It Is What It Is

Prologue

Hi there.
My name is Estefania, but everyone calls me Stef.
I am a 27 year old, single mother of 2, navigating a world that often felt stacked against me. Recently diagnosed with Autism and ADHD, I’m on a journey—not just to understand myself, but to heal from the past and create a future that’s finally mine.
I was raised in isolation, away from school, education, friends, and freedom. Some have compared my upbringing to a "close-knit cult," and in many ways, that’s exactly how it felt. Abuse found me at every turn—within my family, my neighborhood, my workplace, and even in the arms of those who claimed to love me.
For a long time, I believed escape was impossible, that the darkness would consume me. But here I am, telling my story. Not just for me, but for anyone who has ever felt trapped in their own life. Survival is possible, even when the light at the end of the tunnel seems unreachable.
So, welcome to my life. It may be hard to read, harder to imagine, but…

It is what it is.

Chapter 1: The Unseen Struggles

I have six siblings, and I've been told different stories about which of them share the same parents. So, in truth, I don’t know much about their backgrounds—or even my own, if I’m being honest.
Britainy, who is currently in her 40’s
Tiffany, also in her 40’s
Crystal, also in her 40’s
Manon, in her early 30’s
Charles/Charlie, in his early 30’s
and Steven, in his early 20’s.

My memory of my three oldest siblings before the age of 16 is vague. We rarely saw them—they were much older, each had a different father, and they lived in separate cities. In Texas, that kind of distance is considered long-distance, so we were never very close.
The three siblings I grew up with were close to each other but never really close to me.
All four of us were "homeschooled," but by that, I mean my mother handed us each a GED workbook and said, "It’s your choice if you're stupid by the time you turn 18." Naturally, as kids, we didn’t think studying was necessary and spent most of our time playing video games instead.
Because of our mother’s paranoid personality and undiagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder, we were rarely allowed outside to make friends. On the rare occasions we did get the chance, we were so socially awkward that it never ended well.
The outcome of being raised this way was exactly what you’d expect—we had little to no social skills or street smarts, could barely do basic math, and had almost no academic knowledge beyond that.
My mother tried to do her best in some ways, like taking us to homeschool groups at libraries or to children’s museums and aquariums. But she was essentially a single mother since our father was, for lack of a better word, useless. She also didn’t know how to navigate the internet very well yet. She didn’t really know what she was doing, and because people were too afraid to challenge her or stand up to her, she never learned from her mistakes with her older children—because, in her mind, she had never made any. To this day, she believes the abuse we endured from her never happened.
My memory comes and goes like a bad Wi-Fi signal. I feel like my brain is a browser with 27 tabs open—one is playing music, and I can’t figure out which tab it is.
I have faint memories of living in our old townhome apartment when I was two. I remember playing with my Barbies when I was seven, and, for lack of a milder description, every time I played with them, they were being raped and abused. Because of that, I don’t really remember when the abuse started—my memories of it begin around the ages of nine or ten.
At this time, my parents fought often and loudly. They slept in separate rooms, and we rarely saw my dad. He worked long hours, so we were stuck at home with our mom all day. She had her own mental struggles and coped by hoarding. We lived in a five-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom house. It was big, but the girls shared one room, the boys shared another, Mom slept in one, Dad slept in another, and the last room was strictly for my mom’s hoarded furniture—along with the rest of the house.
When I was about 9, almost 10, my father one day walked into my room when I was lying down in my bed. My sister was in her bed reading across the room. It was late at night, and I was half asleep when my dad slipped under my blanket to lie down next to me.
I was happy he was there to cuddle, but was confused as it has never happened.
We were there for about 30 minutes when he grabbed my hand and pulled it down to him. I noticed his pants were completely off and I had no idea why. He used my hand to “finish him off”, and then he pulled his pants back on, got up and left.
I was so confused as to what happened that I thought it was the dream the next day.
The same thoughts kept floating around my head the next day, like “He wouldn’t do that” “Manon would have noticed and said something” “That definitely wasn’t real”.

