Content Warning For Extreme Amounts Of Abuse - Boost if you can.
Where I’ve Been, and Where I’m Going. - If you can bear it, please read this for me.
Hello my little lightning bugs. It’s been a minute. I miss talking back and forth with the lot of you. I miss offering advice to my friends, laughing and playing in replies and tags. I miss helping you all feel seen with my BPD discussion posts. Nothing made me feel better than making you feel better.
Today, I have to be selfish, and tell you all the truth about my day to day life.
June 2nd, 2021 - My abuser tried to kill me.
I have been in this situation for the last 11 years. I ran away from home, and moved in with someone at eleven years old. From day one, it was the worst decision I have ever made.
Within 48 hours of moving in, I knew I’d made a grave mistake and I wanted to go home. I mentioned this, and (A)buser stuffed a gun, with no safety, in their mouth. Daring me to leave them. It took around twenty minutes on my knees of begging for them to pull out. When they finally had, they were pissed that I, an 11 year old, didn’t physically pull a loaded, no-safety gun out of their mouth. So pissed that they promptly walked into “my room,” pulled down their pants, and peed. It may sound funny now, it was traumatizing then. That was my second day here.
Throughout the years, the abuse progressed. Physically, mentally, sexually. By the age of twelve, they begged me to drop out of school. By fourteen, I was walking on uncasted broken bones. By fourteen, sexual abuse also got involved. Being kicked out during the winter, and that reverting into “I thought something happened to you,” when police got involved.
I was allowed one sleep over a year, even if it was at our house. I wasn’t allowed to go to tutoring. No after school clubs. I’d intentionally get detention to avoid going home and then not be allowed to go to that either.
My abuser threatened to (and attempted to) kill me or themselves a lot. They set the living room on fire once. They threatened to put rat poison in both of our meals, and when they later went to the hospital, tested positive for pesticides. They’d choked me until I saw black and white “fireworks,” in my vision.
At the age of sixteen, it all got too violent. Neighbors and teachers had called the cops, only for me to be told I should behave - and teachers being threatened with being fired for “false accusations.” Friends parents tried to help, but then (A) would threaten to accuse them of p*d*philia, so they’d stop trying. And I couldn’t blame them.
There were no doors to any rooms - not even the bathrooms. (A) slept two feet away from my doorless bedroom to ensure I “didn’t sneak out at night.” Not only were my windows nailed shut, but the curtains were nailed closed too. I wasn’t allowed to have overhead lights on either, only lamps, because “people will be able to see you through the drapes.” I lived there for a total of eleven years, and to this day, some of their close friends didn’t even know I existed, let alone lived with them.
This was all so horrific that I eventually dropped out of high school, which I confess decreased the abuse by a good amount because it fueled (A)’s need for codependency. It was also the worst mistake of my life. I was no longer allowed to leave at all. Previously, school was my only escape. That lasted for five years. Five years of, at most, being allowed in the backyard or the porch - but only for ten or fifteen minutes before it turned into “What are you doing? Where are you going? Who are you talking to? Come inside.”
I wasn’t allowed to have my social security card. I wasn’t allowed to have my birth certificate. I wasn’t allowed to get my GED. God forbid I learned how to drive, get a job, or have a bank account. I wasn’t allowed to get so much as an ID, because, and I quote, “That’s all it takes to get on a Greyhound.”
Five years I was locked away to the point of my skin peeling, and my vision is nearly destroyed from the darkness.
September of last year, when I turned 22, I managed to have my birth certificate and social security card “snuck,” to me in a birthday card. Any sign of my escape, they sabotaged it. Cancelling appointments they’d found out I made. Harassing and cursing out potential employers until they blocked me. I was isolated. I had no one.
May 26th of this year, they threatened to shoot me for several hours. I called the cops three times in one day. I recorded the interaction with A. Three times they said “We didn’t see it, we can’t take them.” I said “I have it recorded, doesn’t that count?” They replied with a shrug, and told me to take it to the magistrate.
I forwarded the recording to a relative, who did go to the magistrate. (A) was involuntarily committed to a hospital, and released June 1st.
June 2nd, they loaded a gun and pointed it at me for four hours. Four hours I had to wait for that same relative to pick me up, and for myself to sneak out. For days, (A) harassed several people looking for me. Or telling them I was dead.
I brought my SSC and my birth certificate, and five pairs of clothes. I’m currently still with that relative. Im sleeping on top of a couple of blankets in their office.
The thing is, as grateful as I am to be under their roof, they aren’t helping all too much. I opened an online bank account, which I can’t make cash deposits to. I’ve made an appointment to get my ID, and they won’t take me, telling me to get an Uber. They won’t teach me how to drive. It took nearly two weeks to convince them to take me to a gas station to use the ATM, which didn’t work. I clean, watch their kid, and have so far after under two months nearly depleted my stimulus checks on groceries and fixed expenses.
They keep telling me I’m being petty towards my abuser. That I can’t hide my address forever. That only tells me they may snitch to A about my whereabouts.
I have to plan all of this alone. I have to Uber to these appointments. (And possibly to a job, if I’m capable of landing one after I get my ID.) I have to do register for an October drivers ed course. I have to make what little money I have left last until at least October.
So, if you feel like you’ve guessed it, and you’ve wasted your time reading this.. I am going to ask for help.
If you’ve read so far, you’ve helped enough. It does wonders for my soul knowing that my truth is out there. Someone knows.
If you’re capable of helping, or want to, I’m ending this post with my Cashapp. It’s totally okay if you just scroll by. I’d be none the wiser.
If you’re incapable of help, or don’t want to, you can also provide assistance by boosting this post through reblogging it. (I totally understand if you don’t want to, and if you don’t want to annoy your followers. Trust me. I hate posting this too. I hate to do this to you guys.)
If you don’t do either, it’s okay. I am not your responsibility.
Because I have a history of sharing GoFundMes for fellow folks escaping abuse, I’m aware this may look suspicious. For now, I’m terrified of being doxxed, but if you DM me personally, I’m willing to look for screenshots and drudge up what recordings I have left.
When I get my ID, I’ll try to open a normal bank account, and may turn this into a more accessible GFM.
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