Unwritten Until Now

Content Warning:
This entry contains childhood trauma, emotional abuse, and references to mental health struggles and boundary violations.

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.

Trigger Note: This post includes language and emotional experiences.

You can't break something if it's already been broken to begin with.

I went upstairs to the bathroom that day, numb and hollow.

It was nighttime. I was told to go shower and go to bed, which I did, already knowing what was coming later that night because of Jordan. I got little sleep and still had to get up, clean the house, do all the chores, and I was expected to do everything in the house.

The words they called me — slut, whore, worthless — were echoing so loud in my head that I needed them to stop.

The only thought I had was to make the pain on the inside match what I felt.
I turned that pain inward, trying to release what I couldn’t express.

So I took stuff out of their bathroom — the same kind of thing Thomas used to prick my finger with when he wanted to scare me. He’d press it against my skin to fill me with fear. He did it to scare me and to confess to stealing food. They were both diabetics. So he would tell me if my blood sugar was a certain number, he knew I was lying, and I stole food. I stood my ground and never confessed when I knew indeed I had taken food, and just watched him. I have a small scar there on the finger that he mainly used. 

That night, I turned that pain inward, trying to make the feelings on the inside match what I felt.

The words they used for me became something I felt deeply inside, like they were written into who I was — Dear Hannah… slut. Worthless. Whore.

Over and over, each word deeply. Want it to be scared forever there because I believed that was my worth in the silence. 

I didn't want them to ever find out I did this, but I needed an escape. 

Crying until I couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed, and trying to release what I couldn’t hold in

It wasn’t about dying.

It was about trying to survive the noise.

Trying to make the pain visible, because no one in that house would believe what they couldn’t see.

When they found out, it wasn’t the concern I saw in their eyes.

 It was anger. Shame.

 They didn’t ask why?

 Didn’t they ask what happened to you?

 They asked, what’s wrong with you?

And that question followed me for years.

Took my shower... went to bed... and knew I was not safe. 

I knew he was coming, and another sleepless night

_____________

I had already taken my pain out on myself before trying to hurt my wrist.

I got tired of always being punished and wanted to be loved.

The pain reached a point where I intentionally acted on it, trying to make it stop.

I had already been hurting in ways I didn’t know how to explain.
That pain reached a point where I acted on it, trying to make it stop.  All the pain, all the anger, all the confusion. I was committed and wouldn’t stop.

When I was done, I went downstairs and acted like I was putting towels away in the girls’ bathroom. I was already planning what to tell them — I’d say I slipped and hurt my wrist.

I walked down the hallway to their bedroom, knocked first, waited a moment, then opened the door, and tried to get their attention.

I was immediately told to go away — without words.

 Margaret's face was angry, and she shooed me off.

 That look hurt more than my wrist ever could.

Thomas glared at me but didn't care. Just playing on his iPad like always.

 He just sat there in bed, ignoring me.

So I went to get Jordan— because I knew they’d listen to him.

 And that terrified me.

When I showed him my wrist, he actually looked concerned for me. It confused me — how someone who hurt me so deeply could show concern, after all the things he did, said, and made me do.

He took me back to their room, and they listened to him immediately.

 They gave him full attention.

I stood there in silence, waiting.

 I showed Margaret my wrist and told my symptoms.

Thomas didn’t believe it was broken.

 Margaret reminded him that Jordan and Cole had both broken their wrists before.

She pulled out her medical supplies from her master closet, wrapped my wrist, and finally took me to the hospital after seeing how much pain I was in.

Before leaving the house, I stuck a reflex hammer with me. Got to the hospital. Margaret had to pee. I checked myself in. The nurse thought I had been seen by a paramedic because of the supplies wrapped around my arm, and I told her no, it was my mom's stuff. When to sit down with Margaret.

I told her I needed to pee.

I struggled again with those same feelings, not knowing how to cope. At the hospital, I got an X-ray. They said I broke my ulna near the wrist. It was temporarily cast, and we went home.

When we got home, Thomas asked what happened, and Margaret said, She broke her wrist.

It was the first and only time I saw Thomas take it easy on me.

 I got out of my punishment — writing sentences — and got to be a kid again for a moment. I bullshit my sentences and try not to get caught. Going I I I will will will not not not lie lie lie all the way down the paper. He walks by I act like I doing it the right way. 

