurting me. Every social worker, police officer, and DCF official came and left without ever speaking to me alone. When Mother married Herman, my father pushed for greater scrutiny. He simply wasn’t going to let up.
Eventually, Mother and Herman grew tired of the questions and visits and decided to move. They pulled us out of school mid-semester, forcing me to leave what had finally become comfortable to start over at a new middle school.
This new school was totally uptown proper. Every child had designer clothes, shoes, and backpacks. Like the rest of my siblings, I wore hand-me-downs until they were bursting at the seams and unable to be mended. Forget the department stores—Goodwill was Mother’s favorite place to shop for us kids.
Because of the way I dressed, I stood out like a sore thumb at my new middle school. But luckily, I wasn’t as awkward-looking as in years past because my hair had finally grown long enough to hide the bald patches. I was able to be a little bit more engaging with my peers. And within my first week of school, I miraculously made two friends—Rachel and Christina. They were like sunshine.
Rachel and Christina were inseparable best friends. They ate lunch together, played at recess together, and sat next to each other on the bus. I met them at the bus stop. I immediately noticed that they were pretty and loud—and they seemed fun. They were standing there, putting on makeup and fixing each other’s hair—activities I knew nothing about. I never wore makeup, and the only thing I knew to do with my hair was hide bald spots.
I was spellbound by their joyous camaraderie. I stared at them from just a few feet away as we stood in the chilly winter weather, and I noticed Christina staring back at me.
“Oh, I am so sorry. I just noticed your makeup.” I dug my hands deeper into my jacket.
“Want to try my lip gloss?” Christina reached into her book bag and pulled out a lustrous pink gloss. She stretched her hand out to mine and smiled at me. “I don’t have germs! It’s safe.” Mesmerized by her, I slowly took the lip gloss, opened the top, and applied it to my lips.
“Thank you. Does it look okay?”
Rachel beamed bright with a genuine grin. “You are really beautiful.” Shocked at her compliment, I asked them if I could sit with them on the bus. They agreed, and we chirped all the way to school.
Rachel and Christina quickly became my two best friends. Before them, all I had was Bear, and my only friend had been Danny (and that had been only during lunchtime), so having girlfriends was a real treat. I never knew what it was like to talk about other girls or giggle at cute boys. Sitting with someone on the bus or meeting up at lunchtime was pure bliss to me. I opened up to them quickly. Soon I was standing on cafeteria lunch tables belting out Christina Aguilera songs as I entertained the two girls who enjoyed my singing as much as I did.
One afternoon when the three of us got off the bus, Christina invited me over to her house for a snack. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere after school, but because Mother was usually out when I got home, I figured it would be okay. But on this particular day, by sheer happenstance, Mother was driving into the apartment complex. She saw me with Rachel and Christina. As soon as I got home, she forbade me to hang out with them.
This only meant I’d have to get clever about spending time with my friends.
My new laundry room was down by the clubhouse just outside the pool area. I had to carry big baskets of clothes filled to the brim down three flights of stairs. I dragged them across the sidewalks to the noisy coin-operated machines. But there was a bonus to all that hard work: the laundry room was where my two new best friends hung out with me. They played around the complex and kept lookout. They’d sit on the washer, and we’d talk and laugh while I did my daily chore. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for Mother to find out about my visitors, and I was on the receiving end of a whupping with her belt.
Despite the pain and her meanness, the beating did little to sway me from sneaking them into the laundry room. I did, however, have to wear long-sleeved shirts to cover up some bruises.
One afternoon, Rachel met me in the laundry room. She sat on top of the dryer as I unloaded the washer. I pushed up my sleeves without a thought, and when I stood up, wet clothes in hand, Rachel’s eyes were fixed on my arms. I dropped the clothes. Before they hit the floor, I’d pulled down my sleeves.
“You can’t tell anyone, Rachel. Mother will kill me if anyone finds out,” I said with fear in my eyes.
She said nothing.
