Content Warning:
This post discusses childhood trauma, sexual abuse, and exposure to non-age-appropriate content.
This is real-world abuse and is not BDSM, roleplay, or consensual.
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I didn’t grow up knowing anything about my own body. No one sat me down to explain what bleeding meant or what a period was, like a mother would to her daughter. I was just told to be more “ladylike” and less of a tomboy—even though that was who I naturally was.
I loved being a tomboy and didn't know how to be a so-called "girly". I loved being outside, playing rough, getting dirty, and being active. That was me. But in that house, I was constantly corrected—how to sit, how to act, how to speak, how to carry myself. It felt like they were trying to reshape me into someone else instead of understanding who I already was.
Everything that should have been taught gently and safely was instead confusing, restricted, or left for me to figure out on my own.
I grew up stubborn, I’ll admit that. But I also learned early that respect and trust had to be earned—not automatically given. I adapted in the ways I could, even if it meant hiding parts of myself just to get through.
( I would stick my middle finger, but not in front of them. I would walk away for a moment to do it without getting caught. I'll take my win when I can. I couldn't use ASL. Thomas knew that language and showed me how to do 1-10 in numbers and the ABC)
At the same time, alongside everything else I was dealing with, I was exposed to things I never should have been.
I experienced abuse that I didn’t have the words for at the time. I remember feeling pain, confusion, and fear, but not understanding what was happening or why. I experienced things I didn’t have the words or understanding for, and I was left to make sense of it alone.
At one point, I experienced changes in my body that I didn’t understand at the time. I thought something was wrong with me. I didn’t even have the right language for my own body, so I started searching for answers the only way I knew how.
So I would sneak onto his iPod—the one he kept in the game room—and type in questions I had that came to mind: I would look things up, trying to understand what was happening, but the information felt overwhelming and too advanced for my age. It gave me pieces, but not understanding.
When I asked about it, I was given explanations that I didn’t fully understand. Later, when I searched on my own, I realized something had been taken from me that I didn’t choose or understand.
I felt dirty. Ruined. Unlovable.
Like no one would ever want me now.
That realization stayed with me longer than anything else. It planted thoughts in my mind that I was never meant to carry at that age.
I remember feeling confused, ashamed, and disconnected from my own body. I didn’t feel guided—I felt like I was trying to piece everything together alone, like I was behind on something everyone else was supposed to already know.
The mother brought home books from the library—thin paperbacks about puberty—but Margaret clipped the pages about the boys' parts. I was told, “Read the books.” As if that was enough.
So I taught myself.
I tried to understand my body on my own, using whatever limited resources I had. I kept trying to understand what I was experiencing using whatever limited resources I had. of what I was experiencing. It felt like the only place where I had any control, the only place where I could start to understand something that was happening to me, whether I was ready or not.
When I asked for help, I wasn’t given a real explanation or any comfort. I was given basic instructions without conversation. Even the resources I was given were incomplete, with parts removed or left out, as if I was only allowed to know certain pieces and not the full truth.
Eventually, even the things I created to help myself understand—my notes, my drawings, the way I was trying to teach myself—were taken away.
And once again, I was left without answers.
And at the same time, everything around me felt inappropriate and overwhelming in ways I couldn’t escape.
I was exposed to movies, shows, and situations that were not appropriate for my age. Things that should have been protected from me weren’t. I saw and heard things I didn’t want to, and I didn’t have a safe space to process any of it.
Even when I tried to avoid it, it was still there.
I remember seeing things on screens that weren’t appropriate for my age, and I didn’t know how to react. I would look away, pretend I hadn’t seen anything, and try not to get in trouble just for being present.
I learned to stay quiet.
To act like I didn’t notice.
To protect myself in whatever small ways I could.
There were moments where I felt like I had to be careful not just about what I did—but about what I saw, how I reacted, and how I carried myself—because it never felt safe to just be a child.
Nothing around me felt innocent. Not the environment, not the conversations, not what I was exposed to. It felt like I was constantly trying to navigate something I didn’t understand, while also trying not to get in trouble for things that weren’t even my fault.
Having no foundation and being on my own, to fill in the cracks.
In the end, this was how I learned about my body and about “womanhood”—
Not through guidance.
Not through safety.
Not through trust.
But through confusion, fear, and having to teach myself what no one else would explain.
