⚠️ Content Warning:
This entry contains childhood trauma, emotional abuse, control, and references to mental health struggles and survival responses. Please read with care. 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. If this brought up anything heavy for you, please know you’re not alone, and support is out there.
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I was afraid of getting in trouble.
I took the punishment so they wouldn’t have to.
Fear first.
Power second.
Truth first. Always.
So I hope everyone knows that peanut butter was my comfort throughout the day when I could get a scoop.
One spoonful to ease the pain, or to count as food at all.
After being hurt in that home. After the yelling.
Combination locks on the pantry and fridge didn’t stop me.
They changed the code.
I cracked it.
I always prevailed.
Stash spots:
Girls’ bathroom closet — under towels.
Dining room — behind the litter box.
Upstairs office — some were dumb, some were smart, like the dining room. Do the litter box like normal, throw away my evidence. Two birds with one stone.
I did get caught many times in the dumb spots where I hid my trash. Either my stupidity or my siblings.
Because the kids were encouraged to report on me—for praise.
That made my life hell. But I kept going.
I did all the chores. Everyone’s laundry. Feeding animals. Four to five litter boxes.
Massaging Thomas’s back, legs, hands, and feet.
Margaret’s back scratches.
On top of punishments.
I knew, at the end of the day, they couldn’t do it without me.
The only thing they ever believed was my profile from DSS and the things I said about my biological family.
I knew that because I wasn’t stupid. In the upstairs office, there were binders on us kids.
Of course, I was nosey and investigated them.
They never thought I was listening, as if everything went in one ear and out the other.
But they didn’t realize that I was listening.
When they thought I wasn’t paying attention was exactly when I was.
In the binder with my name and my two biological siblings, I saw everything—laid out in front of my eyes.
From the time I was born, the medications my biological mother was on, to all my school report cards and teacher comments.
Over twenty schools. Always on the move. Endless pages of information I never knew they had until I snooped.
It was more evidence for them, more things they could twist to cover their trail.
I knew there was more, and I was going to find it.
I questioned everything.
They never believed me. No matter what I said, they made me feel like no one ever would.
But I never stopped trying.
I knew what hid within that fake home.
- - -
More to the last post
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The next day was the same old day, like always.
I stole food all the time. I had my reasons. I was trying to survive.
That day, I felt numb inside and had no emotions.
It was always a back-and-forth inside me.
If there were no other kids there, only me, I would have let hell rain upon them—but I couldn’t, for my siblings’ sake.
Food was limited. Controlled. Measured.
Wake up at 9 a.m.—my day began.
Kids went to Thomas about breakfast, but he sent them my way.
Kids jumping up on my bed. I had to take care of everything: six kids, nine cats, two dogs, and one big house.
Thomas and Margaret wouldn’t feed us like a family.
So I became the mother they weren’t.
Breakfast: measuring cups.
One cup of cereal. One cup doesn’t fill a kid.
They told me they were hungry—especially my little brother.
I couldn’t promise more, but I said I’d try.
I loved them so much. They had no idea what I was hiding.
I gave them extras. My food. Anything I could.
Even if it meant double punishment.
Steal two oranges. Eat one. Give the other to my brother.
Lie: “Yes, the parents said we could.”
Because if I didn’t, he’d run and tell.
I was afraid of Thomas. But I did it anyway.
Like I said before—I took food.
In the cabinet was peanut butter, my favorite.
I don’t know what it was about it, but when I ate a spoonful, I felt a sense of contentment.
It was my little push to keep going.
I snuck a spoonful into the laundry room from the kitchen, ate it, and then heard footsteps nearby.
I quickly tossed the spoon into the laundry basket under some clothes.
Thomas asked what I was doing, and I told him I was doing laundry—the never-ending laundry—putting clothes in the washer and folding from the dryer.
I waited for my chance to put the spoon back in the sink, but everyone stayed around, and I lost the opportunity.
I was stuck.
All I could do was pray silently in my head.
Oh, please, stay out of the laundry room. Oh please, oh please…
Everything seemed fine.
They were happy I was keeping busy, staying out of trouble.
Until—
Margaret went to the laundry room to move laundry around.
I tried to stop her, told her I would do it, but she said no, she had it.
When she started moving clothes to the dryer and loading the washer, she found the spoon.
My heart dropped to the floor.
Fear filled every inch of me.
Shit —my heart dropped.
I froze—deer in headlights.
I didn’t know what to do.
Margaret yelled, calling for Thomas.
They both started yelling, mostly him.
He took the spoon from her and threw it across the kitchen at me.
It clattered against the floor, and the sound echoed in my chest.
He shoved a baby wipe in my hand, forced me onto the floor, and told me to clean the scuff marks from the kitchen floor that were made by the chairs.
I sobbed while wiping the floor, told to get the spoon and put it in the sink.
When I stood to do it, he ordered me to walk and then grabbed me by the ear.
I swatted at his hand, trying to fight back, telling him to stop.
It hurt a lot the way he was pulling my ear so hard.
Toward their bedroom, into their bathroom to throw away the baby wipes in the trash can.
He kept pushing me, over and over. I remember him saying something, his face angry.
I was walking backward, facing him, pleading—no, stop. Pushing his hands away from me.
He grabbed me suddenly, and everything stopped.
I froze, overwhelmed with fear, my body going into shock.
My mind screamed to run, but I couldn’t move.
My body went into shock, frozen in terror.
I locked eyes with him and read his face—I felt his intentions.
I felt completely overwhelmed and powerless.
In that moment, I truly believed I was in danger.
When I broke eye contact, I saw my brother, Alex.
He had seen everything.
Behind me, my sisters were on the bed, jumping on the parents' bed, but frozen too.
Everything went silent.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
Then Margaret walked in.
Thomas let go.
I tried to speak, to explain, but she cut me off—told me to shut up.
My knees felt weak, but I held my head up because my siblings were watching.
I couldn’t stop what had already happened, but I wouldn’t let them see me fall apart.
They told me to go to bed.
So I did.
I cried myself to sleep on that green thin mat on their floor, the feeling of what happened still lingering in my body
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Closing Reflection
The silence tried to convince me no one would believe me.
But I was watching. Listening. Collecting truth.
They thought breaking me would stop me.
It didn’t.
I kept looking for help.
I kept fighting, even when it was only in whispers or prayers.
I reached out whenever I could.
I fought with my eyes open, with my memory sharp, with the quiet courage they never understood.
They took my breath once, but they never took my will.
Now I speak, write, and breathe freely—proof that I lived, that I carried them, and that I am still here.
Proof I lived.
Proof I carried them.
Proof I’m still here.
