When I was nine years old, my mother threw me into the shower. Holding the removable shower facet in my face and proceeded to drown me. This wasn’t a regular occurrence, fully clothed body and screaming for her to stop. Choking, crying as this water cascaded into my open mouth while I struggled against the grasp of a plump body. This scene, shattering protrusion of fear and betrayal. A woman clawing out of flesh from the inside. “Don’t hurt her, she’s your daughter” one voice said but the urge was too strong. I knew this woman, as she ripped me sleeping from my bedroom. The smaller room in a two bedroom duplex adjacent to the bathroom and not very far. “God wants me to do this”echoed repeatedly. My brain registers the reality that she doesn’t intend to hurt me but I can’t breathe. This only lasts a few minutes, she has done the lords work of cleansing the evil from me. My mother apologizes profusely, but she is still my mother. She holds me and dries me off. I cry. The moment passes. And everything is normal.