Did anyone believe you when you spoke up about abuse?

When you finally opened up about the abuse happening at home, did anyone actually believe you? Or were you met with doubt, excuses, and silence?

To those of you who grew up in violent homes, did you ever try to tell someone what was really happening behind closed doors? And if so, were you actually believed?

I’ve been reading through some of the posts on here, and it hit me how many people share the same painful pattern — speaking up, only to be dismissed or ignored. I wanted to ask more openly: how many of you experienced this?

I tried to speak up. Twice.

I was around 11 or 12 when I told two different adults — both of whom I trusted — that things weren’t okay at home. That my father, who everyone else saw as charming, helpful, and warm, was someone completely different when no one was watching.

He was the kind of man who could light up a room, win over a crowd, and make you feel like the most special person alive — and he weaponized that charm. He had people wrapped around his finger. But behind closed doors? He was a tyrant. He used words like knives. Sometimes his hands, too.

When I told those adults what was happening, they thought I was exaggerating. “Kids and parents fight sometimes,” they said. “It’s just normal family stuff.” Worse, both times they ended up calling my father to “sort it out.” I’ll never forget the look in his eyes that night. The rage. The calm before the storm. What happened after that scared me more than the original abuse, because now I knew I couldn’t even ask for help.

After that, I shut down completely. I became really good at hiding things. I memorized excuses — “I tripped,” “I left my coat at school,” “I must’ve bruised myself in gym class.” I got used to lying with a smile.

It wasn’t until I moved out that I finally allowed myself to tell the truth. I cut off contact with him, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I could breathe. But even then — even as an adult — the reactions were brutal.

His sister, my aunt, looked me in the eyes and said, “Well, you’re not exactly perfect either. That’s no reason to just cut off your father.”

That moment broke something in me. As if being abused meant nothing unless you were a flawless victim. As if standing up for yourself was somehow worse than what he did.

The only person who believed me — really believed me — was my grandfather. He’d seen glimpses of who his son really was. He backed me. He backed my mother when she finally filed for divorce. Without him, I’m not sure how long I would’ve kept pretending everything was fine.

So I ask again — if you told someone about the abuse:

Did they listen?

Did they believe you?

Or did they silence you, shame you, or explain it away?

There’s nothing more isolating than telling the truth and being met with doubt. And I know I'm not alone in that.

To anyone reading this who’s still carrying the silence — I believe you, even if no one else did.