Eccedentesiast (n.): Someone who hides pain behind a smile. I’ve gotten to be quite good at that. I’ve learned to swallow my pain and put on the cracked mask that carries the smile. That smile. It taunts me. Sometimes I wish that smile was real. I wish that I could stop lying and tell the truth. I wish. Hopes and wishes are the only things that are keeping me alive. I constantly feel as though I’m being ripped apart from the inside and that godforsaken smile is the only thing that people see. The only thing they choose to see. I bet you that they see the pain, notice the scars, observe the bruises, identify the scratches, but they just choose to look right by it. The only one that could detect the pain was my mother. She’s gone now, but everything was alright when she was still there. My father wasn’t a drunk, he wouldn’t beat me, and everything was good. Until she decided her time had come. Her death gave me lypophrenia, a vague feeling of sadness with seemingly no cause.

Now you can try tell me that I shouldn’t do this. That I shouldn’t repress my feelings, that I shouldn’t hide behind something that isn’t even tangible. That won’t work. You don’t have to live through what I do. You don’t have to worry that everything you do is wrong and that you might be given a beating. You don’t have to live through that. I do. I have to live that life. Always in fear. Always lying and stretching the truth and there’s nothing I can do to get away from it. He’s my father and if I run away, he’ll find me and bring me back. He says he’ll change and get better but everytime, it’s the same thing. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to get away from this life I live, this pain I feel. Absolutely nothing. I can’t tell him off and protect myself because I live with him and see him everyday, and if I do something like that, I’ll receive a beating that could be fatal.

Everytime I see my friends I have to say that the cuts came from me falling, and the bruises are from bumping into things. I can tell that they suspect something but they never really say anything. It’s all tight smiles and lies. At night, when I’m in bed, all of the what-ifs come to haunt me. I can never sleep. All my dreams are nightmares. Real nightmares. Monsters with faces of the people I love, clowns wielding bloody knives, standing over what seems to be corpses of myself. My only real escape is the books I read. I’ve got Moby Dick, Jane Eyre, Lord of The Flies, and To Kill a Mockingbird stacked up by my bed. They’re some of my favorites. I’ve got many more books hidden. If my father saw these, he’d take them from me and he’d hurt me. And hurt me really really badly. But reading is my aeipathy, it’s my escape. It’s my world. My world filled with glorious heroines, mystical, faraway people, and wonderful, beautiful magic.

Everyday he comes home smelling strongly of vodka and ashtrays. He makes me tell lies, and keep secrets. He made me keep my mother’s death a secret. He made me tell them she moved because they were divorced. So now, I barely see them because I have to tell them I’m going to visit my mother when in reality my father is dragging me home and finding an excuse, any excuse, to beat me. I clean up, he beats me because I moved too slow, when I clean too quickly, he beats me because he claims I didn’t clean thoroughly.

It’s a cycle full of pain and suffering and terror that I can’t seem to get out of. I live in fear because whatever I do, I do it wrong. But I shouldn’t complain, because it could be worse. And I can’t even describe how bad it would get, because it’s completely ineffable. The life I lead, and the pain hidden behind that mask is ineffable. That pain is tearing me apart and there’s this part of me that just wants to get out and scream. Scream in fear, in horror and scream a plea of freedom. Freedom from this place. That’s what I want. I want freedom. I want my day to end with a book in my hands and without fear or shame or guilt. I want to make a mistake and not bleed for it. I want just want to be able to go home, without feeling a pit in my stomach. I want to scream. I feel that pain and terror in me everywhere I go but I never let it show. After all, I am an eccedentesiast. A person who hides their pain behind a smile.

Domestic violence is a pattern of abusive behaviour where one family member tries to gain or maintain control over another. Sexual abuse is any unwanted sexual activity where the abuser uses force, makes threats or takes advantage of their victim without consent. People who have been affected by physical or sexual harassment are reported to have consistent nightmares, symptoms of PTSD, anxiety and depression. They face feelings such a shame or guilt. They blame themselves for what happened to them and they almost never seek out help. According to the National Center for Injury Prevention and Control, women experience about 4.8 million intimate partner-related physical assaults and rapes every year. Less than 20 percent of battered women sought medical treatment following an injury. “ [Hein] Hofmeyr says research indicates that 40% of men have reported hitting their partners and one in four has confessed to raping a woman. According to the Minister of Police, General Bheki Cele, there have been 124 256 rape cases reported in the last three years. “The MRC states that only 2% of rapes are reported. It’s then safe to assume that the number of rape cases is closer to two million per year. What is even more concerning is that General Cele said 41% of reported rapes were committed against children. It’s quite apparent that we desperately need activism to create awareness about the need to put a stop to women and child abuse.” says website, Akeso Behavioral Health Care Group. So please, if you are facing any sort of abuse, call any of these hotlines that apply to you

National Child Abuse Hotline:

1-800-422-4453

National Domestic Violence Hotline:

1-800-799-7233

Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network:

1-800-656-4673

National Teen Dating Abuse Hotline:

1-866-331-9474

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

1-800-273-8255