Raw.Real.Recovered.

Remember the abusive aunt from my mom’s story? I wish I could say it ended with her. But it didn’t.

By the time my mom’s drinking, divorces, and self-destruction caught up with her, she was no longer able to keep us. One day, we were just dropped off at my dad’s house like a package he wasn’t expecting. He had no idea what to do with three kids, so three days later, we were passed off to my grandmother—who just so happened to be closely connected to my abusive aunt and her husband (yes, that husband).

So no, things did not get better. If anything, they got much worse.

The Duality of Childhood

It’s strange how a child’s brain works—how it can compartmentalize pain in a way that lets you survive it. Because despite everything, I still have good memories. Running around the neighborhood with my friends. Playing in the fountains downtown in Atlanta. Finding little moments of freedom between the nightmares.

But the abuse? That was a very real, normal part of everyday life.

I don’t know the clinical terms for what was done to me, but if I had to summarize it in a CliffsNotes version, it would include:

• Extension cords

• Broom handles

• Whips

• Spicy food punishments

• Dirty diapers used as weapons

By the age of 13, I had already tried to end my life. That’s how I ended up in my first psych unit, where I stayed for two months.

I told my psychiatrist about the abuse and said I didn’t want to go back. But where else was I supposed to go? My dad was drowning in his own alcoholism. My mom was probably on her third prison sentence. There was no safe option, so I got shipped off—three hours away—to a group home that only had one child.

Me.

Learning to Survive in the System

If you ever want a crash course in toxic behaviors, spend time in group homes and psych wards. You learn real quick how to adapt, how to lie when necessary, how to read people’s moods like your life depends on it (because sometimes it does). I was sent to an alternative school for a while, though I didn’t learn much there either. Some of the foster care workers were nice, but nice doesn’t fix trauma. It doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t change what you go home to when the system decides they’re done with you.

And that’s exactly what happened.

It was Thanksgiving when I was sent home for a short visit. But this time, I wasn’t going back empty-handed. I had gathered evidence. Pictures. Proof of the abuse. I turned it all in to the foster care workers, believing—hoping—that it would finally stop.

Instead, about a week later, I found out my aunt had gotten hold of the original file. She knew everything I had said.

And the state? They hadn’t done anything to protect me.

She still had guardianship. She still had the power to come pick me up at any moment.

The Breaking Point

I don’t know how to explain the kind of panic that sets in when you realize the person who has hurt you the most now knows you tried to expose them. That they could show up at any time, take you back, and make you pay for it.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

And before I even realized what I was doing, I had grabbed something sharp and sliced my right arm open—deep enough to land me right back in the psych unit.

Because at least there? I knew what to expect.

Ps. The story has a happy ending so if you’re sad from reading the last few parts, I’m sorry. But eventually, it does get better.