Unwritten Until Now

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.

⚠️ Content Warning: This entry reflects on early childhood experiences, including moments of fear, confusion, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

When Words Hold What Photos Once Did

If there's something you'd like to know about this era, please don't hesitate to let me know or ask your question. As I mentioned, these are things I have been working on over time and trying to articulate into words. Example: As a child, I used to cut my hair in the bathroom with scissors, and so did my sister Rose; she was even bald at one point. This is not everything from this era, but we will move on to the next...

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First Crush

My first crush was in first grade. His name was Anthony.

I believed my mamaw when she told me that when she looked into my eyes, she could tell if I was lying. And I absolutely believed her — the kind of belief only a child can hold onto without question. The fear of God in me.

One day at school, I had a crush on a boy, and to my surprise, he liked me too. We didn’t want to get caught, so we made a plan — a secret moment behind a tree during recess. He made a little ring out of twigs and slipped it on my finger like we were grown-ups pretending to be something bigger than ourselves.

Right before our first kiss, I panicked and told him I had to cover my eye, or else my family (especially my mamaw) would know I kissed him. He didn’t laugh. He just nodded, gentle and kind, and gave me a quick peck on the lips while I covered one eye with my hand.

But one of the girls saw us. She ran to tell the teacher, and after that day, we weren’t allowed to sit next to each other anymore.

The last time I saw Anthony was on the Fourth of July, sitting on a blanket watching fireworks. My sister kept trying to stand between us, giggling and eating funnel cake while I pretended not to care. Even when she stood between us, laughing and eating funnel cake, I still found myself glancing over at him.. But I remember glancing over at him, and he smiled at me — the same smile from behind the tree.

Even as a little girl, I think part of me knew I would always remember him. Not because of the kiss, but because of the way it felt to be seen, chosen, and innocent all at once.

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The Little Things That Made Me
(Early Childhood Memories)

At my grandparents’ house, we always prayed before eating. No elbows on the table, Mamaw would say — her voice firm but loving. She was big on that. I remember us all holding hands, bowing our heads, and whispering our prayers, hoping God was listening to a child like me.

At school, during the award ceremonies, I would always look out into the crowd, searching for my family. Every time I couldn’t find them, I cried. It felt important to have someone there — to be seen, to be proud of, to matter enough for them to clap when my name was called. But they were there, and my teacher helped me point them out, making me feel so happy to see them.

At home, I tried my best to help. I learned how to check the mail, remember phone numbers and addresses, and help with my siblings. I changed Ethan's and Lily's diapers — sometimes with Rose's help, and sometimes all by myself. I thought that’s what big sisters were supposed to do: help, hold, and make things easier.

There was one morning when we all overslept for school. I was the first one awake and realized what time it was. I rushed around the house, shaking everyone up, getting my siblings ready, trying to stay calm even though my little heart was racing. When I went to wake Anna, I was nervous, but I did so anyway. She was late for work and panicking. I remember her speeding down the road, breaking road laws, and shouting curse words. It was just another shithole day. I remember asking her if it's a solid yellow; you were not supposed to skip cars, but it was broken up, so you could, right? She said yes and was trying to justify herself. That’s the day I learned my first curse word — shit. I saw it again later, written on the bathroom wall at school while doing my business. I traced the letters with my eyes — s-h-i-t — realizing it was the same word my mom said when things went wrong. Then it all made sense. 

But not everything was chaos. Some nights were quiet. Some nights were strange.
At Richard House, I used to see a ghost. It would walk up and down our hallway — never saying a word, never touching anything, but always there. It always walked up and down the hallway. I’d talk to it sometimes, half afraid and half curious. Just enough to wonder if it was lonely, too, or lost. Needing help finding the light. One day, it just stopped coming. The hallway stayed empty after that.

Looking back, I think I learned more in those years than anyone realized — about faith, responsibility, and the invisible things that linger when love feels uncertain. More than they will ever know.

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When Words Hold What Photos Once Did

I can finally give words to what those photos held.

Before I had words, I was already observing everything.

I remember a picture of me, small hands, bright eyes, sitting at a red table that once felt so big. I didn’t know the world yet, not really. I only knew the sound of crayons on paper, the feel of glue between my fingers, and the comfort of being told it was time to clean up.

Looking back now, I see more than just a classroom. I see a beginning — a child learning how to exist in a world that didn’t always feel safe, yet still managing to smile for a moment. I see curiosity, resilience, and a quiet strength that didn’t even know its own name yet.