But a week later, it happened again. I kept telling myself it was just a dream—until it became a daily occurrence. I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, but I knew that if I told my mom, he would be thrown in jail, and we would lose our home with no other source of income. So, I stayed quiet and told myself, “It wasn’t hurting anyone.” It slowly escalated to oral, both giving and receiving. Which escalated to showering together. Which escalated to full blown sex. It became so often that I don’t truly remember the exact age he took my virginity. Just that it was before I got my first period (11).
"It wasn’t all bad," I kept telling myself. I spent a lot of time in the garage—his man cave—with him, which was the most attention and affection I had ever received growing up. We weren’t exactly an affectionate family. I don’t think I got my first hug from my mother until I was 21 and pregnant.
My dad would bring me treats and snacks, toys and clothes. He would take me on walks with him to buy his cigarettes, and sometimes, we’d even have movie nights together. I was simultaneously the happiest and most miserable girl in the world.
My mother says she noticed the change in me, but assumed it was just me being a teenager.
She would see me sitting in my dads lap with little to no clothing, or see him hugging me a certain way, or a little too much. And when she would question me I would burst into tears and tell her no and she thought I was angry she would accuse him of anything so she let it go and stopped asking.
But she was abusive in her own way, and in severe denial, so I’m sure she simply didn’t want to see what else was going on.
My mother’s abuse was more verbal and mental than physical. I don’t remember receiving any physical abuse, but my little brother endured it weekly.
The memories that are burned into my brain the most are of her tying my little brother to the banister with his own shirt because she didn’t like that he was running around, or when she continuously kicked him down the hallway, screaming, “Apologize!” Every time he got up, she would kick him back down. We were all crying, begging her to stop, and asking what he was supposed to apologize for, but she ignored us.
To this day, he has no memories before he was a teenager.
My older brother had the perfect life. My mother always praised him for being the perfect child. Anything went wrong? Ask Charlie. Anyone had a question? Ask Charlie. Someone brought in new information? Let’s double-check with Charlie. The only person who didn’t have to do chores? Charlie. I never understood why. Still don’t.
My oldest sisters have told me stories about their childhoods, but the only one I have personally witnessed and can attest to is Manon’s. We endured the same verbal abuse as the others, but on top of that, we were pitted against each other.
I was always told, “You have such a pretty face. It’s too bad you’re not skinny. You really shouldn’t wear shorts—you’re too fat for them. You know, I think your sister hates you because you have such a pretty face and she doesn’t. If you could be skinnier like her, you’d look good.”
And my sister was told, “You’re lucky you’re skinnier than your sister. But it’s too bad you have such a weird-shaped face. You know, growing up, your sister was always told how cute she was, but you were never complimented. That’s probably the reason you two never got close and have such low confidence now.”
This was a weekly, if not daily, conversation.
My mother has these tantrums where she out of nowhere will be so angry she says anything cruel and hateful she can, even if it’s made up, just to hurt us. Screaming at the top of her lungs, slamming doors, breaking things. And the next day, she’ll send us some money and say “I don’t really remember what happened but sorry if I was a little upset”. So we all learned to walk on eggshells around her to avoid the tantrums. However I didn’t like that, so I started standing up to her. I would be honest with her about what happened, or what hurt or upset someone, how she overreacted and should learn to control herself. Naturally, she wasn’t happy about it for years. But she has lately been more… Accepting of things.

My older brother later followed in my fathers footsteps of sexual abuse. However he was more violent and aggressive, and less… Clean.
When I was around 12 or 13, we were working on a halloween costume. The idea was that I was going to wear a fake paper mache belly with a baby bursting out. At first I love it because I felt as if I was finally bonding with one of my siblings. But the longer we worked on it, I noticed my brother would get handsy. We would be measuring to make sure it would fit me and he would grope me. That slowly turned into “Can you take your shirt off so we get more exact measurements?”. Which would turn into him asking me when I got breasts because he doesn’t remember them being this nice. Which turned into him making me undress altogether so he could grab and touch and feel on me seemingly out of pure curiosity.
It also eventually led to oral, and eventually sex.

Although the sex was almost non-existent, the oral was consistent and aggress. He would randomly come in my room when I would be at my desk and he would tell me what he wanted, and if I told him no he would grab my head and hair so tight my hair would be ripped out to force me onto him. I would be gagging because he always smelled of old pee and sweat.
Or he would grab my hand and grip it so tight I would hear a snap or crack.
I learned very early how to wrap broken fingers with stents.
Sometimes I would even wake up from a deep sleep and be completely naked on the floor of my room, wondering why I never woke up.

But I never told my mother because I knew he was the favorite. And if I told her about him, I would also tell her about my dad. I didn’t think she would believe that not one, but two, of our family members would do this to me.

“It must be my fault for somehow provoking them and this is your karma”

So I kept my mouth shut until I snapped at 17.