I wasn’t free, not really. Still grounded. But I had a little grace.

It felt like a miracle.

 But it didn’t last long.

I felt like I became the one everything was taken out on.

I was excited that everyone would sign my cast.

 But when Margaret took me to the orthopedic doctor to get my permanent cast, the nurse asked for discharge paperwork. We didn’t have it, so they did more X-rays.

That’s when I found out it wasn’t broken after all — just closed. A severe sprain.

I was disappointed. Confused. Margaret was furious about the situation. How long we where there and about wasting time.

 Thomas now had more ammunition to use against me.

Punishments returned.

I’d wear my brace, then hide it on purpose and blame the kids — it was my only way out of punishment. 

“Umm, I have to find it,” I’d say, deer in the headlights. A small escape. Escaped punishments for a bit.

Eventually, I found it again. Grrr.

I’d look at my wrist — even now, I can still feel something under the skin.

 Hard. A small lump. I believe I chipped a piece of bone.

I showed Alex and Jordan, and they felt it too. I showed Kristen and her mother — both didn’t believe me.

I wasn’t crazy. I just wanted to be believed.

Margaret promised to take me back to orthopedics if I still felt it.

 She never did.

 I had to suppress that feeling.

__________

Fast forward.

Grounded again, as usual.

 Everyone else is outside in the warm sun, swimming in the saltwater pool.

My wrist hurt. I wore the black brace.

 I sat on the pool stairs, watching everyone else play.

Margaret and Thomas were lounging in the water.

 Margaret looked over and said I could get in the water, but not play.

She thought it might feel good on my wrist.

 So I did.

For a brief moment, I felt happiness.

 I took off my wrist brace and sat in the water.

 For once, I felt part of the family.

Then the world flipped.

As I was getting out, without them seeing it.

Margaret saw my leg.

 She asked, “What’s that on your leg?”

I lied. “It’s just red ink.”

She grabbed me. “No — let me see it.”

 Then she yelled, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you cutting yourself!?”

I knew what was coming.

 I braced myself, still hoping for mercy.

She acted caring. “We’ll talk about it.”

 And for a second, I believed her.

But shame on me for doing so.

As soon as we got inside, both of them changed.

 I was guarded. Ready to run.

But I couldn’t.

They told me I had to stay near them — they couldn’t trust me, I was too reckless, I might hurt myself again.

 Their voices blurred into noise.

All I heard was fear.

 Fear to flee. Fear to run. Fear that I was trapped again.

I ran to the girls’ bathroom, locked the door, sat on the floor — legs spread, back against the door. My right leg under the vanity, left leg on the wall.

I pressed my thumb on the lock to keep them out.

They yelled on the other side, demanding I open it.

 I heard the screwdriver scraping — trying to pick the lock.

I said “No!” I told them they lied.

My eyes scanned for escape. The window — maybe. But small.

If I tried, they’d catch me before I got through.

I was stuck.

I couldn’t stop what was happening.

Helpless. Lost. Scared.

Then — Crack!

The door frame split.

 The sound shot through the air like thunder.

I told them it's not my fault; they caused it. 

It took both of them — Margaret, a big woman, and Thomas, with his potbelly — pushing and slamming on the door to overpower one little girl.

They weren’t trying to be gentle. They saw the crack and kept going.

They threatened to take the door off its hinges.

I gave in.

I couldn’t let them destroy it —

 because if they did, I’d lose in the end.

The only small chance at privacy in the bathroom for me and others. 

We could still lock the door for safety… maybe not in this predicament… but hopefully against Jordan, and I knew the parents treated the kids differently from how I was treated.

I took my hand off the lock and backed away toward the shower.

Margaret barged in, yelling.

We were face-to-face.

I was standing in silence 

Waiting

Thinking 

 I tried to walk past her, but she blocked me.

She screamed, “Stop, Hannah, you’re hurting me! Ouch, stop!”

I glared at her. *like she was the one who was stupid*

 “My hands aren’t even on you.”

I tried again to move past her.

 Thomas appeared, checking on her, eyes sharp and cold.

I pushed through them — silently crying, furious, and broken inside.

I ran out the front door.

I ran until I found quiet. Peace.