“Please, Rachel. You can’t say anything. I’m fine! They don’t even hurt. You know how Mother is. Okay?”
She hopped off the dryer, tears in her eyes, and hugged me. “I won’t tell, Chris. I feel so bad. I’m sorry she hurts you.”
Embracing her harder, I started crying too.
Rachel told Christina about what she saw. They cornered me at school and demanded I tell them everything.
So I did.
I found the greatest relief as I told my deepest pain to my close friends. These secrets were supposed to go to the grave with me. Mother escaped the constant stream of DCF workers and policemen showing up at our door to question us, but my two middle school girl friends had questions of their own, and I could answer without the fear of Mother. I spoke the truths that had made me a hollow child, and peace came over me. I released all my wounds into the open. In that moment, my body and mind began their very lengthy healing journey.
A few days later when I was bathing the little ones, Mother was on the back porch smoking her clove cigarettes and drinking red wine with Herman. My little sister Carolina, who at this time was eight, had finished doing the dishes. She walked into our bedroom and sat on our bed, preparing to read a book. She could read so well. I enjoyed watching her speed through all the books she got from school. After tucking in the babies, I took a moment to sit with her while she opened her book.
Suddenly, we heard Herman scream out, “Carolina Lorenzo! You get your tiny butt in here right now!”
The babies woke up. Slamming the book shut in fear, Carolina ran to the kitchen. I stayed in our bedroom but leaned against the crack in the door so I could see what he was going to do. He grabbed her by the neck and pushed her head in the sink.
“You see this trash in the sink? You idiot, who taught you how to clean?” He picked up each plate she had just washed and smashed it on the kitchen floor at her feet. Plate after plate shattered as she stood there in silent tears. He just laughed as she cried. After the fifth plate, I realized she had no shoes on.
I ran to the kitchen and stood in front of my little sister, yelling frantically. “Are you crazy? She has no shoes on, look! Her feet are bleeding. What is wrong with you?”
I was so very angry. I couldn’t bear to see Herman or Mother abuse my siblings. I was used to it, had even grown comfortable being the scapegoat, but I wasn’t going to stand by watching them inflict pain on the other kids.
It only took the time for the word you to escape my mouth before he grabbed me by the throat. He lifted me off my feet into the air, choking me. He took me out of the kitchen into the hallway and slammed my body against the wall. Cursing with words that until that point were unfamiliar, he slammed my body against the wall again and again until I went limp. As I slid down the wall in slow motion, I could hear Mother laugh in excitement. I was barely conscious, so I thought maybe I had lost my mind.
Then as Herman released me, she walked over to where I lay.
“That’ll teach you to keep your filthy mouth shut!”
After I was beaten, I pushed myself to stand. Herman and Mother ordered me to clean the broken dishes—in bare feet.
That night after we were all in our bunk beds, I plotted with Carolina, Noah, and Brinly to run away. I opened our window to judge the distance to the ground below, but I knew it was too far down. We dreamed of getting out as we stared out into the sea of cars in the parking lot and on the buzzing highway nearby. I held all three of them closely, apologizing for not being able to protect them, promising not to let anyone ever hurt them again. I knew I couldn’t keep that promise. With tears in my eyes, I rocked each of them to sleep, begging God to save us.
A few days later, my siblings were chatting about how Mother said our uncle was coming to stay with us. Fear crippled me. Nightmares were common, but when I heard he might be staying with us, I began having night terrors. I was determined not to let my uncle hurt me or anyone else ever again. I contemplated for days whether to tell Mother what he had done to me. I finally decided I had to let her know, and the day I planned to tell her, I had crippling anxiety. I walked on pins and needles all day at school. I didn’t eat lunch. In our house, lunch was usually the only regular meal, so forfeiting it was sheer madness. I’d tell her as soon as I got home from school.