Chapter 2: Fighting The Darkness

By the time I was 17, I had already run away countless times—either returning on my own before anyone noticed I was gone or being brought back by the police. Sometimes, I ran away to try to end my life, though I could never go through with it. Other times, I just hoped to be homeless—anything to avoid being home.
One day, I had finally had enough. I decided to try drowning myself in the bathtub. I tried, but every time I panicked when I needed to breathe and instinctively jumped back up. After about an hour of trying, I realized it wasn’t going to work. Defeated, I went downstairs to my mom’s room, my clothes dripping onto the floor behind me, sobbing out loud for the first time in my life.
Instead of showing concern, my mom seemed annoyed. She asked why I was getting water on her floor. But through my tears, I told her what my dad had done. I knew better than to mention my brother. But at least I could tell her about my dad. After too many pregnancy scares, I figured getting one enemy out was better than none.
I begged my mom not to tell anyone because I didn’t want to deal with family members staring at me or asking questions. She agreed. Then she told everyone.

Later, when my dad came downstairs and saw me crying next to my mother, he asked what had happened. My mom told him she knew everything and that he owed me an apology. His response?
"I mean, I’m sorry, I guess? But she wanted it. I didn’t do anything."
At that point, my mom told him he needed to leave and not come back. If he agreed to keep paying for the bills and groceries, she wouldn’t call the police. He agreed, slept in his car that night, and, I assume, found a hotel or apartment the next day. To this day, he lives with his 20-year-old girlfriend.

That was the first time I ever believed my mother cared about me.
The following year, I was doing a little better but was still trying to handle my brother.
When I turned 18, I got a job at a grocery store, which is where I met my boyfriend, Edwin. He was extremely abusive.
He would rape, beat or scream at me daily.
A textbook narcissist.

I eventually started sleeping at Edwin’s house more often, spending more time there than at home. One day, during a particularly bad day for me, my mother was going on and on about how my brother was the most amazing person—how I should be lucky to be even remotely as great as him. Etcetera, etcetera.

Without thinking, I blurted out, “He’s not so perfect.”
My mother, confused, asked me what I meant. So I told her everything.
She told me to leave the house for a while so she could talk to him. So I went to Edwin’s.
The next day, I received a text from my mother:
"I told your brother he needed to move out ASAP because you deserve to feel comfortable in your own home."
For the first time in my life, I cried happy tears. I hadn’t even believed they were real until that moment.
I rushed home, eager to thank my mom, but before I could finish, she interrupted me.
"I changed my mind," she said. "Your brother feels really bad. It looked like he might almost cry while talking about how, when he sees you, it just feels right and he doesn’t know why. So he’s staying, and I need you to get over it and not make him feel bad anymore. Okay?"
That was the day I realized my home wasn’t my home. I was just… there.
Eventually, I broke things off with my abusive boyfriend. I started sleeping in my small Honda Civic—the one my mother had convinced me was a great buy. I would only come home to prove I was still alive or if I needed to shower. When my car broke down, I even slept on the hood to get some air or just on the streets. No one noticed I was gone.
I was working two to three jobs, surviving on two hours of sleep and six to eight energy drinks a day. I was in and out of psych wards for suicidal tendencies so often that I knew all the routines, all the doctors' names—and they knew mine.
I tried to stay optimistic. I went on dates. But by the second date, if I explained that I wanted to wait to be intimate, they would either ghost me right then and there or take what they wanted anyway. I started dating men out of survival—just to have a place to sleep for a night. I stopped caring about what they did. I would lie there like a dead starfish, tears running down my face, waiting for it to be over—grateful only that I had a bed for the night.

But after crying "no" and being ignored so many times, I couldn't take it anymore. I stopped searching.
I started lying. I told everyone I was 30, married, with a lot of kids. I wore a cheap, fake ring so no one would bother me. My stories changed all the time, and I became known as the liar at work. Duh. But I didn’t care. I became a complete loner—and I was happy about it.
The plan worked.
For a while, anyway.
Until I met my kids' dad, Tim.
I was working overnight at the same grocery store, down to just one job because I was planning to get my GED during the day. None of us had high school diplomas.
Tim and I transferred to the same store around the same time and became best friends instantly. We hit it off quickly, so inseparable that everyone assumed we were already dating.
Except... he had a girlfriend.

