Content Warning:
This entry reflects personal experiences involving family trauma, neglect, and emotional harm.
This is written from my lived experience and perspective for the purpose of healing and reflection.
It is not intended to accuse, harm, or target, but to process and share my story.
This is not related to consensual BDSM, age-play, or roleplay.
Reader discretion is advised.
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Anna
(Note: Anna didn’t just fail to protect us—she placed us in danger over and over again. She chose men over safety, chaos over stability, and lies over accountability. What she did to me went beyond dysfunction—it was the betrayal of a mother who always had a choice and still chose wrong.)
This is how I experienced these moments as a child and how I understand them now.
Claimed to be a mother, but mothered no one. You birthed us, but that’s not what makes a mom. You let your kids get hurt, overlooked it, and then defended the abusers. You let Richard back into the home after he hurt Rose and told DSS that it didn’t matter because he “did his time.” You were never my Mom, and that hurts the most. I want to love you however I want, but I can’t. I would rather guard my heart and look the other way respectfully.
Your friends told me the only reason you stayed with him was that the sex was good—never come for our safety. As if your own pleasure mattered more than your children’s protection.
Rose experienced a medical emergency after she accidentally shot herself with a nail gun. When I begged you to take her seriously, I felt brushed off. I had to yell at you before you finally listened. That nail was in her heart. You nearly let her die while you took a phone call. She had only 20% to live from that and it will forever affect her way of life.
I was placed in the role of the backup adult, like it was my job to ensure my siblings stayed in line while you disappeared into your phone calls or moods or whatever. I may not have bathed them, but I took care of Rose, and if needed, I would have tucked them in every night, but I made sure we got up for school, stayed out of trouble, and tried to be ready in time. When we missed the bus, I had to wake you up so you could drive us—and you’d speed all the way to school, angry and reckless. I learned to manage the chaos because no one else was.
I remember being given beer… and it being treated like something to laugh about in a fast-food cup and told it was sweet tea. You thought it was funny when we gagged. I remember being made to smoke by others, with nothing stopping it—our first cigarettes just to go swimming or sit on the porch.
Taught me to smile through pain and perform through chaos. I learned how to be the clown in my own trauma just to survive your moods and your absence.
I experienced being beaten, belittled, and broken—and later it was denied. It felt like the door was open, and nothing stopped it. You saw the bruises, the fear, the exhaustion—and did nothing.
Ran from the truth and buried it under fake stories and fragile pride with stories that didn’t match what I lived. But I lived it. And I remember it. All of it.
You shaped me, yes.
But I get to shape what comes next.
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Anna,
This isn’t just a letter about what you did wrong. It’s about what I carried—and what I’m still trying to understand.
You were my beginning. You were supposed to be my first safe place. But you weren’t.
You gave me life, but not protection. You gave me a name, but not a home. You gave me siblings, but not safety.
You made choices that made me grow up too fast. You struggled with stability, sobriety, and being ready to care for us And that hurt. Deeply.
People were around us who should’ve never been in our lives, and there were promises that weren’t kept. You taught me how to survive, but not how to feel safe in my own skin.
There are things you did that shaped my trauma:
I learned to fear silence because I never knew what would come next.
I learned to parent my siblings when I was still a child.
I learned to hide pain behind jokes and smile through chaos.
And somehow, even now, I sometimes feel guilty for saying this. Because part of me still wanted to be loved by you. Part of me still wonders if you ever really saw me.
But I also see clearly now. I was not born to repeat your patterns. I was not meant to be your shadow.
You used to run from the truth and blame everyone but yourself. Maybe you still do. Maybe you’ll read this and try to say it’s all a lie or that I’m ungrateful. But I remember. I lived it. I wear the scars you left behind. I no longer need your approval to name what happened.
I am breaking cycles. I am becoming something different. I am choosing to protect, to nurture, to love in ways you never could.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most honest form of forgiveness: To live the life you didn’t give me. To love the way you couldn’t. To rise from what you left behind.
You shaped me, yes. But I get to shape what comes next.
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What We Could’ve Had — Anna
This isn’t about blaming anymore. This is about grieving what could have been. And handing what still hurts to God, because I can’t carry it alone.
I release this to Him—the anger, the ache, the longing. I’m asking Him to fight the battles I shouldn't have had to face, and to help me forgive even when the damage runs deep.
Even when I look back on everything we lost, I still wonder: could we have something—anything—different now?
Not because I want a relationship with you. Not because I trust you. But because I still hope that people can change. I still look for the good. And maybe part of me still wonders if you’ll ever choose differently.
But I know this: I have nothing to do with you now not out of bitterness—but because of your choices. Because you never changed. Because every time you could’ve turned toward healing, you chose something else.
If you had chosen differently. If you had chosen us. If you had fought for sobriety instead of surrendering to chaos. If you had kept the door closed to the men who hurt us.
We could’ve had late-night talks in the kitchen. We could’ve had road trips with loud music and soft laughter. We could’ve had birthdays that felt like celebrations, not burdens. We could’ve had a home where I didn’t have to be the strong one all the time.
You could’ve been the woman who taught me how to love myself. You could’ve been the reason I felt proud to say “That’s my mom.” You could’ve been my safety, my softness, my first truth.
But you weren’t. And I’ve had to mourn you while you’re still alive.
Still, I wanted to love you. Still, I wanted to be chosen by you. Still, I imagined a life where you were different.
And that ache—it doesn’t mean I haven’t healed. It just means I remember what I longed for.
I give that love now to those who earn it. To the ones who choose me. To the life I’m building with open eyes and a stronger heart.
This is what we could’ve had. And now, this is what I carry.
— Hannah, the daughter you could have had…
