Content Warning:
This post reflects real-life experiences and is written from a place of healing and reflection. It is not related to consensual BDSM, roleplay, or kink.
This piece discusses trauma, emotional abuse, boundary violations, and mental health struggles.
If you are struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 (U.S.), or find international hotlines at findahelpline.com.
If you believe no one cares, I'll be the first to say I do.
If this brought up difficult emotions for you, please consider reaching out to someone you trust or a professional support resource. You are not alone.
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The Most Hated Child
They didn’t just make me feel hated. They told me I was. Over and over. Until the words sank into my bones. Just maybe I was…
At the Whites’ house, love came with conditions—and I never met them. Margaret and Thomas didn’t see me as a daughter. Thomas made sure to tell me that to my face. They saw me as a mistake they had to fix —or, better yet, erase. They told me I was worthless. A slut. I pushed myself on Jordan. That I would end up just like my “real family”—in jail, addicted, unwanted. They said I was no daughter of theirs and never would be. I will never forget those words and what they all did.
They even made it visual—put reminders on the refrigerator.
Drawings on the fridge that Thomas made of me behind bars.
Little “lessons” to remind me who I supposedly was.
Telling me of his past… homeless, and used to be a truck driver.
Later in life, I found out he used to serve in the military, the Army.
He used to be homeless, and he told me and us all about it. Tell us why he hates spaghetti, because it was cheap to eat. Tell me if I ever became like that, I would never survive like he did. Sleeping in trees or having to do this or that. Deep down, I didn’t believe him. I knew how to survive and felt like a challenge.
Margaret used to tell me that when I got upset with anger, I had “that look” — the same look my biological mother had and the face she saw in court when she lost her rights. She said it with disgust, as if it were something to be ashamed of. And I started to hate my mother for it, too. My hatred was trying to deepen like a feeling all inside of me, like I was the true monster, even though I didn’t understand why. They used everything they could—my past, my family, my pain—against me. Anytime my biological family came to their house in the cul-de-sac, they would talk in the car. I didn’t know about all of it, but they did, and more against me. Margaret made sure to smear it all in my face like I was a failure and the drug problems they had.
I was punished for being myself. Punished for anything and everything you can think of, even trying to smile. For remembering things they didn’t want remembered. For caring too much. For being motherly to the other kids. Playing with my siblings, hurting Jordan when trying to fight him, leaving bite marks, scratches, or drawing blood from his body. They called it controlling, manipulative, and dramatic. But it wasn’t—it was survival. Tried protecting myself. I stepped in to protect them, and the kids listened to me more than they listened to them. That made them angry. They turned the others against me, twisting the story until I became the villain in a house that preached perfection.
They told me I would never be enough. And in their eyes, I never was. Jordan was the golden child. The one they protected. The one who could do no wrong. They called him “ours” and me “her.” As if saying “her” instead of “our” could make me disappear.
Even the grandmother joined in—the same fake sweetness or in front of others, but behind closed doors, silence. She saw what was happening and chose comfort over truth. The house looked perfect to outsiders—clean, church-going, stable—but inside, it was a stage built on control and shame.
Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw their words staring back at me..
Slut.
Whore.
Worthless.
Liar.
Not enough.
Not theirs.
Helpless.
The words they used for me followed me everywhere—making me feel like I was everything they said I was, like I was never enough.
All consuming me… all around me…I turned that pain inward for the first time, trying to release what I couldn’t express.
Did it to release the pain, to feel something I could finally let out. To cry it out, just accept it, and just keep pushing. This has to be who I am, right?
Fighting myself. Every corner I walked around the house, my mind would go to dark places, and my mind would drift into dark places where everything felt overwhelming and hard to escape… It felt easy to turn that pain inward. I felt myself being pulled deeper into that pain, not knowing how to stop it. It didn’t make sense to me then, but it was real. They didn’t realize what they were making me into. I felt invisible, like my presence didn’t matter. like life would keep going without me, just one less presence in the room. I felt myself slipping into that mindset, but what stopped me was thinking about my sisters and brother—what that kind of loss would do to them, what damage would I cause them. I know how it feels to watch others die around me or hurt themself. Reflecting back on the times with Rose and my biological family. It felt like I was standing very close to a breaking point - standing at a point where everything felt like it could fall apart I knew the Whites would not care, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my siblings carrying that kind of trauma. To be or not to be? Survival of the fittest…prey or predator…What should I become? What am I?
The battle in my mind:
Give up… and let the pain take over, hoping it would finally stop. Where I will be loved and wanted.
Fight back… and become something I didn’t want to be - painted as the vile villain they called me, and go to jail
Or endure it… and try to survive, even when it felt impossible,
try my best, but at what cost? It’s me against the world all alone.
Living life on a very thin thread, feeling like at any moment I could break.. Sweep away with the storm.
