My life as I know it

I will include a trigger warning for mentions of molestation, sexual assault, bullying, alcoholism, and self-harm. This may be a long read, and I apologize in advance.

My earliest memory goes back to when I was about four years old. It was early morning—the birds were out, and the weather was warm, a perfect summer day. I remember needing to use the bathroom, as I was potty trained by then, but my bedroom door was locked. It was locked nearly every night until I was about five, maybe five and a half. I banged on the door, crying and shouting that I needed to go. I kicked and screamed, helpless and hungry, until he finally opened the door and asked what I wanted. I remember thinking, 'Really? I’m four.'

Another memory comes from when I was about five and a half. It was a summer morning, and my bedroom window was open. A bee—a huge one, at least to my young eyes—was flying and buzzing around my room. As usual, I had been locked in my bedroom overnight. I screamed and cried until someone finally came to let me out. It felt like forever, though it was probably only five minutes. The other adult in the house never seemed to care. To them, I was just being dramatic. But I was only five—terrified of the buzzing bee and trapped in a locked room. So it was always the same person who came to let me out.

Don’t go thinking I had a saviour in my childhood—I didn’t have one. Both of my caretakers were skilled gaslighters. When I was four, they started locking the doors at night. Why? Because I was a budding young Picasso, scribbling on the walls, floors, and anything I could get my hands on—paint, markers, pens, nail polish, you name it. Their solution was to keep me locked away until they decided to get up—or until I screamed loud enough to be let out. That was the moment my sense of safety shattered. I was just four and a half years old. They would rather lock me in my room at night than try to figure out what was wrong—why I was doing it. It’s simple, really. There were no bedtime stories for me, no sing-alongs, no sitting on the floor to play with me.

Anytime you see me in photos, I’m rarely smiling—or if I am, my body language and eyes tell a different story. Occasionally, I’m being pushed on a swing. But don’t let that fool you. There were often times other ‘family’ members, kids, neighbors, or friends there; it was all just for show, to make it look like we were a loving family and that I wasn’t the burden I felt like deep in my heart. My caretaker’s parent would have lost their temper if I’d been left out. So, to keep up appearances and avoid an argument, my caretakers played their part. Now, I’m not saying there wasn’t any admiration or love there. What I’m saying is that it never, ever felt like love. The body language and tone of voice always told me otherwise. I wasn’t them so I can't say for certain, but it never felt like love to me. It felt like frustration and anger, like I was a burden—maybe even an accident that wasn’t meant to happen.

Sometime around five and a half, something unimaginable happened to me. My whole world shattered. I died inside. The light that had barely been dim before was now completely extinguished. For decades, my mind and heart protected me from this horrifying moment. Now, I can recall it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Yet, it’s the memory itself that continues to haunt me.

I remember wearing my long pink nightgown with the Strawberry Shortcake doll on the front, adorned with her little white cap covered in strawberries. I even had a life-size doll to match. I was lying on the couch; for some reason, my right leg was hanging off the edge, with my foot resting just above the floor because I was so small. The man, wearing what seemed to be a green army-like shirt with camouflage pants—possibly a camo hat as well—the memory is still a little blurry as I’m trying hard to fight it from coming forward further. His very bright red hair stuck out from under the brim. I remember staying silent, thinking maybe he’d go away if I didn’t say anything. Surely he would, right? I whispered, 'Please don’t, please go away,' over and over in my head. At some point, I closed my eyes, but I could still feel his cold fingers moving up my inner leg. I closed my legs tightly and pressed myself back onto the couch, thinking it might make him stop. But he followed me, invading my space and ignoring my silent pleas, leaving me feeling completely powerless.

The truth is, no, I wouldn’t have cried out—I froze. I saw and felt what was happening but knew from experience that no one ever listened to me. I was always labeled a 'liar,' 'exaggerating,' or 'being dramatic.' I learned real quick to just shut the fuck up and take whatever was coming my way, whether it was verbal or physical. Instead of expressing how I felt, I’d just stand there and cry. When he leaned in closer, I could feel his red mustache brushing against my nose. I tried to leave again, but it was to no avail. Before I could fully process what was happening, it was over just as quickly as it began.