I walked in the house and noticed Herman wasn’t there yet, thank goodness. I asked Mother if I could talk to her. She was perplexed. I had never asked to speak to her, let alone with no one else around. I led Mother into our bedroom and closed the door behind her. I sat on the edge of the lower bunk bed facing the window. I was sweating, gripping my clammy hands and unable to speak for fear that she would literally kill me. I stuttered for several minutes with words that didn’t even make sense. She lost her patience, and with coiled lips she gave me an ultimatum: “I don’t have time for these games, little girl. You have thirty seconds to spit it out before I get the Palmolive.”
Oh no. Please, Jesus, not the green Palmolive! Mother would make us sit in a chair, tilt our heads back, and pour green Palmolive in our mouth. She forced us to leave our mouths open and our heads tilted back as the soap burned through our tongues. Most of us endured this punishment at one time or another. If we moved or cried or breathed the wrong way, we’d end up swallowing an entire mouthful of dish soap. It was by far one of the worst punishments she gave us. I hated it, and she knew it, so I quickly gathered my thoughts.
I lowered my head and said, “Talmon touched me.”
Silence.
“What did you just say, young lady?”
I told her he had started abusing me when I was nine and that it went on until we moved a few months back. I had never seen Mother so incensed.
“You lying whore! This is what you wanted to say to me? You stupid slut.” Her voice was raging with fire. She peered at me with dark eyes, and her voice became a violent whisper. “You. Stupid. Little. Slut.”
She screamed nonsense as she grabbed me by the back of my neck and forced me toward the door. She dug her nails into my neck, and I wept. There I was, in the hallway on my knees. My other siblings watched as Mother beat me with her belt. She hurt me so badly that I couldn’t sit down for more than a week without flinching. After Mother was done punishing me, she grounded me to my room, took away my next three meals, and told me I was only allowed to use the bathroom if Abbeygail said I could. I regretted ever telling her anything about her brother and wished I had kept my mouth shut. When Herman arrived, Mother pulled him into her bedroom. They talked for several hours before coming out. She left without saying a word.
Where was she going? What had I just done? I was consumed with fear.
The next morning, I woke up and got my little brother and sisters dressed, fed, and ready for school. Walking them to the bus stop, I had the worst feeling deep in my belly. Unbeknownst to me, the night before Mother had driven over to Grandmother’s house to have a family discussion. Talmon was staying with them. And after RaeLynne and Herman had a fight and he subsequently kicked her out of our house, she was there too. RaeLynne would be the one to tell me everything that had been said that night.
That night, Mother, Grandmother, and RaeLynne sat in Grandmother’s living room across from Talmon and asked him if what I said was true. He told them it was my idea and that he was sorry.
“I knew she was a little whore,” Mother said. “She probably asked for it, didn’t she? Don’t worry, Talmon. We will fix this, and no one will ever find out.”
Mother and Grandmother devised a plan to protect Talmon from getting into trouble for raping me. Grandmother advised that it would be best to keep Talmon far away from me to avoid incurring any more “issues.”
Mother and Grandmother then tasked my older sister with making sure Talmon and I were never in the same room. My sister explained to them that I would never go anywhere he already was. She was confused and began to cry. Even now, my heart breaks for my sister. She endured such pain. Grandmother silenced the room and demanded that no one ever speak of it again. And with that, the cover-up of Talmon’s horrific sexual abuse against me began. My family chose to protect a pedophile instead of me.
Even after we moved, my father fought for justice on my behalf. He knew I was being abused, and he went to court for years. He took each denied motion to another higher court or government entity. He took our case from the Seventh Judicial Circuit Court, which denied almost every one of my father’s motions starting in 1996, to the Court of Appeals, to the Supreme Court of Florida. He filed petitions, motions, briefs, and even a writ of habeas corpus in federal court in Jacksonville, Florida, on behalf of all eight of his children.
He filed letters and requests for help with the FBI, DCF, state attorney’s office, St. Johns County School District, St. Augustine Police Department, and St. Johns County Sheriff’s Office. He fought to have our case reinvestigated properly for child neglect. He did all this while under extreme duress and even after having a stroke!
