Raw.Real.Recovered.

I wish my childhood was just about bad grades, strict parents, and reckless adventures with my cousins. But it wasn’t. Because in between all of that, there was the abuse.

I can’t tell you which one started first, but I can tell you there were two men—an uncle and an aunt’s boyfriend—who decided my body wasn’t mine. A shed, a bathroom, moments stolen in silence. It wasn’t a one-time thing. It was a reality that no child should have to endure. Wish I could say it stay at two. 

And no one noticed. Or if they did, they never said a word.

Growing Up in the Aftermath

Surviving childhood is one thing. Surviving what comes after is another. The problem with trauma at a young age is that it doesn’t just stay where it happened—it follows you. It buries itself deep, showing up in ways you don’t understand until much later. And by the time I was old enough to realize how broken I felt, I had already learned one thing very well: how to pretend I was fine.

But I wasn’t.

Looking back, it’s not surprising that I turned to escape. Alcohol, drugs, anything that numbed  things I didn’t want to feel or deal with but that’s a later part of the story.