In this moment, all I could do was cry, because nothing else ever worked. I was scared, confused, and didn’t understand what was happening. Did I do something wrong? Did I somehow make this man think it was what I wanted? I was only five. I’d been picked on, bullied, and tormented time and time again in my short, young life. Somehow, I felt this was my punishment for something. I just laid there until he was done. I laid there in tears. If he said anything afterward, it’s all a blur—I don’t recall. I just... I just stayed there. He went outside, smoked, and had a beer. Now, I can’t recall if this man was my babysitter or just a friend of my caretakers. He was around a lot afterwards. But he was their best friend—he was always around. It was around this time my first thought of wanting to die started. I just couldn't remember why, until last year when the repressed memory came forward.

If that wasn’t traumatizing enough, at eight years old, one of my caretaker’s girlfriends—Judy—thought it was cute and funny to lift tiny eight-year-old me off the ground, one to two feet, by grappling my neck with one hand. While I screamed and flailed, shouting, 'Please put me down! Stop, that hurts!' with tears streaming down my face, she just laughed. It was the only time I tried to say something wasn’t okay. After that moment, I stopped telling people I was being hurt—for years. It wasn’t until adulthood that I tried to speak up again. All she did was laugh and say she was a nurse, so she knew what she was doing. My caretaker, for the most part, said nothing to stop her. They tried once—I’ll never forget it. I was eight and had never heard the word before. She looked them dead in the eyes, still holding me up by my neck, and said, 'Don’t be such a pussy.' They listened and never tried again, leaving me helpless. They were often too drunk to function anyway.

My caretakers got divorced when I was about six. Supposedly, I told the judge I wanted to live with one of them, but I have no memory of this or any reason to discredit the information. When I was nine, my caretaker’s second partner (supposedly) made my caretaker craft a wooden paddle with holes drilled into it. Out of the three kids—two of whom were the partner’s—this paddle was always used on me first. The partner would invent reasons and force my caretaker to use it. I honestly believe the partner pressured my caretaker into doing it (not that it makes it okay or excuses anything for going through with it) because, at the age of nine, after the two got married, the partner sent me a letter telling me I wasn’t my caretaker’s kid anymore. It was a two-page letter—I was nine. While I was crying, reading it, my caretaker, the one I lived with, asked if I wanted to call the other caretaker. I was angry and said yes. I told them about the letter, and they played it off, saying, 'Well, I don’t know about that.' In other words, they implied that because they didn’t see it, it didn’t exist. It was then I had to make them choose—it was me or the partner. Because at just nine years old, I no longer felt okay going all the way to another state for their visits. They chose the partner. It wasn’t until over a decade later that the third partner reached out to me. But more about that another time.

All those years, and even now, I hated—and still hate—being touched. People being anywhere near me causes what I can only describe as inner hellfire, with flames as jagged as razor blades. It’s everyone, with the exception of one person. Maybe I’ll talk about that in a later blog. But no one is immune. It wasn’t until last year, when I remembered in full detail what happened to me when I was five, that I finally understood why I hate it so much—why it torments me so.

Throughout my school years, I was bullied—often made fun of. I was different. I always was. I was the quiet kid, the awkward one, often saying the wrong things. It wasn’t until last year that I learned I’m neurodivergent, which explains so much. Anyway, I had teachers in middle school who called my work 'shit,' laughed at it, or told me I wouldn’t graduate—just one week into the school year.

I often dated boys to hide the fact that I was a lesbian and to try to stop the bullying. When I was about 13 or 14, four of us were in a tent in my backyard. The guy I was 'dating' were on one side, and the other two were on the other. He and I were facing different directions than the other two. When, out of nowhere, he tried to put his hands down my jeans. It was sudden, and I remember thinking, 'Really? We aren’t alone, and I’m not comfortable with this even if we were!' I pushed his hand away, but he tried again, and again, and again. I started to panic. I was shutting down. I felt trapped. The two people with us—one a relative, would have just helped him—possibly even held me down for him. I didn't pick friends very well, clearly. I was conditioned to take whatever came my way, so I didn’t speak. I didn’t dare, out of fear of being yelled at or harshly criticized. 

