#weird gif

    (TW:Sexual Abuse) I’ve noticed as I’ve aged into my 20′s, my memory is quite literal shit. I usually have my boyfriend help me remember things that only happened months ago. This isn’t unusual for a trauma survivor who blocks out most of her past in a way to cope with the literal dump truck-fire of a childhood and teenhood that I had. I can, however, remember back to the old trailer I lived in as a child. It was small, but for a little squirt like me it was just enough for me to bolt around in and grow. I was… Introduced to some things early on and it stuck with me. I remember being in my parents room and sleeping next to my father while his chainsaw of a snore rung throughout my body. It was always hard sleeping with him in the room and that continued throughout my life.

    This wasn’t the only memory I had as a child living in a trailer park. I remember laying on the scratchy carpet and hearing some odd noises coming from my parents bedroom. Me, being the curious and invasive fucker I was, decided to peek under the crack of the door and investigate. This lead to me seeing a mesh of pink bodies moving to and fro and maybe that’s where this all began? I knew I saw something I probably shouldn’t have because as the 4/5 year old I was- I felt icky. Icky like the gum stuck in your hair that your mother would try to get out with all sorts of different food items but then turning to the good ol’ scissors and ultimately making you look like you crawled out of a car engine.

   Now I know what you’re thinking- mostly because I shared those paragraphs with my boyfriend and he replied, “It’s sad.” To this, I say, It wasn’t sad when I grew up. It was actually pretty normal. Shit piled up and continued to pile up as I grew older and it was just the norm. So here I am, at work, sitting on the toilet as most writers tend to do when it isn’t only shit that comes out of their ass that needs to be said- but their mind. I was a child. All of us older humans have gone through those developmental phases with little to no trauma and have flourished. I, speaking for myself here, have only started to grasp this as a 20 year old.

    I was born into a family with a history of PTSD and bad parenting engraved into their bones. Illinois was my home and in poverty we lived. I remember hearing stories about the sacrifices my parents frequently made to make sure I was taken care of to the best of their abilities. These stories would range from funny to kind of sad. I guess it runs in the family. My dad once had to sell his entire drum set for groceries. My mom would go months or years without proper clothing she needed. The fanciest clothing she would wear would be from Walmart or gifts given to her. I do not doubt their sacrifices in any way.

    The first place I can remember us living is in the trailer park in Manteno, Illinois. I had two friends who lived next door to myself. They were Taylor and Tori and their mom Bridgette was not especially fond of me. I remember accidentally leaving my pink ladybug bike in the driveway only to find it crushed beneath the bottom of her dust covered slushee-blue van. This angered my mom and I was able to see her motherly rage seep through her eyes in a beaming way. Taylor and Tori played with me like little girls usually do, and had even gifted me some of their toys when my family decided to move out of the armpit that is Ilinois.

    Pulling from the back of my memory box of age 5, in the corner where dust bunnies like to gather is solitude, there lies Michael. A firm bite from his dog had been placed on my ever-so-small rump, piercing my skin and causing what I think was a hospital visit.

    This wasn’t the only searing pain I was left with. I remember being told to go to a park where I was met with a boy who was not much older than myself. I place him as Michael. I remember my pants being pulled down and the rest is just a scene of him giving me a penny for the acts he had just performed on myself in the red tunnel slide. This wasn’t the only time this had happened. I remember being under neighbors porches and privately having my body explored. The rest is a blur. It’s so weird how easily the pure form that is a 5 year old, can be changed so dramatically. I remember going to school and taking the glittery red shoes a girl had brought to school and putting them in my backpack because I thought they were pretty. I remember knocking on the neighbors doors and asking for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I remember putting notes in two boys (I’m ambitious) backpacks and telling them I liked them.

    I was a kid and my start to this life was already pretty fucked up. In poverty, with a family hanging together by dental floss, already shown that the only thing they’ll want the most is your body, I struggled to learn what it means to be safe. I struggled to learn what it was to have a healthy family unit, to be protected, to be nurtured.

    Thank you guys for reading this first blog post. I hope it inspires you to tell your stories and to really just let it all out an connect with those who have gone through similar situations. Not only that, but to inform those that trauma and PTSD is not just something soldiers come home with, but an actual thing that can be passed on through DNA and through anything your mind could deem as traumatic.

    I’m going to show you over the next posts how I’ve been brought up and how it lead me here with all the therapy and positivity that made me who I am.