When is “Enough” Enough?

By Adena M’lynn (for the little girls whose Nana fell asleep too soon)

They say

“you’ll know when you’ve had enough”—

but I was five

learning to disappear

under coats

and beer cans

while Nana passed out

before the first commercial break.

Her boyfriends

had hands like bad magic—

making shame appear

where my childhood used to be.

They got her drunk,

got me tipsy,

called it fun.

I called it

weekend.

And no one noticed

how I folded.

How I curled myself

into corners

and prayed to a blue lampshade.

A crack in the wall.

A quiet so loud

they’d forget I was breathing.

But I had Jesus.

I had Him like a secret

tucked behind my ribs.

He didn’t stop them—

not with fists,

not with fire,

but He whispered,

look to the light,

the same Jesus from Sunday School.

And when the men pulled my body

like a puppet with no strings,

I stared at the blue light

like it was Heaven

and I was already gone.

Enough

was the smell of whiskey

on my pink gown, 

the stench of cigarette smoke in my hair.

It was slurred threats

and sugar-coated bribes,

my baby teeth

grinding down the names

of every man who swore

they didn’t mean to.

They say

“you’re so pretty,”

but I wasn’t—

I was rag-doll.

I was 4’3” of flight

with no wings

and no one to tell

because what do you say

when the woman who’s supposed to love you

hands you over

in a blackout?

When is enough, enough?

When my hands stopped shaking

long enough to write this.

When I learned it wasn’t a nightmare, it was real.

When I learned

that guilt belongs to them—

not me.

When I saw my reflection

and didn’t flinch.

When I realized

the Jesus I clung to

was never mad at me—

He was weeping

the whole time.

Lighting the hallways

so I wouldn’t have to sleep in the dark.

Enough is now.

Enough

was every time I stayed alive

one more minute.

One more night.

Enough

is me—

here.

Speaking up.

Still looking at the light.