My father was no angel. He had made mistakes that put his kids in harm’s way, but once he realized the full extent of what Mother was capable of, he tried to save us. He tried for years and years.
By this time, I was a teenager, and I wondered if everyone in St. Augustine knew we were being abused and neglected. I wondered why no one did anything about it. I also wondered if Herman’s position caused the authorities to turn a blind eye to the situation in our home. Perhaps the authorities didn’t believe abuse could happen in the home of a man of his standing. Or was it due to the political lashing Herman could inflict? He was a powerful man in the community—a badge-carrying lawyer for the sheriff’s office. But he was only one man.
The only person who ever tried to help me was my father. As his prison term wore on, he continued to send letters, even trying congressmen, state representatives, and Governor Jeb Bush, begging for someone to look into our case and save us. As with his first efforts, the response letters he received back always sent him to another governing body or office. States like Florida that uphold the silent “mother law”—favoring mothers in custody battles—can ignore a good father without due process or fair hearings. Still, my father fought and continued undeterred for years, trying to get custody of all eight of his children up until Brinly, the youngest, turned eighteen in 2013.
A week after the new family secret had been exposed, I was at my middle school chatting with Rachel and Christina. We heard my name called over the loudspeakers and I was summoned to the guidance counselor’s office. I had never gotten in trouble at school before. Even though I struggled in my studies, I was a good student with passing grades.
Scared, I left my classroom and walked down the empty halls to the administration offices. I wondered what I had done wrong. Mr. Langston, the counselor, welcomed me into his office. He closed the door behind him. I flinched as he walked past me to sit in his desk chair.
“Christina, you can relax. You are not in trouble.”
Oh, thank goodness, I thought, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mr. Langston expressed his concern about the bruises on my arms and legs and the bald spots on my head that recently reappeared. I knew he wanted me to tell him who had done this to me, but I knew I would surely end up dead if I did. So I didn’t say anything. I just let him talk. Then he said he had spoken to my father. I jumped up in excitement.
“You spoke to my father? Where is he? Is he okay? Is he coming to get me?”
“Christina, your father has been fighting for you while he has been in jail. He has been petitioning the courts for custody and trying to prove his innocence for the charge of hitting your mother. He knows you are being abused, and he has been calling from his jail cell to DCF asking for social workers to check on you. But every time the social workers fill out statements saying you are perfectly healthy and have no marks of abuse on you, your father’s attempts to help you go unnoticed. I look at you every day and have seen the evidence with my own eyes. So when your father called me to ask for my help, I told him I would.”
I tried to process all he was saying to me. I was overwhelmed, to say the least. Stumbling over my words, I asked when my father was coming to get me.
“Your father wants to come to get you, Christina. Your father needs your help and mine, and we need you to tell me what’s going on at home so we can protect you.”
The words had barely registered when the office door flew open. To this very day, I’m clueless as to how she knew I was there, but Mother stood in the doorway. She grabbed me by my collar, and yelled profanities at Mr. Langston, falsely accusing him of trying to molest me. Utter shock is how I’d describe his face . . . and mine. Mother and I abruptly walked out of the school and to the car. I was scared numb.
How did Mother know I was in his office? Why was my father in and out of jail so often for so many years?
My brain could not handle all the chaos that surrounded me. I got into the car and leaned my head against the window. I prayed to Jesus, asking him to take my life so I could be with him in heaven. I told him I would never do anything bad, and I would always love him if he would just come and take me home to be with him.
At home, Herman was at the kitchen table waiting for us. I didn’t say a word. He jumped to his feet and began cursing at me for causing all the family disruptions. “You are nothing but trouble. You are such a little bitch. Mr. Langston can’t save you. Do you really think we would let you get away? I know everything that happens in this town, you fool.”
Mother grabbed me by my collar, snatching me up so fast that my knees buckled. She gripped my arms and dragged me to the closet in my bedroom. She threw me into the closet and turned off the light. I looked up at her silhouette before she slammed the door shut.
