Content Warning:
This entry contains themes of 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.
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Kid me thought it was a great idea to go into the garage—a mess, and I mean hoarder-level mess. Margaret was a hoarder through and through. I’d squeeze through boxes, peek under piles, and see what treasures I could find to play with.
One day, I managed to crawl all the way to the back and saw Jordan's tiny motorcycle. Thought it was the coolest thing. Then I spotted a training bow and arrow. I crawled out of the garage with it, determined to shoot it somewhere safe. I didn’t want to hurt anyone—just wanted to feel like an archer.
I stood on the side of the house facing the woods, pulled the string back, aimed, and—
Whoosh.
Straight into the trees.
“Oh, crap,” I muttered, running after it. I followed the path and found the arrow sticking out of the ground. Pulled it out, ran back, and did it again.
Whoosh.
The second one vanished into the woods, and I couldn’t find it. “Oh no,” I panicked. I shoved the bow back in the garage where I found it and crawled out, pretending like nothing ever happened. Then I went to find bugs or snakes to play with—something else to do.
When I got moved upstairs, I used to keep a sharpened stick under my pillow. I’d found it outside—it started as a walking stick, something to keep me company. I used it like a javelin sometimes, or walked with it through the woods/yard just far enough to feel free.
One day I took scissors and sharpened the end of it. I said it was for fun, but really, it was for safety. Sometimes I used it to scare Jordan with spiders because he had the worst arachnophobia. He’d lock me outside for it—worth it, honestly, and see him afraid.
Thomas caught me one day and told me to throw it in the woods. So I did… my way. I hid it where I could find it again. Broke off the tip, snuck it inside, and hid it under my pillow, right in the corner of my daybed.
At night, I’d lie awake fighting with my thoughts—tense and alert, never feeling fully safe in my own room.
I kept it close because it made me feel safer, even if I had to use it—but I never did. Later, I sneaked a kitchen knife upstairs, the one they said was “the sharpest.” I hid it in my bathroom, used it as a way to cope with pain I didn’t know how to express, and sometimes there were moments when the anger I felt toward him went deeper than I knew how to process. They found out I had it and punished me, but I never told them why. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
They said I was the problem. Too much, too loud, too broken, too grown. They tried to convince me that I was the one who needed fixing.
But the truth is—I wasn’t the problem.
I was the only one brave enough to see what was wrong and still want to love anyway.
I became the most hated child not because I was bad, but because I refused to disappear. I refused to be quiet. Because I carried the truth of where I came from and who they really were, even when they told me to be ashamed of it. Because I couldn’t forget.
They hated the part of me that survived everything that came before them. Especially Thomas.
And maybe that’s what still makes me dangerous—I lived through their hate, and I’m still here to tell the story.
