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When we first met, it was besties at first sight. We meshed instantly. She — a badass bitch from the wrong side of the tracks, infant daughter in tow. Me — generous, kind, with a soft spot for anyone who’d lived a hard life. I felt her pain, her constant fight just to survive. I’ve always had a weakness for the underdog, and she was their poster child. What I didn’t admit to myself was that I…

I love my apartment. I truly do. After everything I’d been through, I thought my bad luck was finally behind me. Karma and Jinx were my roommates, my only friends, and frankly, the only ones I trusted. I’d decorated on a budget, but it looked good—really good. My bargain hunting on Marketplace had paid off far better than expected. The locks worked, the place felt safe, and for once, life was…

My daughter was amazing. Drop‑dead gorgeous from birth. She was brilliant too — her brain easily matched her brother Ben’s. Their conversations were exhausting; sometimes I’d have to remember a word they used and look it up later because I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. I kept a very clean house. Rowan still couldn’t walk, so he scooted everywhere on his butt. Like a little broom, he’d…

As my writing has progressed, so has my awareness. Awareness of just how messed up my life has actually been. Trained by a narcissist from birth, it became a way of life. To me, the abuse was normal — almost comfortable. No big deal. I honestly didn’t know any better. What a depressing realization. Looking back over what I can only call a true train wreck, I’ve realized I repeated the cycle. Not…

I used to joke that I had a sign on my back inviting narcissists to find me. Over time, I’ve realized that what I was really noticing were patterns shaped by past abuse. I learned certain ways of behaving—minimizing myself, over‑accommodating, assuming responsibility—that once helped me get through unsafe situations. Those behaviors aren’t invitations, but they can be read by narcissistic people…

Once I left Wade’s house, I had nowhere to go. I found a motel that was semi‑affordable and booked a two‑week stay, hoping that would be enough time to figure out what came next. It was a small room tucked in the back of the building — perfect for hiding. I drove a car you could spot from space, so being out of sight mattered. The room had a microwave and a tiny fridge. Enough for Rowan and me…

In the years between my divorce and now, I moved through a series of semi‑serious relationships. At the time, none of them felt dangerous. They felt familiar. Each man entered my life with ease—confident, attentive, quietly charming in a way that didn’t set off alarms. They listened. They showed up. They were gentle with my kids and talked about building something real. After years of chaos,…

The Pineapple Inn. The skeeziest, most bottom‑of‑the‑barrel motel I had ever seen. A staff member at Rowan’s respite home told me about it — which should’ve been my first red flag. When someone who works in crisis care says, “This is the cheapest place around,” what they really mean is, “Good luck, Godspeed, and don’t touch anything without gloves.” But it was close to Rowan, and it was all I…

“I am not ok, I’m barely getting by. I’m losing track of days and losing sleep at night, so if I say I’m fine, just know I’ve learned to hide it well.” — Jelly Roll That song suits me. After years of abuse, therapy, and major mistakes, I know exactly who I am. I’m a mess, a dumpster fire, a train wreck waiting to happen. But at least I’m aware of where the damage comes from, and I’m determined…

Who knew there was an actual term for losing your memory during trauma? Apparently it’s called Dissociative Amnesia. How official. How clinical. How completely useless. I don’t care what it’s called — I just know it’s a giant pain in the ass. Huge portions of my memory? Gone. Vanished. Deleted like I accidentally hit “select all” and “backspace” on my own life. No matter how hard I try, I can’t…

I was at the end of my rope. Life felt hopeless—dark, heavy, and not worth the effort. I had no energy, no desire to move forward, and absolutely no patience left for the mess Alex had thrown me into. Broke and homeless was never on my bucket list, yet there I was, furious and exhausted, trying to figure out how to get back at the person who’d detonated my life. One day, after complaining to my…

I’ve been told to “put him in a facility” since the beginning. My mother said it right after his diagnosis, like she was suggesting I return a sweater that didn’t fit. How does a person just hand over their child? You don’t throw someone away because they’re harder to care for. At least, I couldn’t. Rowan came into the world fast—cord around his neck, quick fix, beautiful baby boy placed in my…

It’s bad for your health when you forget you’re not 20 anymore. I found that out the hard way—because of course I did. I live in a “secure” building behind two locked doors. Very safe. Very adult. The only flaw in this fortress of solitude? I left my keys in an Uber, and the driver vanished into the ether like a magician who hates follow‑up questions. I was new here, didn’t know anyone, and even…

For as long as I can remember, I felt responsible for keeping everyone happy. I chased approval like it was oxygen, desperate for people to like me. Maybe it came from growing up without real love from my parents; maybe the reason doesn’t matter. It was simply who I became. I thought making people happy was a virtue—biblical, universal, cosmic. In school they taught us that you reap what you…

When Rowan was born, he didn’t come with a user manual. No one is ever fully ready to welcome a special‑needs child into their family, and I was no exception. I was scared—already a single parent raising two very active toddlers, already stretched thin, already improvising my way through motherhood. I wasn’t prepared, but fate didn’t ask for my permission. At first, it felt manageable. He seemed…

I’d been interested in Wicca since college. I even did my final graduation essay on the Salem Witch Trials. Once I lived on my own, I started dabbling — silly little spells to bring in money, spells to find a boyfriend, spells to punish people who pissed me off. Nothing serious, but I enjoyed it. When I moved back to Massachusetts, I got a bit more serious. I set up an altar in my room and…

It was a characteristic I learned early in life — my superpower of masking how I really felt. I became an expert at the art of not letting anyone know what I was thinking. I hid behind that mask often, always appearing sweet, kind, naïve. No one had any idea what lived underneath. My parents never accepted anything less than perfection. They took it personally if any of us were sick or made a…