Crowning Glory

My father was a career military man and did three tours overseas. Each time he returned home from deployments his skill at attacking others in darkness was sharper and keener. He drank heavily and became easily enraged, used the skills he had mastered to be quick and precise when striking out at the object of his ire. The only daughter in the family, I was not spared the violence inflicted upon my four brothers. My father did not discriminate in his lashing out. My disadvantage was the possession of gloriously long dark hair that both parents insisted I grow.

Coming of AgeGuest UserNovember 29, 2022abuse, parents, childhood, coming of age Comments

The Bell

A small engraved bell with a clapper sat on the teak coffee table in the room where my father lay dying. He no longer had the strength to call my mother so this was the instrument he used to summon her. I heard it from the kitchen and went into the living room.

Before and AfterJulia NusbaumMay 27, 2022childhood, father and daughter, father, abuse, hospital, Feminist, women writersComment

Trespasses and Small Rebellions

By the first day of grade twelve, I can’t handle living in this shithole town anymore. Summer: a blur of house parties, handsy boys and men, and sleepless nights. I butt my cigarette against the brown brick façade, march into the guidance counsellor’s office and say, “If I can’t finish first term, I quit.” I graduate in January.

Family SecretsJulia NusbaumApril 1, 2021Sexual assult, abuse, family secrets, survivorComment

Surviving My Nazi Kin

In early spring of 2018, I found myself on a phone call with an estranged cousin, Beate. I had just moved back to Germany to research and relive my childhood in preparation for work on a memoir. When my cousin learned I had moved back, she got in touch.

Resilient WomenGuest UserSeptember 24, 2020family issues, race, black girls, racism, Strong women, abuse Comments

Dear Leah

Dear Younger Self,

How could you have known? You came naked into a world that didn’t want you. Born on a kitchen table because your mother didn’t have the money for a hospital. Like everything else in your life, you’ve pretended this is cool when it’s actually pathetic. You have to admit it makes for an interesting story.

Dear Past MeJulia NusbaumJuly 30, 2019Survivor, strong women, abuse, love letter Comments

The Individual

It’s Tuesday 23rd January 2001 and I don’t want to go to school. Today is a different day from the ones that have gone before. Every day since Saturday has been a different day from the ones that have gone before.

Mother's DayJulia NusbaumMay 31, 2019#thrivestories, #moms, abuse, Religion, griefComment

Rage

Rage enveloped me in my mother’s womb. It bathed me in amniotic fluid that permeated my cells, and developed who I was about to become. The origin of this rage could have evolved from my mother’s life events. My mother from Japan, who immigrated to America a decade after WWII ended. Whose legs carried her as she and her family ran from their house after it was bombed and burned to the ground, barely making it out alive.

RageJulia NusbaumApril 22, 2019Anger, Feminism, Motherhood, abuse Comments

Father Figure

You remember your father’s fingers curling around the head of your new born baby. They are long, the nails rectangular and pared, clean pink and white, like the baby. Her head fills one of his hands and he uses the other to cradle her body neatly to him. He has his hands full, which is why, when the tears start to leak out of his eyes, he has to turn away, towards the window in the corner of the hospital room.

SecretsJulia NusbaumNovember 29, 2018secrets, abuse, mother, fatherComment

Over It

It was a good thing.

No, in fact, it was the best thing that could’ve happened.

I know that.

I was in an abusive relationship—eighteen years old—and the stick said positive.

GriefJulia NusbaumAugust 31, 2018miscarriage, grief, abuseComment

The Wisdom of Grief

My Facebook feed brings me an Orca carrying her dead baby, her tears spouting upwards, salting the already salty ocean. I am like that Orca, carrying my bundled grief, attached to my heaving chest, refusing to let go. The sudden loss of marriage, child, parent, even as I came back from the brink of death, has become my bundled grief. I clutch it, like that bundle of celebratory, baby shaped rice Japanese mothers handle with so much care, as it is supposed to hold the child’s future.

GriefJulia NusbaumAugust 30, 2018abuse, grief, adultery, Motherhood, cancer Comment

Grief and the Absence of Love

Is grief supposed to feel so much like shame? Mine does. Telling my story seems dangerous. It is something I hold close to my chest; I hesitate to reveal even the smallest details unless I have to. To speak of loss and pain out loud makes me vulnerable. It shakes a carefully crafted persona. It could mean people will think less of me, people will not like me. It could mean I get fired from my job, because I am someone who can’t cope. It could mean I will be left, once again, utterly, unbearably alone. That is too high a price to pay.

GriefJulia NusbaumAugust 28, 2018grief, Mother daughter, Mental Health, abuse, family issuesComment

Dear Beth

Dear Past Me,

It’s been what seems like an eternity since I last thought of you. The memories of you terrify me to the point of disbelief. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve told myself it’s nonessential how our life started out, so why dwell on the past?

Dear Past MeJulia NusbaumAugust 3, 2018dear past me, childhood, abuse, love story Comment

You're Supposed to be Suffering

It’s hot. I wear an old tye-dye dress and sneakers, my bangs stuck to my sweaty forehead. Photographs will later reveal I have the sort of bowl haircut stylists default to when you’re too young to know what you want, and your parents just want something cheap that won’t get gum stuck in it. I’ve come to a standstill on the sidewalk to watch a mosquito bite my bare calf.

Beauty StandardsJulia NusbaumMarch 27, 2018beauty standards, story, feminist, Self esteem, abuseComment

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