at 3 years old, i was verbally abused for spilling a glass of milk on the table during dinner.
at 4 years old, i was locked in a room with a jar as a ‘toilet’ when i defended myself against an angry parent.
at 5 years old, my parents’ friends referred to me as a boy because i wasn’t “pretty like all the other girls,” with no defense from my parents.
at 7 years old, i was under the impression that physical abuse was a mandatory consequence of making a mistake, so i began beating myself if i made a mistake while my parents were at work.
at 8 years old, my parents and their friends grabbed my face to discuss future plastic surgery plans to “fix” my face.
at 9 years old, i was called ‘baby’ for months after asking my parents to come home at 10pm when i saw someone in our backyard.
at 10 years old, i was told a family member was sexualizing me when i wore shorts while lying down on the couch, and therefore i was told to stop dressing so provocatively.
at 11 years old, i had to learn how to talk someone out of suicide over the phone, and how to cope with being told i was a reason they wanted to die.
at 12 years old, i felt the courage to vocalize my suicidal thoughts for the first time but was instantly told that my brother needed more attention.
at 13 years old, a parent tried to force my arm in an uncontrolled fire in the fireplace because i didn’t know to open the smoke vent before lighting it.
at 14 years old, i had anxiety and panic attacks so severe, i began blacking out in public.
at 15 years old, i started taking antidepressants after my doctor told me it would “fix” me – i called them ‘happy pills’ and began abusing them with hopes i would never wake up.
at 16 years old, i was labeled as a “failed investment” by my parents when i received a rejection letter from a university.
at 17 years old, my pastor’s wife told a boy not to get involved with me because i was ‘too complicated.’ his entire family later decided i wasn’t good enough due to my lack of height and education.
at 18 years old, a doctor told me to stop worrying about my anxiety and depression disorders, then winked at me while offering me birth control pills instead.
at 19 years old, a social worker tried to address the presence of ptsd, and i instantly shut down and never returned – in part because a parent insisted mental health issues were fake.
at 20 years old, i had to learn how to deal with a suicidal alcoholic, waking up every morning unsure if they were still alive.
22 years’ worth repressed memories rattle around my brain daily. i wonder often if verbalizing these traumas would help in any way?
all the while, Jesus has held me tight and reminded me of his unconditional love. i know confidently in my mind that i am loved by Him and created in His image, and i pray there comes a day where i stop doubting this truth in my heart.