Content Warning:
This entry contains childhood trauma, emotional abuse, control, and references to mental health struggles and survival responses. Reader discretion is advised. This post includes intense emotional experiences.
Not related to BDSM, kink, or roleplay!
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[Why my right wrist? I was trying to stop myself from being able to write.
Thomas would force me to use my left hand, and when I struggled, he would make me do exercises.]
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Waking up the next day, walking on eggshells.
To be honest, I don’t remember the day in a lot of detail, just my mind blanks until more trauma happens, and dinner time. I would guess the same old shit happened, and daily punishments. Sometimes it was more than one, or I would sit all day in a chair in their bedroom or at the kitchen table, in timeout, for sentences, or working on math and English workbooks. I remember liking the math workbooks better and hating English.
Gosh, I wish I remembered more than I do right now. I can only remember the bad.
I don’t know if it was steak and ravioli that happened on the same day, but I can recall what happened, even if they weren’t.
What I do know is that my wrist was still sprained even weeks after the incident. I remember feeling depressed and flowing with life. Just as Thomas didn’t like spaghetti well, I hate Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli in Pasta Sauce. How about that sauce, hm! I hate that shit more than goldfish, and I disliked both of them.
Thomas was cooking steak on the grill and ate it for dinner at the kitchen table with everyone. I remember I had a hard time cutting mine, and they didn’t believe that my wrist was still injured. I was neglecting my own care for my own body. I felt the ache and the throbbing pain that sat in my right wrist, and I felt empty.
At the kitchen table, we all had our spots: six chairs.
So, from my spot, Jordan was on my left, Thomas was across from me, and Thomas's wife was next to him.
When Cole was there, he sat across from Jordan, but that was before and after he moved back in after going to a group home. I also remember feeling the difference between Cole and me. We were the same, but at least he came back where I didn’t.
When Cole was not there, Alex sat there, and to my right was Lily, and they had a kids’ table. We didn’t always sit like a family, either. Sometimes Thomas would sit with us or Jordan, doing his own thing, like working at the church.
I remember learning the word “apathetic” from the dictionary I was told to read. After trying to find all the curse words first, I was told to learn a new word. So, I did and didn’t think much of it during that moment on a different day. I asked Thomas about it and provided an explanation of the word, along with examples of how to use it in a sentence. May or may not push his button silently.
I very much dislike Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli in Pasta Sauce. I hated it growing up with my biological family, and the Whites knew that. I remember being told to go eat dinner, and it was on the kitchen island. When I saw it, I refused to eat it and fought with Thomas over it. I was told I had no choice—it was either eat it or go to bed hungry.
I stood there feeling the fire in me, but helpless at the same time. I looked at my wrist and the can opener as if I could cut steak—how in the hell was I going to get this can open?
I did attempt to open the can!
I was so frustrated and angry. I didn’t forget what happened yesterday, either; it was still sitting with me. Everything happened so fast—me crying, yelling, and talking back. I was done with this shit.
I thought of that stupid word—apathetic—and felt it in my bones.
I ran away again (as I had many times before), but this was the first time I went to another neighborhood.
I ran out the front door as fast as I could, and they let me. I walked and walked. I recentered myself and stopped crying. I saw another friend from school in the other neighborhood and walked by saying hi. I was acting and masking in front of others. Not to draw attention to myself, so I could feel invisible and protect myself.
I acted like this was normal, like I was on a joy walk—but I was really hiding. I didn’t want to be found but had no idea where to go.
I thought back to Thomas’s talk and wanted to prove him wrong.
I will survive.
I was outside for hours. Daylight turned to night. It was dark and cold.
I walked all the way to the neighborhood's entrance and saw cops and one of the parents’ cars. I was going to go down there, but I guess I’ll just walk back the other way.
I kept walking and started thinking about tomorrow, how I would get to school. I would walk to the bus stop. I had no shoes, but I was still wearing clothes. That was a positive. I was accustomed to going to the office in the past, where I would get free clothes—maybe I’ll get some shoes if they have any. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out somehow.
