THE HOLES YOU DON'T SEE

There I am, front, second from the right, at age 4? The pic's a little blurry but the wallpaper behind us reminds me of the holes that you don't see; my brothers play fighting imitating Bruce Lee—feet, fists, head, and elbows. It was my very first "blank canvas" above mum and dad's bed; I drew a massive stick-person portrait of myself. I remember us sitting on Mum and Dad’s bed, and the second I got a hold of that pen, Tulua’s eyes went wide. She sat there with her mouth hanging open, whispering, 'Aaaaawwwwwww, you gonna get in trouble!'

I knew she was absolutely right, but I didn't care. I ignored her and stretched my tiny arms as high as they could reach, straining to make sure it was a huge, towering sketch of myself. I wanted to be seen. And the best part? I finished it off by signing it with the only name that mattered: 'By Me!'

ME n my SISTERS

Anywho.. I have plenty of happy stories to share but those aren't the ones I'm going to focus on. I am who I am not just because of the good but probably more so because of all the "tough" challenges that began early in life. That is why I agree that many difficult times exist to mold, shape, and refine us.

I was molested by an extended family member. Yes, that little girl in the pic, and I didn't even know it. That piece of my life was blocked out of my memory until I became a young adult. I always wondered though why I did things that I should have no business doing. Masturbating at that age? Crazy! It was the beginning of my own self-hatred.

All these things happened pretty much one after the other. Five years old at Primary School, the bullying began. Three boys in particular who for whatever reason, without a miss, targeted me almost every day. I could never understand it. The last memory of primary was leaving the classroom a little bit later than usual to make my way home, only to be ambushed. One of them came from behind and locked my arms behind my back and the other, about 20 feet away, he came sprinting towards me. It happened so fast. Next thing I know, he’s flying through the air with his foot aimed dead-centre at my face.

In the split-second I had to react, my reflexes took over. I whipped my head to the right, just enough to stop him from smashing my nose and eyes directly. Thump. His foot slammed into the side of my face, catching the left side of my nose and cheek. He got me good, but he didn't get what he was aiming for, "to break me". I remember thinking, "There's no effin' way I'm gonna shed a tear for you two." They took off and I picked up my bag and started making my way home. I didn't bother running back into the class to cry to my teacher or nark on them. No. I think at that point I had no care in the world; all of it was just a routine because that was never the end.

I'd return home only to be tormented by my oldest brother. He terrorized me. I don't even recall how long it went on for, but I was relieved when he eventually left home. The abuse was frightening, especially coming from your own family member and we knew him to be tough. No one ever messed with him. Literally being strangled for no reason, suffocated with the Bluebird plastic bags that mum brought home from work, wondering in that short moment if that was the end of my life. Threatened constantly. Fear tactics—threatening to burn me with piping hot water, standing still with an apple on my head while he threw darts, forcing my hand on the table to play with a sharp knife.

As a result of the abuse at home and at school, I often wet the bed, soiled myself, and had a fear of the dark. Often I would spew up before bedtime and yet I had nothing and no one to help me. Mum had her own shit to handle with dad and his shenanigans, work, and us nine kids. I tried reaching out, but no one ever came to my aid.

The truth hurts, especially when it's family who harmed and neglected to be there for you. Nonetheless, this is me. I'm telling my story and if the shoe fits, wear it. I waited a long time for answers, hoping to be told it wasn't my fault. I actually laughed it off many-a-times, but honestly, it probably was my own way of making it easier to accept.

Here's the deal—I grew the fuck up and decided I ain't no victim. I became a ferocious fighter and found no need to point fingers or be bitter. These were the cards dealt to me and I've been determined all my life not to make others feel what I had felt. I was going to be that person: understanding, an ear to listen, that friend standing next to you when SHTF.

Time still ticking and I'm a teen, a student at Ferguson Intermediate. I wasn’t confident in school work, yet I easily expressed myself through art. I wasn't bad at everything, just not confident in myself. As many other Pacific Island families, my parents were harsh with their words. "Dumb" and "stupid" were two common words spat at me when they were frustrated, angry, or tired. They had no knowledge of the power of their words.

That self-hatred caused a lack of respect for myself. I hit my teens, moving from tom-boy to enjoying being girly, but by this time I'd been exposed to pornography. Having brothers meant finding their magazines and watching porn when the parents were at work. I was curious, so I peeked, I saw, and I continued masturbating. I was looking for myself in all the wrong places because the version of me I saw in my parents' eyes was "dumb."

But when I picked up a pencil, the paper didn’t talk back. It didn't call me names. It just waited for me to show it who I really was. Those labels sat on my chest like lead, but art was the one place they couldn’t touch me. When I had a pen in my hand, I wasn't that scared little girl. I was a creator. I was in control.

I don’t tell this for sympathy. Keep your pity; I don’t need it. I tell it because there’s someone reading this right now who feels like a "blank canvas" that’s been ripped and stepped on. I'm here to tell you that you can still paint something beautiful on a scarred surface.

Today, with Ar.Ti and my art, I’m not just making "things." I’m putting my soul into work that talks to the heart. I’m the ear that listens when your world is falling apart, because I’ve been in the rubble and I know the way out.

I am Ro. I’m raw, I’m unapologetic, and I’m still here. If you’re looking for a fake, polished version of life, you’re on the wrong page. But if you want the truth, the love, and the strength of someone who refused to break—welcome. This is me.

This is just the start. The foundation of the girl who had to learn how to breathe underwater. But the water got deeper. I still have to tell you about the years of being a young mother, the first marriage that fell apart, the gut-wrenching years of being separated from my oldest son and daughter, and the absolute BS and exploitation I faced under the name of 'church' and 'Christianity.'

I’m opening the vault. Not for the faint of heart, but for those who need to know that you can lose everything and still find yourself.

Stay tuned. Like I said—I’m Ro, and we’re just getting started.