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 entry contains childhood trauma, unsafe behaviors between minors, and themes of guilt and survival. This reflects real-life experiences and is not related to consensual BDSM, age-play, or roleplay. Reader discretion is advised.

If this feels heavy to read, please reach out to someone you trust.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

I Was Just a Kid, and So Were They

I lived with our Aunt Rebecca for about a year—from my 9th birthday to my 10th—when all four of us—me, Rose, Ethan, and Lily—were living together in the same house.

Rose and I shared a room. Ethan and Lily shared the other. We were just kids, trying to exist in a world that was already failing us in so many ways.

One day, Rose lost two teeth and got $4 from the Tooth Fairy. I still remember feeling jealous—not because I didn’t love her, but because when I lost a tooth, I only ever got a dollar. That kind of thing feels big when you’re a kid. And it stuck with me. The fairness and equality in that. 

But that wasn’t the biggest thing that happened that day.

I walked in on something that confused me—something between them that didn’t feel right, even if I didn’t understand it.

Looking back now, I know that Rose had already been abused. She had already been hurt in ways that changed her, confused her, stole pieces of her childhood. And I can only imagine what was going through her head in that moment.

She was just a little girl. So was I. And Ethan was even younger.

I didn’t know what was right or wrong, and I didn’t know what to do.

What I do remember is how I responded—I told Rose I wouldn’t say anything if she gave me her money.

Not because I didn’t care. Not because I was trying to hurt her.

But because I saw that she was scared—scared I might tell someone. And I didn’t know how to handle that. I was a kid, too. I didn’t fully understand what I saw. I didn’t know what it meant. And I didn’t know what the right thing to do was.

So instead of stopping to think it through, I said something along those lines, not fully understanding what I was doing.

Looking back now, I see how messed up that sounds. But at the time, I didn’t mean it in a mean way. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I wasn’t even trying to protect anyone. I was just reacting—immaturely, childishly, and with no real understanding of what was happening.

I didn’t see the harm in it. I didn’t fully understand what I was witnessing. And I had no idea how deep it really went.

Now, with the eyes I have today, I understand more. And I feel the weight of it. Not as a punishment—but as a way to take accountability and let go of the guilt I carried for so long.

Later that day, we went to the store. Rose didn’t have her money anymore. She was upset. I could see it, but I didn’t fully understand the weight of it at the time. We get back at each other one way or another. Maybe another surprise attack, jumping from the refrigerator.

Aunt Rebecca noticed I had it. She asked why I did, and Rose said something like: “I wanted to give it to her. She’s a good big sister.”

And I’ll never forget that.

Even after what happened, she still wanted to cover for me and felt shame. And Aunt Rebecca told me to give it back, which I did.

But what stuck with me wasn’t just the money. It was the shame. The confusion. The silence.

We were all just children. In a house full of unspoken things. No protection. No real guidance. Just trauma living in the walls, passing from one moment to the next.

And now I look back, and I feel everything: Guilt. Sadness. Confusion. And compassion… for all of us.

Because we shouldn’t have been in that position to begin with.

What happened wasn’t okay. Not what I saw. Not what I said. Not what we lived through.

But we were surviving. And when kids are surviving, they don’t always know how to do it right.

I forgive that little girl I used to be. And I forgive Rose. And I pray for healing—for all of us.

Because even when no one else protected us… we were trying to protect each other, in the only ways we knew how.

And now, looking back, I ask myself— Why didn’t I stop it? Why did I ask for her money instead of speaking up?

The truth is… I was just a child, too.

I was in a home without real safety. I was already surrounded by trauma, neglect, and confusion. No one had ever taught me how to handle something like that. Because no one protected me either.

What I saw that day left me confused. It shook something in me I didn’t know how to name. And what I did after… wasn’t evil. It was a survival response.

I didn’t know how to stop what was happening. I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing. And when I asked Rose for her money, it wasn’t out of cruelty. It was because I didn’t know how else to respond.

I thought I had to do something, and that’s what came out. But now I know better.

And I hold space for that confused version of me. She wasn’t bad. She wasn’t heartless. She was a little girl trying to survive in a home where survival was all we knew.

And today, I let her be seen. Not with shame. But with compassion.

I am not defined by what I didn’t know. I am healing now, and I forgive myself.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child,

I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.

When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”

—1 Corinthians 13:11