One day, I asked for his number, and he told me, "I have a girlfriend, and she gets jealous."
I told him I understood—I hadn’t even known he was taken. So we went back to being just friends at work.
One night, he knocked on my car window while I was asleep outside of work.
"I broke up with her," he said. "I realized I was more excited to come to work to see you than I’ve EVER been to go home and see her. So we broke up. She’s moving out as we speak."
I felt bad for her... but secretly, I was happy. He seemed like the first genuinely wonderful man—inside and out.
I remembered all the stories he had told me. About how he and his girlfriend had been together for six years, but he never wanted to marry her or have kids. How he thought buying a house together would fix their problems, but it only made things worse. How he let his parents move in to help with rent since she was gone, but it was all temporary.
I found out later—from her directly—that none of that was true.
Three months into dating, we slept together and got pregnant. While I was on birth control.
And then, the messages started coming. From her. Screenshots. Proof.
Tim had sold his $6,000 motorcycle to buy her an engagement ring. They had been trying to have a baby, but she couldn't get pregnant. While I was with him, he was still texting her, saying he'd leave me to visit her in the next city over.
"You know it's always been you."
"I've always loved you."
He even told her private things I had shared with him. He laughed about me behind my back.
She messaged me:
"You might have been happy being the side girl, but I’m not. I’m blocking him. I just thought you should know who he is."
My heart dropped.

I was pregnant by this man. What was I going to do?
We fought constantly. He let his family treat me horribly. He swore he had told me he was still friends with her, that I knew. And that I wasn’t innocent either—because I was with him when they were still together. Even though he had told me they had already broken up.
After so long of being hurt—my words ignored, my pleas for help thrown onto deaf ears—I decided I was only alive to take care of my child.
That was my only purpose. My life wasn’t meant to matter—just to care for our baby.
So I did. I poured everything into taking care of him.
Then, nine months later, I found out I was pregnant again—with a little girl.
I was so deep in depression that for months, I planned my escape. I thought about the pills they would give me after the birth. I convinced myself I would do it.
But then she was born.

I couldn’t go through with it.
I couldn’t leave these beautiful children in the hands of a man-child who only thought of himself and his cult-like family.
And what if they blamed themselves for my death? What if they followed suit when they were older?
So I stuck it out.
I worked three to four jobs. I would come home between shifts to drop the kids off at their grandparents' house or bring them to work with me if I had to. I cooked meals for the week, cleaned the house as much as possible, did laundry, dishes, mowed the lawn, fed the dogs.
Sometimes, I even got to shower.
I was drowning.

At least once a week, I would break down on the floor, sobbing, cutting myself, begging Tim to help me.
We had roaches and rats because he lived like a pig, and I could only clean so much in the couple of hours I was home. And he’d say, "Oh, every house is like that. If you didn't grow up like this, you were rich."
He would see me crying and promise to do better. And for a few days, he would. Then, it would go right back to normal.
He accused me of working multiple jobs to cheat on him—even though every cent I earned went to the bills he got us into. Security systems we didn’t use. A brand-new truck he didn’t need.
His money? A gun with no safety. Vape pens he lied about having. For years.
At one of my jobs, I met Carlos. He had a pregnant girlfriend and seemed happily married. We were both managers, and my best friend Oriana worked there too. The three of us often closed together.
One night, Carlos and I were closing until 2 a.m. He said his car broke down and needed a ride home. His house was just down the street.
I had given him a ride before. No problem.
When we got there, he asked for a hug. I said okay.
But outside of his trailer, in the middle of nowhere, he grabbed me. Held me down.
As I cried and screamed and begged him to stop, he ignored me. Finished. Walked inside like nothing happened.
And all I could think was: Tim won’t believe me. He’ll kill me.
So after crying on the ground for a while, I pulled my jeans back on and drove home.
I cried in the shower for hours. Then went to bed.
For a month, Carlos kept texting me. "I thought you wanted it." "I’m sorry."
I told him to stop. To pretend it never happened. I didn’t want to talk about it.
Then one night, Tim went through my phone.
He woke me up by throwing it at me, screaming that I had ruined our family because I chose to cheat on him.
He went outside and destroyed our kids’ toys, the playground I had spent thousands on.
So I grabbed his gun. Fully loaded.

I drove to a gas station, ready to end everything.
Tim had his parents watch the kids and came to get me. The first thing he did?
Yell at me for touching his gun.
When the cops came, he told them there was no gun. I told them the truth.
They sent me to a mandatory 48-hour hold.
And for the first time in a long time, I slept. The full 48 hours.
When I got out, my mother got a U-Haul. We packed my things, grabbed the kids, and left.
We had to start a new life.