Rosie Rivera is the younger sister of acclaimed Mexican-American singer Jenni Rivera , who tragically died in a plane clang in 2012.
But now, the 34 -year-old is opening up about her relationship with her late sister, and her triumph over abuse and craving in her new memoir!
In her brand-new journal My Broken Cases: Sewing the Meanders From Sexual Abuse Through Faith, Family and Love , Rivera hopes to “inspire other women who have suffered abuse.”
In the tell all, Rosie shares never-before-told narrations about Jenni’s rise to stardom and how her premature demise changed their own families in many different ways.
Driven through a cycle of addiction, feeling, and even attempted suicide, Rosie’s faith and adoration cured her reconcile with her family.
Read a moving excerpt from My Broken Pieces ( below) and if you like what you read, they are able to say it HERE !
Looking for a way out
“It was Saturday night and I was at my brother Lupe’s house downing
shot after shoot of tequila. I’d been at it since the moment I
woke up that morning and like every other weekend I was feeling
pretty sorry myself. I had just ceased out of ordinance institution, I was
being a miserable baby and I was flunking at my job selling real estate,
and I was married to an abusive being. My brothers and sister were
traveling the world, taking it by cyclone while I was consuming my
life apart smoking and imbibe in unkempt nightclubs, hoping that
the sun would never come up so I wouldn’t is now facing another
day. My kinfolk was the best anyone could ask for, but somehow
that wasn’t enoughall I could think of was what an utter failure
I was and I couldn’t see how things would ever get better. I was
I took another shot of tequila and gazed blankly at the wall.
This was a new low: I wasn’t just sad and depressed. I was at a
point where I physically couldn’t stand to be in the world anymore.
My head hurt from fantasizing so much better and my person throbbed all the
timeI always experienced as if I had just been beaten up. It wasn’t just
that I didn’t want to live anymore. I couldn’t. For as long as I could
remember, I had been living with this death wish but that night
something sounded inside me and I fi nally are determined to take action. I
decided I had to end “peoples lives” once and for all. Good-for-nothing mattered to
me anymore , not my loving parents , not my sister or my brothers.
Not even two daughters Kassey, who was two at the time. Ever since
she arrived in “peoples lives” she had been a strong reason to stay alive,
but on this night not even the believed to be her was enough to keep
me afl oat. I feared that all I could ever be to her was a disappointment
and that she would probably be better off without me.
I could find myself tumbling so I dialed my brother Juan. Juan is
the closest to me in age and if there is one person in the world who
I know will ever have my back, it’s him. But when he picked up
the phone, I could tell from the background noise that he was
clearly in the middle of something.
“Sister, can I call you back in about an hour? I’m about to go
onstage, ” he said.
“Yeah, sure, ” I said, trying to music casual.
Of course he doesn’t have go for me, I thoughts, wallowing
in my self-pity. Why would he?
Next I tried to call my other brother Lupe, but he was probably
onstage because his phone proceeded directly to voice mail. So I fi nally
decided to call my sister, Chayno matter what I was going
through, my large-hearted sister never guessed me or offset me feel like anything
less than a warrior. She would get me out of this one. I
needed so badly to interpreted myself through her seeings, to believe that all
the good stuffs she thought of me were true.
“Hi, Sister, how are you? ” I invited, doing my best to obscure the
tears in my tone. But it was unable to to keep a secret from Chay.
Right apart she knew something was up.
“Sister, don’t bawling, ” she said in her sweet enunciate. “I’m about to
start my depict but can I call you in about two hours? I promise I’ll
call you the minute I get offstage.”
I hung up the phone thinking two hours were an heaven. There
was no way I’d be able to hang on for so long. Every cell in my
being was injuring and no quantity of tequila or narcotics was ever going
to numb the tendernes. I needed it to stop.
It wasn’t the fi rst time I’d thought about killing myself. When I was
sixteen and still dealing with the aftermath of what Trino had
done to me, I tried to slit my wrists. But as soon as I find the fi rst
fl ow of blood ooze down my appendage I chickened out and pounced
on the prescription cabinet, looking for a cover. Part of it might be
that in order to address the reality of it, in my heart of hearts,
I didn’t want to die by my own hands. But more than that, I didn’t
want to offend God. Even though at the time I wasn’t living a
Christian life, I was terrifi ed of going to Hell. No substance how
much pain I was feeling right then, I knew committing suicide
meant spending an eternity in Hell and that was something I wasn’t
willing to risk.