“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut,” she said. “I know you’re afraid of the dark, so I’m going to teach you not to be afraid. One day you’ll thank me. After you think about what you’ve done to this family, I’ll let you out. You are a filthy demon.”
The first night in the dark closet, I wet myself, unable to get to the bathroom. I lost track of time. After what felt like days, my sister opened the door. The bright light hurt my eyes. I lifted my hand to cover them, and I saw her carrying something in her hands. She leaned over and shoved a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese toward me as if I were an animal. Dumbfounded and exhausted from being locked in a dark closet for so long, my anger raged. Without thinking, I kicked the bowl toward her.
“I am no one’s dog, and I am your sister! Why aren’t you helping me?”
I immediately regretted my choice. What have I just done?
My sister yelled for Mother. “She hit me; she hit me!”
Mother walked in. Catching sight of the pile of wire hangers on the floor, she grabbed one.
Arm raised high with her new weapon, she pulled me out of the closet. “How dare you touch your sister! She was kind enough to bring you food, and this is how you treat her? You selfish little girl! We’ll teach you to mind your manners. You’re so stupid that you’ll never learn unless we beat you to death, will you?” When she was done, Mother dragged me back into the closet. She took away the bowl of food before shutting the door.
I was locked in the closet again without the ability to use the bathroom, shower, or eat. I became delusional. After the beating with the wire hanger, I think I temporarily lost a part of my mind. I couldn’t understand why Mother hated me and why I was always doing bad things. I tried to be a good kid. I followed orders and minded my manners. How could Mother tell herself it was okay to treat me that way?
In that horrible moment, in all the deafening quiet, I felt around the closet floor and found a tube of “I Luv My Lips” lipstick that belonged to my older sister. I took off the plastic top, broke it in half, and began cutting my wrists. I wept hysterically for hours as I tried to kill myself with that dull piece of plastic. The fact that I couldn’t even manage to take my own life upset me more than the beating I had received. I despaired. I was perpetually failing.
I can’t read.
I can’t be good enough for Mother.
I can’t even kill myself.
Why am I so unwanted? No one will ever love me. Just let me die, God!
I passed out from exhaustion. When I came to, I had nothing more than a few cuts on my wrists and a pile of hair that I had pulled out of my head. Since God wouldn’t allow me to die even when I had tried so hard to, maybe I was supposed to live. With that thought, I felt a calming presence come over me again, just like in the laundry room years ago. My mind and heart saw hope again. I experienced a supernatural hope for my life.
Despite all the traumas, I knew deep inside that life someday would be beautiful. I wasn’t bad or crazy. I wasn’t the reason my family was always in disarray. Hope overtook me. Lying in that dark closet, I set my mind to fight. To fight for my life. I would never give up and try to take my life again. The Lord spoke to my heart, giving me a glimpse of a happy future. I was left with hope—once again.
The night I got out of the closet, Mother and Herman told me I wouldn’t be going to school anymore. Mother was going to homeschool me. Of course, she didn’t, and I failed seventh grade. I wouldn’t return to school until I was almost fifteen.
Over the years, Mother and Herman essentially imprisoned me. Confined to our house to keep others from asking about the bruises and the bald spots, I became the permanent babysitter, cook, and maid. I lost all contact with Rachel and Christina, which didn’t surprise me because Mother made it impossible to have friends. One afternoon when I’d been hanging out with Rachel and Christina, Mother called the cops to tell them I was missing. Of course I was at Christina’s house—and Mother knew that—but she scared their parents. As a result, the girls were forbidden to be around me.
So, after all of my strides, I found myself alone again, with no one to help me or rescue me. It was a devastating feeling. Mother and Herman tormented me for months after the middle school ordeal. I wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom without permission. I wasn’t allowed to eat with the rest of the family. I was confined to my room and wasn’t allowed to speak with my siblings. I felt trapped under the weight of Herman’s shiny badge and Mother’s hatred of her first marriage.
Even if my father and mother abandon me,
the LORD will hold me close.
Psalm 27:10 NLT