They tried to silence me. I spoke louder.

They tried to silence me.

They tried to threaten me.

They harassed me, mocked me, defamed me.

Sometimes, they even told on me to my dad — even as an adult.

If my abusers didn’t want me to talk, they should have killed me.

No — they should have behaved better.

I’ve imagined at least one hundred outcomes in the event I’d died in their homes or their care. Every single time, they’d have gotten away with it.

I don’t share my stories to seek retribution. I posted it to free myself from all the crap and officially distance myself.

Sharing my stories in the open is my final straw — this collection of experiences that no longer exist exclusively in my brain, fermenting into more trauma as I heal from other trauma.

After all this time, people know! My story is out there! The little girl who cried and screamed and begged people to listen has an audience of people who will read her posts, see what she has to say, and understand her pain.

I needed to write these experiences, and I needed to publish them.

My stories are about me, but I’m not the only person who has ever experienced anything like it. Hundreds of thousands of kids every day all over the world experience abuse under the guise of love, simply because adults feel entitled to hurting children.

This is my closure.

I’m not waiting around for them to die to share my story. I don’t care about them or their paranoia over how me sharing my story is going to affect them, as if they’re that important. 🙄

I’m onto bigger things, new experiences and living a life that is truly my own, as I deem fit.

My abusers no longer have any power over me, any right to me.

I’m strong today because I learned how to stand up against them — something I never should have had to learn. Resilience needs not come from childhood trauma; kids do NOT have to experience trauma to learn how to survive in the world.

I know my abusers still exist in this world. I know that anything can happen, so we could run into each other. As far as I’m concerned, we’re strangers — and it would do them well to leave me the F alone.

If they wanted me to write about them kindly, they shouldn’t have abused me in the first place.

The least they could’ve done was take accountability.

Sharing my story is about me and what I get from putting it out there — not how it will affect them. I grew up being threatened to keep quiet about what my life was like, accused of being ungrateful for not appreciating all they did when we both know it was only the bare minimum of keeping me alive.

Sharing my story has been cathartic.

I really, truly feel free since having written these experiences. I think the greatest mistake abusers make is underestimating their victims.

My abusers tried to beat my free will, courage and hope out of me. Quite frequently, they succeeded. However, the dangerous part is thinking that a spirit cannot be healed or renewed once it is broken.

My abusive family broke my spirit, blamed me for all the aftermath, and then wanted to help heal it so they could break it again.

That pattern went on and on for a while…until my dissociative brain developed the alternate identity capable of leaving them for good — and courageous enough to pull something like this series off.

Dissociative identity disorder literally saved my life, all throughout my life.

Writing about my experiences helped me understand more about my brain and even fall in love with it. I’ve grown in self-love because I realize how not relating to my family growing up prevented me from growing up to be like them.

It’s amazing that I turned out this way. I’m still rather baffled about it, like how did I not get sucked in? But I think a lot of it really was being neurodivergent, attending diverse schools, and the cultural influences I grew up surrounded by.

I watched a lot of Degrassi and listened to a lot of empowering music. To my abusers’ dismay, The Disney Channel gave me hope even when I was reminded of my place and how healthy relationships were fantasy.