I was really enjoying my walk and being away from the house. I was thinking about how I would sleep. I thought about climbing a tree and sleeping like that, but I didn’t have anything to tie myself in place. The ground would be cold and wet from fog and morning dew. Ahh… I’ll figure it out.
I saw the cops driving around looking for me. I ran and hid in the woods, crouching in silence and holding my breath, hoping they wouldn’t find me. I didn’t want to go back.
When I saw them flash their light toward me, I looked at the wood line. I closed my eyes so they wouldn’t reflect. I listened to my instincts and followed my gut. Don’t run. Not yet. Wait. Then they left to keep looking.
I didn’t know who to trust, or who exactly was looking for me—just the cops, or both cops and the Whites?
I continued with my routine and stayed on high alert, listening and watching. Before I knew it, I saw a car heading my way, and I ran. It looked like Margaret’s car. Oh shit, run! I panicked and ran.
As I was running, the cop jumped out of his car and yelled my name, telling me not to run. I heard his voice and stopped. I turned around—it was a cop. Hours of trying to find me came to an end.
When I knew it wasn’t the Whites who found me, I surrendered. I hoped I was saved.
I went straight to him, and I listened. I got into his warm car, and we talked. I gave them a run for their money, but I was sad. I asked, Do I have to go home? Do I have to go back?
He told me yes. I said I didn’t want to, please.
He asked, Where would you stay?
I looked at him, and he told me I could stay at the police station or somewhere else—but not there.
In my trembling voice—I don’t know what he saw, the wounded child in front of him.
When we got back to the house, I told that cop everything Thomas did to me the day before—how he grabbed me, and I felt like I was in real danger.
Both cops took their flashlights and looked at my neck. I was hoping the marks were still there. I was trying to speak up, and I was scared.
The kind cop who found me told me he believed me, but he couldn’t do anything about it. I had to go back.
He looked at the Whites and told them I had cuts up and down my legs from running in the woods through thorns. I needed a warm shower and dinner.
He wished us a good night and left—but he did put in a report to CPS.
A little hope carried me that night, hearing him tell me he believed me, even if he took me back to the wolves.
At least I didn’t get hurt by Jordan. Jordan tried to lie low, but even he was scared of Thomas.
The parents were furious.
They demanded that I go shower and meet them in the kitchen.
I took a shower and cried.
I was afraid of facing them, but I had to.
Margaret threw a bowl of Cocoa Chocolate cereal in front of me and told me to eat.
“Is this not what you wanted?” she said, her voice filled with anger.
I sat there with one parent on each side of me and felt cornered. They told me I wasted the cops’ time on a person like me.
They said they’d left an accident: DOA—Dead on Arrival to come find me, and they almost had to call the K-9 to track me.
I was filled with guilt and heaviness. After what they explained, I understood what a DOA was, and I felt sad for those people and their families.
They left it at that.
I ate and went to bed.
The next morning, I woke up, got ready for school, depressed and lost in thought.
Dragging myself, trying not to stop.
I couldn’t stop moving.
I was afraid to rest or fall because if I did—would I be able to get back up?
I went downstairs, and Margaret asked me to follow her for a moment.
She took me out on the deck to talk. She used that fake softness again, trying to manipulate me.
She held my arm and looked me in the eyes.
“Do you see how cold it is? Can you feel it? What would you have done in this situation after what you did yesterday?”
(wording could be off a bit from what she said, but overall)
I remember her turning logic into manipulation, trying to make me question myself.
I looked back at her and told her the truth.
“I would have gone to school as I was and slept outside. I would do what I had to do.”
Then her true colors showed. Her face turned sour and mad.
“Why did I even bother with this?” she said, walking away.
She told me to go—to school—and I did.
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I don’t remember the exact day, but Thomas later threatened to homeschool me.
He said I’d be locked in the house 24/7, using his red computer.
I wasn’t happy about that and fought against it, talking back.