We call it a “Family Curse.” It’s a convenient phrase, isn’t it? It implies that the tragedy stalking our bloodline is mystical, unlucky, or somehow out of our hands.
I’m done with that. I am done laughing it off to keep the peace. I am done pretending that what happens to us is a matter of fate.
The “curse” isn’t some abstract, supernatural hex. It is a cycle of silence, denial, and untreated trauma that has been passed down, unexamined, for generations. And every time we stay silent, every time we “protect” the family name or the perpetrator, we are just handing that curse to our children.
I realized this when I looked at the patterns. My grandmother’s husband killed himself. The man she was with after did the same. My husband killed himself. The man I was with after did the same.
Moms Parents Estella Pearl 1928-2003 & Russell J.R. 1921-1967 (Died by suicide)
But the rot goes even deeper than that. It starts with the absolute violation of the most sacred space: the home. My mother eventually confided in me, a heavy truth that changed the entire landscape of my understanding of our family. She told me that she and her sister were sexually assaulted by their own brothers when they were children. My aunt lost her virginity to their oldest brother, a cycle of abuse that repeated over and over, trapped in that house until they could finally escape.
They were children. And because of the silence, that trauma wasn’t just left in the past; it was baked into the foundation of our family’s reality.
When my cousin Crystal from my Dad’s side of the family, who was living out of state, finally found the courage to tell us she had been molested by our grandfather, I was 10 years old. I will never forget the horror of listening to her pour it all out. But what bothered me even more than the act itself was the reaction: my grandmother (Dad’s mom) didn’t believe her. That is a betrayal that cuts deeper than words. And he was never held accountable. That is absolute bullshit.
That betrayal was just the beginning. That cousin, Crystal, the one who had the courage to speak up at 12 years old, she carried that trauma her entire life. She was nearly 40 when she died by suicide. And the cruelty of it is almost too much to write: she died in my grandparents’ house. The same house where she was victimized.
The cycle didn’t stop with her, either. Her brother, Corey, took his own life a few years before she did. Her daughter took her own life at just 14 years old, less than 2 years after her mom died.
Corey & Crystal
Do you see the pattern now? Do you see how this isn’t just a “curse”? It is a bloodline being systematically destroyed by secrets that were never allowed to see the light of day.
They say 1 in 4 girls are molested by a family member. That number is staggering, and it is a reality that is making us sick as a collective.
I was 11. It was at a surrogate aunt’s parents’ house during her daughter’s birthday. I had won a pair of pretty earrings in a game, lost one on the porch, and was so anxious about it that I couldn’t sleep. I went into the living room, and the aunt’s stepfather was there. He had me sit in his lap. He started touching me. I told him to stop, and thankfully, he did. I ran back to the bedroom and I didn’t get back up.
I didn’t tell anyone. I held that secret until I was 16. I was at the pink house in Broken Arrow. My little sister came to my room crying. Tensions were already high because another cousin had just been victimized by a neighbor, a predator who was eventually arrested for molesting multiple kids and producing child pornography.
My sister told me she had been molested by the son of a babysitter she had years prior. I told her the only thing that made sense: You have to tell Mom. When she hesitated, I promised her: I will tell Mom what happened to me, too, if you agree to tell her what happened to you.
We made that pact. We told. My mom fought so hard to find those men, the stepfather who had nearly beaten his wife to death, and the babysitter’s son. But these were the days before Google, before the age of information. We couldn’t find them. We couldn’t get justice.
The point of sharing this, of exposing the darkest, most horrific corners of my life, is not to rehash the pain for the sake of it. It is to expose the problem. This is happening everywhere, every day. And it is making us, as families and as a collective, incredibly sick.
Stop protecting the abusers. It is not helping anyone.
I am writing this because I have children. I have the future. And the idea of them walking this path, of them inheriting this “curse,” makes me want to throw up. So I am blowing the lid off this shit. I am facing the rot so that I can clear the foundation.
If you are reading this and you are carrying a secret, or if you are protecting a secret, please: Do something. Don’t let your family end up like mine. The curse stops here. It has to.
Rock Bottom Was Only The Lobby 