Tag: life story

• When Home Wasn’t Safe

  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. 

  March 28, 2025

  addiction, blog, life, life story, mental-health, parenting, recovery, sobriety

  ---

• When Innocence Wasn’t an Option

  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.

  March 28, 2025

  addiction, blog, health, kids, life, life story, mental-health, parenting, recovery, sobriety

  ---

• Born a Fighter

  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

  March 28, 2025

  addiction, blog, health, life, life story, mental-health, parenting, recovery, sobriety

  ---

• Piecing Together the Past

  I don’t remember much from my childhood. Some details I know from family stories or other sources, but the parts I do remember? They aren’t exactly the kind you cherish.

  So, let me start by telling you a little about my mom.

  She was the youngest of six kids, raised by a single mother who had been married four times—each husband an alcoholic. Stability wasn’t exactly in the cards for her. On top of that, she had a brutal relationship with the sibling closest to her in age—her sister.

  My mom would tell me stories about how her sister was left to watch her when my grandmother worked, and let’s just say, “caretaker” wasn’t a role she took seriously. Once, she set my mom on top of the refrigerator and left there for four hours. Another time, she covered her in butter and left her in the sun ( third-degree burns )like some kind of twisted science experiment. These are the kinds of memories that stuck.

  Needless to say, my mom grew up fast. Too fast. She saw more trauma than any child should. By 13, she was pregnant. The father wasn’t in the picture, but she married my dad shortly after. At just six months into the pregnancy (she witnessed her grandfather blow his brains out), she gave birth to her first child—a tiny, fragile baby boy who survived only three days.

  The heartbreak didn’t end there. She went on to have five more children, losing another to SIDS at eight months old. By 19, she was divorced and an alcoholic. Life never really gave her a break.

  She remarried, had one more child—my youngest brother—then got divorced again. This time, though, alcohol wasn’t her only vice. Crack cocaine entered the picture, and as you can probably guess, things spiraled from there.

  This is where my story begins. And trust me, it only gets messier from here.

  March 28, 2025

  addiction, blog, life, life story, love, mental-health, parenting, recovery, sobriety, writing

  ---