I ran to Noah’s old yard — his family had moved.

 He had known the truth about what Jordan did to me.

Behind his house was a wall — a divider between the front and back.

 I hid behind it, out of sight.

The sun touched my skin.

 For a moment, I felt hugged.

 I imagined God’s hand on my shoulder.

Thomas drove up and down the neighborhood looking for me.

Eventually, I got up and walked — avoiding the main road.

I saw my two friends outside their houses. They said, “Your parents are looking for you.”

I smiled weakly and said, “I know,” wiping tears.

Walking toward the house, I saw Thomas's car approaching.

He said, “Get in now!”

I followed.

 Got in.

We drove home — me waiting for punishment.

I hated that feeling of always losing, no matter how hard I tried.

Numb. Empty. Alone.

________________________________________

Reflection

They told me I was the problem — too emotional, too reckless, too much.

 But I wasn’t the problem.

 I was the proof.

 The living truth of everything they wanted to hide.

And even in those moments — pain, fear, silence — I was still fighting to live.

 To be seen.

 To be loved.

And somehow, I made it out.

I sometimes ask myself how I lived another day of hell. 

“I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me.” — Joshua Graham

The door handle looked like, and the door

frame split open (girl's bathroom)

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.

___________________________________________________________________

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 contains childhood trauma, foster care abuse, emotional neglect, sexual abuse, surveillance, and survival responses.

This post reflects real-life experiences and is written from a place of healing and reflection.

 _________________________________________________________________

Trying to find my footing on where to start—my mind keeps coming back here. It’s layered, and hard to put into words. Sometimes it feels like more than words can hold.

The Whites were originally foster parents licensed through Johnston County DSS. My previous foster homes weren’t bad, but each one had its own structure, and I learned to adapt. This was my first time in a home this large, in Angier, NC, in an HOA neighborhood.

At one point, after things shifted, it was just me and two younger girls—Autumn and Harper. Other children came and went over time.

It was cold that night—the kind that bites your skin. We went on a Christmas hay ride with lights and decorations. I remember sitting next to Jordan, and later cutting him out of the photo. We waited in the cold for pictures with Santa. I tucked my hands into my sleeves to stay warm.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Some children were treated with more warmth, more care. Others weren’t. Over time, I began to recognize the pattern. Love in that home felt uneven—given freely to some, and withheld from others.

I learned the difference between being part of a family… and simply being there.

There was an unspoken hierarchy in that house. The parents’ authority came first. Then the children they favored. And then… there was me.

I didn’t fit what they wanted. I remembered too much—my past, my family, my reality. I couldn’t be shaped into something easier or quieter. And because of that, I was treated differently.

I was often corrected, isolated, or blamed. I learned quickly that being observant or protective could make me a target. Still, I tried to care for the younger ones when I could. That instinct—to protect—came from love, even when it cost me.

That instinct never left me.

Back then it was survival. Now it’s part of how I move through the world. I notice things others don’t. I step in when something feels off. Sometimes that means I carry more than I should—but it also means I never overlook someone who needs to be seen.

I didn’t become what hurt me.

I became someone who sees.

There was a time when two foster children, Sarah and Joseph, stayed with us. I remember defending Joseph when he was teased for playing with his sister’s toys. Even then, I knew people should be allowed to be themselves.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and started dancing quietly—just trying to release some energy. I didn’t think about the baby monitor.

Then Margaret’s voice came through it:

“Hannah! Go to bed!”

I froze. Dove under the covers. Embarrassed. Silent again.

Another child, Mia, stayed in the home. She required medical care and had nurses rotating throughout the day. She couldn’t speak, but she communicated in other ways—through expressions and sounds.

I sat with her often. Held her hand. Talked to her. That room became a place where I could breathe for a moment—where my care wasn’t punished.

Being near her gave me a sense of safety.

There were also parts of that home where my sense of safety was taken away.

There was someone in the home who crossed boundaries with me and made me feel unsafe. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I knew it wasn’t right. I learned to stay in spaces where others were around, or where I felt more protected.

That’s one reason I stayed close to Mia—because in that space, I could breathe.

Pieces of my childhood were taken from me.

But I was not.

I survived.

And even then, I still found ways to care for others.

That’s how I know who I am.