That little girl had no idea where life would take her. She didn’t know the storms ahead or the walls she’d one day have to climb. But she’s still here — in my heart, in my story, reminding me that even from the start, I was trying… learning… surviving.

And maybe that’s what this picture really captures — not innocence alone, but endurance. A piece of me that never gave up, even before I had the words to say why.

I remember standing in the sun, squinting, smiling awkwardly—caught between shyness and joy. The sun was too bright, but I didn’t want to move. I wanted to be part of the moment, even if my eyes watered and my grin came out crooked.

There’s something tender about it now. The way I stood there, small and unsure, still trying to belong, still finding light even when it hurt to look at it. I didn’t know much about life then, but somehow I already knew how to face the sun — how to stand in the warmth, even when it made me squint and stumble.

Looking back, that smile feels like a little piece of who I’ve always been: awkward, hopeful, and stronger than I realized.

That card was more than just a school project and messy grammar. It was my way of saying thank you to the man who made me feel safe. Papaw wasn’t loud about love — he showed it in quiet ways: a steady hand on mine, the hum of the lawnmower, the smell of grass and gasoline as we rode side by side.

I remember sitting on his lap, my little hands gripping the steering wheel like I was helping. The world felt big then, but sitting there, I didn’t feel small. I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something steady, something good.

He taught me more than he probably realized — that love doesn’t always need fancy words, just time and presence. Helping him fix cars, passing him tools, or simply being nearby — those were lessons in love without him even knowing it.

He wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he fell or didn’t know how to handle things, but he tried, and that mattered more than perfection ever could. His love was humble and human, stitched together with effort and heart. Looking back, I see how much of his gentleness still lives in me. The same patience he had for every blade of grass he cut, he somehow passed on to my heart.

Maybe that’s what real love looks like — imperfect hands still reaching, still trying, and somehow leaving the world softer for it.

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Spoons and Sisterhood

Rose and I were standing side by side and determined, trying our hardest to get those spoons to stick to our noses and chins. We were being silly, but we treated it like it mattered, holding our breath, trying not to blink, waiting for the photo to catch us just right.

We weren’t giggling uncontrollably or lost in some perfect moment of laughter this time. It was quieter than that — more focused, like we were both trying to make something small go right. We were just kids, trying to be funny, trying to prove we could do it, maybe even trying to distract ourselves from whatever else filled the air back then.

Looking at it now, I see two girls doing their best to create a memory — to turn an ordinary moment into something worth keeping. And maybe that’s what makes this photo special: not because it was carefree, but because we still found a way to be kids in the middle of everything.

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The Day the Sky Roared

That photo also reminds me of another time...

I was just sitting there — being me, watching TV and playing with my sister — when I looked out the window and felt it. That quiet knowing that danger was close. The sky didn’t look right, the wind was howling, and something deep inside told me something was not okay.

I ran to my mom and told her what I saw. She told me to turn the TV to the weather channel, so I did — and that’s when we heard it. There was a tornado in our area, and it was close. I remember Anna stopping what she was doing, panic rising in her voice as she tried to grab everything we might need, including a mattress.

We went under the stairwell, into the closet — me, my sister Rose, Anna, and Richard. We used the mattress to block the door. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it over the wind. Then our parents decided to check things outside, and that’s when everything got worse.

My ears started to hurt — sharp, deep pain, bleeding — and I was crying, telling my mom something was wrong. I followed them and told my mom about my ears.  Then I saw the tornado and the fear in me, and seeing the fear on my parents’ faces said everything. They grabbed me, and we ran back into the closet, holding on to each other as the storm roared past. The noise was overwhelming, the pressure was unbearable, and then — silence.

I remember relooking at our apartment's backyard and how far I saw the tornado. I couldn't believe how close it was, and it didn't hit us.

It passes us.

 When it was over, we went to the hospital. So many people were there, hurt and scared. I got a shot in the butt — and I wasn’t happy about that part — but my mom held my hand, just like she always did when I got shots.

Even in all the chaos, that small act of her hand in mine is what I remember most. The fear was real, the storm was real — but so was that touch. Somehow, in that moment, it made me believe we’d be okay.

These weren’t just moments.
They were pieces of me—forming, adapting, learning— long before I knew how to explain any of it.

       - Every journey starts somewhere… this was mine. 🖤