My Mask

2018 was supposed to be my year, my opportunity to escape the shackles of my past and redefine myself. But as the months passed, I realized I was trapped in a nightmare that no amount of pretending could fix.

Windhoek, the city that seemed so full of promise when I first arrived, began to feel like a cage. I had my school, where everything seemed fine on the outside, but home was another story altogether.

School was easy. I stayed at the top of my class, a mask I wore to cover up the turmoil inside. My friends didn't see it. They didn't see the cracks in my facade. They didn't know that behind the smiles, there was a storm brewing. At school, I was the girl who had it all together, but back home, the cracks in my family's foundation were widening, threatening to swallow me whole.

I'd gotten so good at hiding my pain that no one suspected what was happening when I was behind closed doors. But I knew. I felt it.

I wasn't prepared for the reality of my parents' marriage. The fights had always been there, simmering in the background, but now they were in full view. My father's abusive behavior wasn't new, but seeing it unfold in front of me was. My mom had just given birth to our little sister, and instead of basking in the joy of a new life, she was dealing with a man who didn't know how to love her—only how to hurt her.

I was in my room, studying for my national exams, when it all exploded. My parents barged in, their voices filled with anger and bitterness. My father was raging, shouting, accusing, while my mom stood there, defeated. His words were venomous, his actions brutal. I could hear the sound of his fists connecting with her skin, and the sickening sound of his anger bleeding into the walls of our home.

I remember freezing, unable to move. I was just sixteen, a child myself, caught in the crossfire of their hatred. I wanted to scream, to do something, anything, to make it stop. But I was powerless. All I could do was sit there in silence, a spectator to my own devastation.

At school, I wore a mask. I laughed, I smiled, I acted like everything was fine. But deep down, I was breaking. Every day I went through the motions, pretending that everything was okay, that I was the same girl who had it all together. But I wasn't. I was shattered, and no one knew.

My parents' constant fighting had eaten away at me, and in the quiet moments, when I was alone with my thoughts, the weight of it all was unbearable. I felt so small, so powerless in my own life. The lies I had told to keep myself from being vulnerable seemed to be the only thing holding me together. But they were breaking apart, too.

I began to lie again, to cover up my pain. I couldn't face what was happening at home, so I sought refuge in the houses of my new friends, escaping the chaos that had become my reality. I'd spend the day with them, pretending to be normal, only to leave by dawn, returning to the shattered home I had no choice but to live in. It was exhausting, pretending to be someone I wasn't, but I didn't know how else to survive.

No one knew the truth about my life, not really. They saw the girl who aced her exams, who had a seemingly perfect life, but that wasn't me. That was just the version I had created to protect myself.

In reality, I was lost. I was falling apart, piece by piece, and no one even saw it.

I went rogue again. The love I needed was nowhere to be found at home, even though my mom and family expected me to be the perfect child. At home, chaos was constant. So, I slipped back into the old habits—lying, manipulating, trying desperately to maintain an image of the good child I wished I could be. I went back on the promise I made to God not to have sex again. In Windhoek, we lived in the suburbs, and it was there that I met my first man in the city, a man ten years older than me. He seemed only interested in one thing—sex. At first, I didn't mind; it felt like a way to escape from everything that was wrong.

But eventually, I confronted him. We broke up, and I felt nothing—no sadness, no sense of loss. My dignity, my worth, didn't even seem to matter to me anymore. Soon after, I found another boyfriend. This time, I lied to my parents more than ever, pretending everything was fine while I continued to drift further away from the girl I once was. He, too, only wanted one thing: sex. And I let him use me.

I loved him, or at least I thought I did. I told him everything about me, hoping for something real in return. But he never cared. To him, I was just something to pass the time with. Meanwhile, the whispers started. The rumors spread like wildfire, and I became the talk of the town—a disrespectful child, a girl who slept around without care, without shame.