⚠️ Content Warning:

This entry discusses childhood distress, loss of control, and a physical incident between children. It includes themes of fear, confusion, and emotional impact. Reader discretion is advised.

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The Day I Blacked Out

__________

I think I was in third or fourth grade...
It started like any other day — normal classes, the same routine. Back then, we had “blocks”: Block 1 was reading, Block 2 was math, etc and that day our elective was computer class.

We were playing Jeopardy, divided into small groups. My team had three people — me, a boy named Luke, and a girl. Each group had a button to press when it was their turn to answer. Ours was the “No” button — the kind that shouted “No, no, nooo” every time you hit it.

It was supposed to be fun.
Until it wasn’t.

Every time we reached for the button together, Luke slammed his hand down on mine. Of course it hurts.
At first, I tried to be okay with it, but it hurt — a sharp sting that made me pull my hand away.
I asked him softly, “Please stop. Please don't do that again.”
He didn’t.

He did it again — harder.
And this time, when he slammed his hand down, he balled it into a fist and pressed it into my hand with all his weight.
It really hurt.

Then the third time it happened again...

Something inside me gave out and snapped.
Then everything went blank.

The next thing I knew, I was standing in line with my classmates, waiting for our teacher.
Everyone was staring at me — silent, wide-eyed.
The computer teacher looked shocked.
And Luke was crying.

When his mother came, I saw a bruise on his chest. He was hunched over, holding himself and sobbing.
I didn’t understand what happened. I just knew everyone was looking at me like I’d done something terrible.

Classmates were afraid of me.
I apologized — because that’s what you’re supposed to do when people are upset — know what I was apologizing for.

Later, at recess, I sat alone, going up and down the slide. I remember the sound of kids laughing around me, but it felt far away — like I was underwater.
I was trying to think, to remember what happened.
A teacher came over and asked gently, “Why did you do that to him?” coming down at my level, looking eye to eye.
I looked at her and asked, “What did I do?”
She said I had punched him hard, right in the chest, and hurt him badly.

I told her the truth — I don’t remember.
I remembered his hand hurting mine.
I remembered telling him to stop more than once.
And then… nothing.

No punch.
No sound.
Just that blank space where a moment should have been.

After that day, some of my classmates looked at me differently.
I think they were afraid. Things eventually still went back to normal.
But the truth was, I was afraid too — afraid of what had happened inside me, afraid of how something could hurt so much that my mind just shut off.

Like what happened to me. I didn't understand.

I didn’t know what blacking out meant back then.
I just knew I had lost time — and I didn’t trust myself for a long while after that.

Home was never safe.
It wasn’t just messy, or strict, or unstable. It was dangerous.

A lot happens…

____________

Reflection

Looking back now, I have a better understanding of what happened.
My mind still goes back to that day sometimes—and to other moments like it.

I don’t see it the same way I did back then.
At least, I’m trying not to. I’m giving myself time and learning how to trust myself again.

At the time, I thought something was wrong with me.
Like I had done something terrible without even knowing it.
Like I couldn’t trust myself.

But now I understand it differently.

I remember the pain in my hand.
I remember asking him to stop—more than once.
I remember trying to handle it quietly, staying soft, the way I had learned to, and the way I naturally did.

And when it didn’t stop… something in me didn’t choose to react— it just couldn’t hold it anymore.

It wasn’t control.
It was the loss of it.

My mind didn’t know how to process what was happening, so it shut the moment out completely.

That blank space wasn’t me being violent.
It was me being overwhelmed past my limit.

I was a child who had already learned to endure too much without being heard.

And when my body finally responded,
my mind wasn’t there to witness it.

That’s what scared me the most— not what happened to him, but what happened inside me.

Because I didn’t understand it.
And when you don’t understand yourself,
it’s hard to feel safe in your own body.

Now, I can see it for what it was.

A moment where my body reacted
after being pushed past what it could handle—
after asking, after trying, after enduring.

It wasn’t random.
It wasn’t because I was “bad.”

It came from something deeper—
something that had already been building long before that classroom.

And maybe that’s the part that matters most.

Not just what happened that day, but what led up to it.

Something I’ve come to realize now is that I don’t always trust myself.

And I’m learning how to change that—
learning how to use my voice,
before it ever has to reach that point again, and without second-guessing myself.