Hi! I hope you’re all having a good day!
I haven’t had the uh… The easiest.. existence…
I have been through hell and back, on multiple separate, albeit similar, occasions. I used to consider being buried under tragedy to be the only place I ever really felt at home. I know, at one point, I am sure, that I had been marked for catastrophe. I felt that every day was just trying to keep my head above the muddying waters of that insanity.
I never thought I’d actually make it out. I never thought there would be a reason TO make it out.
The problem is, now that I did make it out, I’m at a loss.
I made it out of all of that. I’m here. I’m alive. I want to *live*.
After spending my entire life waiting for the moment it all finally ends, though, I… Am not sure I know where to go from here.
I am not sure where I belong, at least not anymore. It is… Jarring, to say the very least.
Now, I feel I should preface this by saying that I’m not saying I’m an expert when it comes to coping with trauma. No one really is. I’m not sure something like that can even exist universally.
There are things that have marked me. That have scarred my skin, marred my soul. I do not know how to address most of it, so, for now and the forseeable future, I will refrain from publicly doing so.
But there are other things, a little less horrible than slew of the heavier, more painful things, that I must somehow learn to live with– that I feel give me the sort of perspective necessary to be able to know what I might need to find my place in this chaotic mess we call life, once again.
I was a bookworm from the moment I could read. I specify this specifically, because I technically could not read until I was around eight years old. Apparently, I had been partially deaf, so that hindered my ability to figure it out. When I got my tonsils and aednoids removed, though, I stopped getting quite as sick all the time, and I could hear!! And smell!! And it was WILD.
I read everything I could. I started with Inkheart, and then The Yearling. Then DragonRider, then the Warriors series. I began to take more of an interest in anime and manga, so, of course, I started that interest off with reading (and watching) FullMetal Alchemist. I even had a dorky little Edward Elric plushie I took everywhere. I got teased/bullied relentlessly for it, but, looking back? It makes me laugh to think about. Yeah, I felt really terrible then, but. I dunno. It’s funny to me, at least now. Now that I’ve seen things that are… worse.
I mean, I was also bullied by others for being distant, quiet, distracted. Bruised.
There were instances where kids ripped me up with their words, their actions. There was even an instance, way back when I was much much younger, where I was egged. They even threw rocks. It was all very biblical, which was funny, since it was a Catholic School.
But, in many ways, if you can name it, I’ve probably faced it. Whether it be how I started raising my younger brothers when I was seven years old (they were newborns), or how I became head of household around the same time. How we were homeless on and off until we were put into fostercare when I was sixteen, and they were eight. How my father was an alcoholic, and my mother was slowly dying of what we’d later find out was stage four breast cancer and ovarian cancer.
Or being relentlessly bullied by my peers in school, hateful rumors and attacks spread all around me.
I’m not saying that I was cool or nonchalant about any of it.
I was a total spazz, and a total crybaby.
I was homeless, at least for my first year of high school and part of the second.
I lived with friends back and forth until Summer vacation Freshmen year, and even for a bit over the Summer.
I finished the Summer in a homeless shelter.
The next year, when my relationship with my then boyfriend was just beginning to become something horrifyingly abusive (which I elaborate upon more later),
I was in charge of my mother’s post-op care when she finally got a double mastectomy and hysterectomy.
They had to remove more of her muscle tissue than they thought they would.
She can’t work anymore, most people can’t without muscle tissue in their chest and upper arms.
I had to perform post-op care for my mother after her hysterectomy and double mastectomy, because Medicaid didn’t cover in-hospital post-op procedures, so I was the one cleaning and draining her tubes. It was horrifying and stomach turning, but I never let her know that.
She is one of the bravest people I know. We don’t talk anymore, because she chose to side with the absurd claims made by foster mother and older brother, who regularly manipulate her for their own personal gain. And it sucks, because I can’t do anything about it. I’ve tried so hard for so many years, but I can never seem to get through to her. I know that’s just how abuse works, but it makes me so sad.
I’m still proud to be her daughter, even if I’ve had to learn to puty own well-being before her, because of how willing she is to enable others (like my older brother and foster mother).
Even still… If I can face the world with half as much grace and love as she has, I know I’ll have succeeded at something.
My dad, after all the pain he faced in his life, all the trauma he endured as a child, was an occasionally troubled man. Most writers are.
He had gotten worse the more my mother’s health declined. I don’t blame him for that, now, but I think I might have then. I shouldn’t have, though.
