I don’t remember much from my early years. Even less from my mid-years. But my body remembers everything. Every sound that set me on edge. Every light that made me squint. Every smell, every texture that could send my brain into red alert. If I touched something even slightly rough, my body would cringe before I even knew why.
I was a sensitive child. And I was angry. Anger became my protector, my shield against a world I didn’t understand and didn’t feel safe in.
I grew up with a very angry father and a very wounded mother. My mother couldn’t protect me; she didn’t want to take sides in our arguments. Most days, our home felt volatile. My parents didn’t do feelings. Except for anger, of course. My sensitivity didn’t exist in their eyes. When I tried to show it, I was told to “get over it.”
It’s hard to grow up in a house where you feel ganged up on, where no one is on your side. I was alone. When I melted down because my needs weren’t met, I was banished to my room for hours. Sometimes whole summers passed like that—grounded, trapped, sobbing, screaming, destroying my space. I just wanted someone to hold me, to tell me I was safe, to see me. But they didn’t know how. In their eyes, I was bad. Disobedient. Deserving of punishment.
I was lucky, though. My grandmother—the one I called Nanny—was my saving grace. She always loved me unconditionally. She let me come live with her when I needed sanctuary, for weeks, months, even years. She rented a bigger apartment so I could have a safe space. She was always on my side. I loved her more than anything.
As I grew older, my search for connection took dangerous forms. I became addicted to cocaine and alcohol, partying every weekend while working all week. Exhausted. Ashamed. Broken. I tried to quit so many times, knowing I wanted sobriety and mental stability, but I couldn’t stop. I now understand I chased drugs because they gave me a fleeting sense of connection I had always struggled to feel. I have always felt a little outside, looking in.
Recently, I came to terms with something I had buried for years: I was sexually abused when I was little. I cannot fully picture the encounters—just snippets flash in my mind. The trauma shaped me, and I coped the only way I knew how. My body, my sexuality, became a playground for others. I have no memory of many encounters until someone told me what happened later. Pleasure never existed for me; it was never about me. The shame from that time has been heavy, unbearable, unspoken—until now.
As I write, I keep thinking: Is this really my story? It feels unreal, like someone else’s life. I disassociated for much of my life to survive. But now it’s time to face it, to be raw and real, to move beyond shame and toward pride.
I survived. I am still healing. And I am ready to reclaim my story, my body, and my life.
I have always been interested in being a writer.
But who am I to be a writer?
That question alone almost stopped me. The voice that says, Who do you think you are? Who would want to read this? It’s loud. It sounds convincing. But recently, I realized something freeing: I don’t need to attach my name to my words. I can write anonymously. I can share my stories without standing in front of them. And suddenly, the words feel safer to release.
My grandmother was a beautiful writer. She wrote about the tragedies she bore, and it was deeply therapeutic for her. Writing helped her survive. Remembering that makes this feel less indulgent and more inherited. Like I’m continuing something that already lives in my bones.
I’m in my early forties now. I feel like I am forever healing my past while managing my present.
I believe I’m in peri-menopause. Add anxiety, depression, ADHD — what a beautiful menagerie — and a never-ending exhaustion that no amount of sleep seems to touch.
I have a family I love dearly. And they are exhausting.
They need me for everything. And somehow, without a formal meeting or a signed agreement, I became responsible for two other humans, two dogs, two cats, and any other humans or animals who appear to be in need. I have a bleeding heart. I cannot not help. People need me. And somehow, I need them too — and the lessons they bring.
I work full-time.
I mom full-time.
I wife full-time.
So how exactly do you fit all of that into a twelve-hour day — especially when your brain can’t focus on a single task long enough to save your life?
ADHD makes everything ten thousand percent harder. But I’ve lived inside this chaotic brain for so long that we’ve learned to make it work. It’s loud. It’s fast. It’s nonlinear. It’s exhausting. But it’s mine.
My husband, on the other hand, is not a fan of my chaotic brain. He’s forever telling me to sloooow down. Focus on the task at hand. I laugh. A lot. I tell him if he could spend just five minutes inside my head, he’d experience pure chaos and a complete lack of control.
I love him dearly. He just doesn’t get it.
Sometimes I ask him if he wants to divorce me. He laughs. He would never. Who would clean the house, run the errands, take care of the kid, get the oil changes, pay the bills? Him? Let’s not be silly.
So here he stays — along with the chaos of my brain.
But honestly?
We’re all a little unhinged around here.