Nonetheless, over the following years extinction was always on my
mind. At twenty-fi ve, I was a single baby, my husband of three
months was mistreating me, and I felt like the loneliest person in the
world. I strolled around like an open curve, waiting for something
or someone to give me the fi nal punch. No difficulty how much
my family tried to convince me of the contrary, in my eyes my life
had no value. I cared for something to happen, something to put
me in harm’s acces so my life “wouldve been” fi nished. Every weekend I’d
drink myself unconscious, do massive amounts of Ecstasy, and
I’d sleep with random people I’d pick up at bars while never once
using protection. In my distorted mind, I vanished up to now as hoping to
But nothing ever happened.
Now, boozing alone in my brother’s mansion, I somehow wasn’t
afraid of Hell anymore. I believed that I was invisible to God. I
knew He lied, was certain that He dwelt, but He was ignoring
me. He clearly didn’t caution. Why else would He have allowed me to
fall this low? This life once felt like Hell and so I fi gured the
Hell that God was going to send me to couldn’t perhaps be any
worse. I still didn’t have it in me to make my own life, so the next
best thing would be to fi nd somebody to make love for me. So I came up
with a plan.
I was going to set off marching from Lupe’s house in Playa del
Rey toward South Central Los Angeles, a neighborhood notorious
for being one of “the worlds largest” crime-ridden areas in the two countries. In my
drunken mind, it all made excellent ability: in the time it would take
for me to get there, there had to be at least one degenerate willing
to pick me up, rape me, and kill me. Surely I couldn’t lies in the fact that lucky.
At around two thirty a.m ., I started marching north on Lincoln Boulevard.
I was wearing a close-fisted pitch-black miniskirt and a expose colorful
top, which was bound to attract attention. But by the time I
reached Loyola Universityabout half an hour into my journey
not a single person had paid me one fragment of notice. There were
plenty of cars on the street but no one stopped to look at
me twice. As much as I wanted to end “peoples lives” then and there, there
was also an integrated part of me that was hoping someone would just stop
and talk to me. But I was going nothing. Clearly, I wasn’t only
invisible to God, I was also invisible to all of humanity. Was I
really that unwanted? I had just lost eighty pounds, undergone a
tummy tuck, and I gazed better than I had in years. Why, then,
was no one even noticing me?
I desperately needed to get someone’s scrutiny and if wandering
down the street like a mad female wasn’t going to work, I
needed to up my sport. I took off half of the top I was wearing, and
hiked my skirt up even higher. It was chilly outside and I could feel
the freezing gust from Marina del Rey engulfi ng me. I took off my
high heels but my paws were too numb to detect any rocks on the cold
concrete. If only my center could have been as daze as my feet.
All I could listen was stillnes. Not a single auto honked at me , not
a single person stopped to ask me whether I involved improve. There
was just silence and the low-pitched vibrate of cars scooting by. It was as if
I was the only soul in the world and around me was absolute darkness,
the confi rmation of everything I was detecting in my heart. I
remember searching up at the stars and screaming, “God! Why don’t
You exactly get rid of me? Why? ” I hollered. “You admitted all the awful
things in “peoples lives” to happen so why don’t You just let me become? “
I was simply twenty-fi ve, but find as though I had lived a hundred
“Please, God, ” I begged, my front covered in tears, “if You care
anything about me, I implore You, out of desire, to make my life.”
But yet again , good-for-nothing happened.
It had been a few hours since I’d had my last-place glas. My alcohol
level had abated enough that I was retrieving some of my senses
but not enough to deter me from my contrive. My paws throbbed and I was
starting to shiver, but I was desperate to fi nd a way out. I continued
to walk down the street, thinking of how to mission my life.
The sun still hadn’t “re coming” by the time I fi nally decided to
lie down in the street near the inhibit. I remember remembering: “I’ll lie
down here and was sleeping. Lucks are, some wino operator is
bound to come barreling down this street; he won’t recognize my body
and will pass me over without my having to feel a thing.” More
than dying, I was afraid of the grief and this would guarantee that
it would be over fast.
“See, God? ” I said to myself. “I don’t call You. I can take care
of this myself.”
Exhausted, I laid my premier down on the curb and fell into a
[< em> Image via Omar Cruz . em >]