⚠️ Content Warning
This entry contains personal experiences involving childhood trauma, foster care, emotional abuse, boundary violations between minors, and references to distressing thoughts. Please read with care and mindfulness
This reflects real-life experiences and is not related to consensual BDSM, roleplay, or any form of age-play.
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I learned when it was safe to speak and when to stay silent, how to blend in, when to give them the finger behind their backs, and how to make myself small enough to avoid conflict. Some days felt normal, almost peaceful. On other days, it felt like I was walking on thin ice, never sure when everything would collapse or how much I could take.
It wasn’t all bad and only lasted very briefly with the parents, but their son’s behavior made me feel unsafe. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was being hurt in ways no child should ever experience. There were moments of safety, of routine, of pretending everything was fine—and part of me needed that pretending to survive. But even in the quiet, I always felt a kind of distance, like I was standing in a life that didn’t fully belong to me.
I knew their rhythm, but they could never break me. I did what I had to do to make it through each day—to stay invisible when it was safer, to smile when it was expected. But over time, the weight of it all grew heavier, and so did my need to survive.
I used to play softball back then. I had small privileges—being allowed to go into the kitchen to grab food, step outside to ride my bike, or play with the neighborhood kids. For a while, those were the moments that made me feel okay. They reminded me that I was still a kid, even if life around me didn’t always feel like one.
We went to church every Sunday, dressed neatly and smiling for everyone who saw us. On the outside, we appeared to be the perfect family. It created an illusion that fooled everyone. I even got baptized when I was twelve—it was the one thing I actually had a choice in. That moment felt like mine, even if most others didn’t. Sometimes we’d go out to eat afterward, but only if things had gone well that week. I always had to order off the kids’ menu.
Before the adoption, there were talks about changing my name. The Whites once thought about naming me Abby, but none of us really liked it. At school, I tried to find my own way to accept the changes that were happening around me. I experimented with my identity the only way I could—by writing my name in ways that felt like mine: Hannah Marie Smith Cable White. Sometimes all of them, sometimes just one or two. It was my quiet way of saying, I remember who I am. But they didn’t like that.
The truth is, I never wanted to be adopted by them. I already knew too much. I knew what was happening behind the smiles and the hell I was going through. But I went along with it anyway, because I thought if I stayed, I could protect my siblings—and maybe even the other kids. I told myself I could take it. And I did, for as long as I had to.
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**Before I get too deep about more trauma, because it is hard for me **
I also had braces for about a year. I only broke them once—on hard candy—but I lied about it. 100% straight, ha. I blamed the school lunch instead, since I wasn’t supposed to have candy and didn’t want to be punished. At the time, it felt safer to lie than to tell the truth. I was scared of how they’d react, scared of being in trouble over something so small. Looking back now, it’s a little funny but very stupid to lie about, but back then it was just survival—a quiet calculation between fear and honesty.
I used to go to speech therapy, too, because certain words just wouldn’t come out right, and I struggle really badly with speech. I was tongue-tied and lip-tied, and the therapist would patiently help me sound out each syllable until it stuck, comprehend reading, and work on grammar. I had a love-hate relationship with it. (-_-) I had surgery under my tongue—a frenotomy—and later had two wisdom teeth and two molars pulled. It was not fun, and I was so sleepy afterward that I couldn’t even say the word “water” and remember the Whites laughing at me.
But it was worth it. I’ve come a long way since then. Every now and then, I still trip over a few words, but I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I can finally say vocabulary,” she told me to say the ending as Larry — “vo-cab-u-larry saves the day!” It sounds small, but to me, it meant victory: proof that I could keep growing no matter what was happening around me.
I used to attend daycare, and for a while, it was one of the few places that let me escape from home. I was getting older, but they still let me come because of my speech therapy. Most days, I didn’t mind it—until everything changed with the two girls I was closest to.
We were curious about love and affection in ways none of us really understood yet.
At first, it felt playful—like we were just goofing off and being kids, not really thinking about what we were doing or what it meant.
There were two sisters and me, and during movie time—specifically Marley & Me—we’d build a wall out of blocks and sit under a blanket together. It felt like our own little space, something that started out harmless in our minds.
But over time, something in me started to shift.
I began thinking about it more. Reflecting on it in a way I hadn’t before. And even though I didn’t fully understand why, it didn’t feel right anymore.
Boundaries were crossed in ways I didn’t have the words for at the time.
I didn’t feel safe—I felt confused. Like something didn’t sit right in me, even if I couldn’t explain it.
It got to the point where I didn’t want to be part of it anymore. Not just because I felt uncomfortable—but because I started to recognize that my intentions didn’t align with what was happening.
When I said I didn’t want to do that anymore, I set a boundary the only way I knew how. The younger sister agreed with me, and we both stopped. The oldest accepted it—but after that, they stopped talking to me.
After that, I lost the only friends I had because I said no and set a boundary.
I didn’t want to go back to daycare anymore. What had once felt like a small escape became another reminder of how easily “belonging” could turn into loss, and they were the only kids my age around.
When daycare ended, the walls of my life started closing in again. Without that space, I was always home—under watch, under rules, and under silence. The Whites called it 'structure'; I called it 'control'. Every little part of my world began to shrink, and so did my voice. The places that once gave me small pieces of freedom—school, softball, daycare—started to feel like memories I wasn’t allowed to keep.