I can still smell his cologne. I can still hear the birds outside the tent, feel the stale air inside, the textured tarp-like floor against my arms. I can smell the occasional fresh air from the semi-open tent window, hear the plane overhead, and the kids playing in other yards. I can hear and smell it all as if it happened this morning. I still have flashbacks like this often. But in that tent, it was the closest I’ve ever been to a really bad situation. I ended up getting the nerve to say I was going to the bathroom. I rushed inside and into my room. I never told anyone about that day until therapy years later. Though I tried to tell the relative who was with us, but that ended badly and made the situation worse because they were friends with him. But no adults ever knew, I'd just get blamed. It wasn’t until years later that I learned what he did was sexual assault—forceable touching, which is against the law. I learned this from the TV show *Law and Order: SVU*. But more about the show another time. In the moment, I just thought it was my fault, that I was doing something to deserve being treated that way. Quite a few of the guys I dated were gross, but then again, they were bullies. I had three of them try the same thing—just not four or five times in the same moment.

In school, I was the quiet kid, the learning-disabled kid, the awkward one. I cried easily when harshly criticized, yelled at, or talked down to. It stemmed from my home life—it’s how I was mostly dealt with. I drew on the walls at four years old, and the response was immediate yelling... at four. Someone would lie about me at school or at home, and when I tried to explain my side, I was immediately labeled a liar. No one heard my side—I was just lying to them. Sure, kids lie. 'Are the dishes done?' and it was always yes, when clearly they weren’t. 'Is your room clean?' Yes again, when clearly it wasn’t. My lies were typical kid and teen lies. Those were my lies. I grew up in an angry house, so lying wasn’t something I did often because I was too afraid—afraid of the yelling and harsh criticism.

I remember once, a relative and I—probably in my mid-teens—were at the relative’s boyfriend’s house outside. The rule was to be home when the streetlights came on. I wanted to go home, but they didn’t. I didn’t want to walk home alone because the neighborhood wasn’t great at that time, so I stayed. Of course, a caretaker came looking for us. Naturally, we got in trouble, and when I tried to explain, I was ignored and grounded longer than the relative. According to everyone involved, I was lying. This was my childhood—yelling, anger, harsh words, and, often, being ignored. I started self harm at about 16 years of age. I did it often, and hid it well, only therapist know. I would cut for anger and pain, to feel something different, a different pain, one I could control. Eventually it became an addiction, one that I still struggle with. It's now something I just need, not for depression, or anger, but just because I need it. 

Yes there were I loves you's everynow and then, but it was always monotone and not very comforting to me. And it was very seldom, there was never a 'Im proud of you' ever. Still to this day even, but then again I went no contact. One caretaker did say it. But they were always drunk and they wanted something in return — advice. So it meant noting to me, especially since they were always drunk and verbally abusive. There were times that caretaker "tried" to care, but their abusive behavior overshadowed it and made it fall on deaf ears. 

There were holidays, sure. But after my turn opening things, no one noticed the kid sitting at the end of the table or in the corner, trying to speak or be involved—and being ignored. There were vacations, sure, but I wasn’t truly having fun. I was unhappy, angry even. The pain was too much. I did my best to fake it till I made it, but damn, it was hard.

Adult life is pretty much the same thing. I can never outrun the bullies it seems, which has left me with very few friends. I mean very few, I can count them on one hand. Work life was difficult, I've had my life threatened, been isolated from the rest of the groups, harshly criticized, even had things thrown at me. But the adult life bullying is another story and I've taken up a lot of your time already. In 2014 I almost ended my life, and at the very moment I was about to, my life changed as I knew it. While this is another story entirely that involves a tv show The 100 and an actor—Paige Turco, I've shared enough for the time being and will share this story in another blog. If it wasn't for that moment I'd not be here today. 

My story is mostly traumatic and difficult, but much of my life is. Nothing much good lasts for me, not for someone like me, anyone. Probably never meant too, probably never will. Some good happens but it never last, maybe a few days.

Anyway, if you made it to the end, you now know my origin story. I have so much more to share, but for now, I’ll take a break and recover from going over it all at once. I’ll be writing more soon—about my adult life, but mostly about my health and the journey I’m currently on, as well as something I’m working on. Much love and light 💮