I never got the chance to tell him that.
My mom’s sister took us from him, down to her house in Georgia.
While there, we had to make a hasty exit, because she tried to kill my mom (because, as a cancer patient,
my mom was getting too much of “her” attention from others).
We got back to our home state, my dad drove from Virginia to Georgia to get us. Brought us back up. I will always be grateful for that.
While high school will always be one of the worst parts of my life, that part was something that made me smile out of pride.
It was nice to be able to consider my dad my hero again, even if it was short lived, at least at that point.
I have recently started feeling that way again. About three and a half years ago, give or take. asadly, my father died in June of 2020.
But, back then, after he brought us back to Virginia, there was not a single moment of rest. We got taken by the state once we got back up.
My brothers and I were put into foster care, my older brother was too old.
Not much changed, other than having a consistent place to sleep and eat. It was it’s own kind of horrible.
My foster mom was not very healthy mentally, very self absorbed, always playing with her medication and treatment.
She disowned me when I decided I wanted to be my own person,
and not just another her. Trashed me to my siblings, but that’s okay.
Or, it will be, sooner or later. Whenever they find the truth, on their own terms.
My boyfriend at that time was a monster.
Physically abusive, verbally and emotionally abusive, sexually abusive. Very literally tortured me at points.
Made me cut all my friends out of my life after saying he’d hurt them if I didn’t.
It was horrible. So horrible. That experience both fundamentally changed me, and further cemented other parts of who I am.
When I think of all he put me through, I think of my father, and how it would have hurt him so badly to know what I had experienced.
Sometimes, I wish I could know that maybe he knew that I always found solace in books. That, because of him, books were a safe haven. They were a kind of sanctuary to me. I have always found a sense of belonging in books.
Recently, though, I’ve only had one story occupying my mind.
The problem is, it’s not a story I can just pick up and read,
because it hasn’t been written.
While I know that I am capable of writing most things, I also know that this is something that I’d like to be able to read, myself. Not something I’d like to write and sooner or later find unbearable to even think about.
No, this is something that is very, very dear to my heart. Something that I know would help me stand when I feel I cannot.
My goal, upon getting this novel (that I’ve already completely outlined) ghostwritten, is to then get it bound as a hardback book. I’ve been working on the outline for over a year or two now. It’s very special to me.
I know that having something like this to reach for, to read and lose myself in, will help me stand taller than I can now.
It is difficult to push forward when you feel there might not be worthy cause. But I know this story, and I know what this will do for me.
While I’m not big on doing crazy things for myself and myself alone, I figured that… I’ve experienced a whole lot of really really really terrible stuff in my life. I’ve experienced a whole lot of really really really terrible stuff, even just this past month.
Thinking of the love my father felt for me, the love I still feel for him and my now estranged mother, I realize that they would want me to get over this weird urge to keep holding good things far away from myself, thinking that I don’t deserve them because some of the people I care about don’t quite care about me just yet.
I want to do something kind for myself. I am not good at being kind to myself, but the path to healing involves a lot of kindness.
Sometimes I forget that this kindness is supposed to be directed towards me, not just towards others.
So. I’d like to at least try to raise money to get this book ghostwritten, and then get the book bound!
For every single donation, I will draw something chosen by the donator.
This would really mean the world to me. It would help me whenI feel like I’m drowning in all this agony and grief.
A story my father used to tell me involved my grandfather’s last moments. This story reminds me to keep moving forward, but I still struggle so deeply with that.
I will type the story below:
My grandfather’s favorite word was perseverance.
He died when I was two years old, he was seventy five.
He had alzheimers, died of lung cancer. He didn’t remember anyone but my dad and myself.
No one really understood why. Before he died, my dad was holding his hand.
He told my dad that he was so proud, because “You and your lovely wife, my son, have given life to a phoenix.
She will burn and burn, only to light the way for all of us as she soars ahead.
She is a miracle, and her heart will always persevere.
She is the spark this world needs to light our way.”
Apparently, he fell silent, like he was half asleep, half just spacing out.
After ten minutes of silence, his heart stopped.
And he died.
And that was it.
See, the thing is: I don’t know if he was right.
I don’t know if I believe he knew what he was saying.
I don’t know if any of it even matters at all.
But I know that I’m alive.
And I know I’m still here.
And I know that has to count for something.
I just want to make still being here a little more possible.