Raw.Real.Recovered.

I was my mom’s second living child, born in the spring on a Saturday night. According to her, labor lasted three grueling days, and I showed up a month early, weighing in at just 5 lbs. 7 oz. From the start, I wasn’t making things easy.

She told me I had to wear a heart monitor for the first month of my life because I kept turning blue and randomly deciding breathing was optional. By 18 months, I had already gone through my first surgery—a hernia repair. Recovery was apparently just as chaotic as my birth because at some point during my hospital stay, they lost me. As in, “Where the hell is the baby?” kind of lost. After that, they put me in one of those baby cage cribs, which honestly sounds like something that would explain a lot about me.

From the beginning, I had zero fear and absolutely no filter. My dad said I was a wild child—constantly needing to be retrieved from hanging upside down on fences by my diaper. I loved climbing trees, riding Big Wheels, and anything remotely dangerous. If it involved speed, heights, or possible broken bones, I was in. My head was practically held together by stitches before I hit kindergarten.

I was also the kid who didn’t give a damn. Not about rules, not about what people thought, and definitely not about personal safety. I spoke whatever was on my mind (which made me both a favorite and a headache to everyone around me).

And then there were the animals. I loved them. All of them. My grandmother, however, did not share my passion for stray cats, injured birds, or the occasional wandering dog. She tolerated it for a while, but I swear there was a point where I think she considered throwing me out if I brought home one more creature.

The Divorce & The Stepdad

I was about three when my parents separated. I don’t remember much about it—just bits and pieces. But I do remember meeting my first stepfather. I was hiding under a table when my mom told me to come out and meet him. Something in me must have known what was coming.

Fast forward maybe six months, and I was standing in my future stepfamily’s home, where we ended up staying for a couple of years. They welcomed us in, treated us like their own, and for a while, it seemed stable.

But then there was the drinking.

My stepfather was an angry alcoholic. So was my mom at the time. And neither one of them had an off switch when they started fighting. More than once, the cops showed up in the middle of the night, and my siblings and I would be shuffled off to my grandmother’s house in the back of a police car.

One of the more memorable fights? My stepdad got pushed off the porch, and a shattered beer bottle lodged a chunk of glass straight into his leg. There was blood everywhere. It’s weird the things that stick in your mind as a kid, but that afternoon ? That one never left me.

That was just the beginning