I swear to tell the truth, the Whole Truth and nothing But the Truth. So help me God. (18)

(Warning, some of this content may be disturbing for individuals who’ve experienced abuse)

My step-father and mother fought constantly. These fights would often become physical with my mother escalating things. I have a vivid memory of my mother cornering my father and trying to pour freshly brewed hot coffee all over him. I also sadly have a memory of my step-father’s brother hitting my mother while she was pregnant with my brother with a frying pan. My mother could say some scathing things without raising her voice ever and cut you down, but words escalating to violence seemed so odd to me. I took to hiding in my room more.

In the summer of my 7th grade, my step-father was tasked by my mother with spanking me with his belt for something I had done. The belt came loose from his hand and wrapped around my torso, leaving a massive welt. I bent over, wincing in pain, and he felt so terrible that he cried. He vowed that he’d never spank me again and was devastated that he’d injured me. I wore the welt for weeks as a constant reminder to stay hidden from my mother, who was becoming more mercurial in temperament by the day.

Eventually, Mansour and my mother split up, and he moved across the courtyard. At first, my brother would split his time between his dad’s house and ours, but arguments regularly happened over when and where he should be.

My brother, still super cute, was fun to hang out with. One afternoon while I watched him, he started talking about some bizarre things and mentioned someone putting carrots where carrots should not go into his body. I told my mother, and she called the Navajo police. Visitation with my step-father was canceled. He tried to challenge this, so she had him arrested.

As you can imagine, I was incredibly confused by this turn of events. My mother started telling us and everyone who would listen that Mansour had molested Afshin. Afshin’s stories started getting wilder and before, he said these things happened at daycare, now he was beginning to tell people his father and his friends were dressing up as women and doing all sorts of things to him. Friends like Charlie Seal.

Divorce papers were filed, and a prolonged divorce battle began. My mother sat me down and tried to implant memories with me that didn’t exist, probably not realizing I was now old enough to discern truth from fiction. She tried to convince me that my step-father had abused me.

“Remember that night that we had a party, and I gave you some rum and milk? I think that’s the night it happened. You might not have remembered it, but did you wake up sore?”

“No, Mom, I don’t remember that.”

I was in a permanent state of “what the fuck”?!

My mother, not convinced by this, took me to a doctor to be examined, not once, but twice. She insisted on both vaginal and rectal exams. I remember the doctor protesting her request, and she’d respond that I had been raped and that she needed the evidence. Anything.

Little did she know, she subjected me to more abuse in those two visits by her hand. I was incredibly violated. That felt like rape.

I became so depressed after this that I ran away a few times but didn’t make it very far, and I attempted suicide three times. My suicide attempts were acts of desperation. I wanted my mother to notice that everything she was doing was hurting us. I didn’t want to die. I needed this endless war with my step-dad to end. I wanted to be a kid again and not hear about or be subjected to these horrors.

We started seeing a court-appointed psychologist in Flagstaff, AZ. The drive from Fort Defiance to Flagstaff is a long one for an appointment that only lasts an hour or so. It was miserable. So, my mother decided to leave suddenly with both my brother and me, and she rented a condo in Flagstaff. This was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but we never returned to live in Fort Defiance again. Once again, we retrieved my things in the middle of the night. Once again, I had yet another father accused of abuse.

There were perks to moving, though. Our condo had a community swimming pool, which was something I’d never had in my life. The place also had stairs, which, if you’ll remember, is a sign of an actual city. It had a lofted room where my mother slept and a room down below by the kitchen, my brother and I shared. She would leave us there during the day to go, who knows where and return at night. I’d spend days swimming with my brother, watching MTV, or walking with him over to see a movie in the theater. The days dragged on as THE court date moved nearer.

My psychologist gave me a battery of tests for things like intelligence, emotional stuff, etc. I don’t know all of the tests that I took, but there were many. He prepared me for being a witness in court for a trial of some sort coming up to determine where my brother would ultimately live. At this point, I’d only ever seen a courtroom at a wedding ceremony and on television. There’s something they do on tv a lot that burns in your mind about courtrooms. You put your hand on a bible, and you swear to tell the truth. Swears are like pinky promises. You don’t lie. I’m not sure what happens to you if you do, but I imagined it was like a cosmic shift, and you fell through the cracks if you lied to a judge. It was some serious shit.

My mother was also busy preparing me for the big day. One early evening we were driving in my mother’s truck, and she turned to me and decided that she was done playing games and wanted to be more direct.

“Cyan, I need you to do me a favor. It’s a huge favor. I need you to lie in court about Mansour, and I need you to tell them that he sexually abused you. I need this in order not to lose Afshin. Mansour won’t ever see him again if you do this, and this will all be over.”

“I, I… I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“Cyan, you have to.”

“No, I. I just can’t. It’s against the law to do that.”

“Nobody will ever question it.”

“I can’t.”

My heart started racing, and I began to panic. This was too big for me, so as the truck was rolling to a stop before we came to a full stop, I opened up the door and jumped out. I tumbled on the ground a few times, and then without thinking, I started running. I ran and ran until I didn’t see her truck anymore. She tried to follow me, but I lost her.

I made my way home, and when I discovered she wasn’t there, I called the after-hours emergency number for our psychologist and frantically told him what my mother had asked me to do and pleaded that he help me figure out what to do.

Well, I didn’t realize he was court-appointed. and even if I did, I’m not sure I’d know what that meant. I thought he was hired by my mother to help us somehow.

I was pulled as a witness. My mother’s key witness.

Up until the court date, my mother stopped talking to me. She went to court and came back a hull of a human. What was left of my mother that once showed any signs of interest in me ultimately died that day. She was already declining psychologically, but this sent her to new depths I didn’t think was possible.

She lost full custody of my brother.

For a mother to lose full custody of their child, both legal and physical, is virtually impossible. The courts almost always side with the mother and do everything in their power to keep kids as close to their mothers as possible, while often denying fathers any or many rights. My mother wasn’t allowed to see or talk to her son unless Mansour allowed it, which also meant I wouldn’t see him anymore.

My brother was gone.

This left me as the last person standing and the singular focus of my mother’s hatred. The spotlight was finally shining entirely on me.