Abuse

Hi, my name is DLongan. I'm here because i am a survivor of sexual abuse as a 6 and 7 year old kid

#MightyTogether #Anxiety #Depression #Grief

❤️ **The Boy on the Shelf: A Story of Survival, Resilience, and Hope** ❤️

I was born in the spring and grew up in a small town. My first 11 years were filled with happiness, stability, and love—a foundation that many children rely on to grow and thrive. I have no bad memories from that time, only warmth and joy. My childhood was a safe haven, a time when life felt simple and full of promise. Family holidays with my parents and grandparents were a highlight, and I remember those trips with fondness, a reminder of a time when everything felt right in the world.

One of my happiest memories from that time was during a winter when my dad told me I was going to have a sister. I remember bouncing on my bed with excitement, over the moon at the thought of becoming an older sibling. When she was born, it felt like our family was complete. I loved watching her grow and being part of her early years. Those moments were precious, a snapshot of a time when life felt full of love and possibility.

One of my earliest and happiest memories of bonding with my dad was during a major football tournament. We’d stay up late together to watch the games, sharing in the excitement and camaraderie that football brought. Those moments were special, a reminder of the connection we had before everything changed. But it wasn’t just football that brought us together. I also remember watching Mike Tyson fights with him, sitting on the edge of the couch, wide-eyed as Tyson dominated the ring. My dad would tell me stories about legendary boxers like Muhammad Ali, weaving tales of their strength, resilience, and heart. He made those fighters come alive for me, and I hung on every word.

My dad was my hero back then. I loved going to work with him in his lorry, feeling like I was part of his world. The rumble of the engine, the open road, and the sense of adventure made me feel like I was on top of the world. He’d let me sit in the passenger seat, and I’d imagine I was his co-pilot, helping him navigate the highways and byways. Those moments were golden, a time when I felt truly connected to him, when I believed he was the strongest, bravest man in the world.

But everything shifted when I was 11. My father had a stroke, and life as I knew it turned upside down. The man I once looked up to—the one who shared late-night football matches with me, who told me stories about Ali and Tyson, who let me ride shotgun in his lorry—became someone entirely different. His illness left him abusive, distant, and eventually absent. The stability of my childhood was shattered, and the family dynamic I had known was forever altered. By the time another major football tournament came around, I was only 13, but I had already experienced more pain and upheaval than many people face in a lifetime. That year, my father moved away, and my fear of abandonment took root. The man I had once relied on was no longer there, and the void he left behind was immense.

It was around this time, at age 12, that the traits of Borderline Personality Disorder began to develop. BPD often stems from prolonged trauma, especially during childhood, and my experiences left me with a deep sense of emptiness and instability. The fear of abandonment became a constant companion, shaping my relationships and leaving me terrified of being left behind. This fear followed me into adulthood, manifesting in relationships where I constantly worried about being abandoned, even when there was no real threat. My relationships became unstable, marked by intense emotions and a desperate need to hold onto people, even if those connections were unhealthy or damaging.

My sense of self felt fragmented, like I was constantly trying to piece together an identity that had been shattered. I struggled to understand who I was, and my self-image shifted depending on the situation or the people around me. This lack of a stable identity left me feeling lost, as if I were drifting without an anchor. To cope with the overwhelming emotions, I turned to impulsive behaviours—drugs, binge drinking, and other risky actions that offered a temporary escape from the pain. These behaviours were a way to numb the emptiness, but they only deepened the void inside.

Self-harm became another way to cope. I would smash my face with objects to make it look like I’d been beaten up, and I cut my arms and legs. These acts were a physical release for the emotional turmoil I carried, a way to make the invisible pain visible. My emotions often felt like a rollercoaster, swinging from intense anger to deep sadness in a matter of moments. These extreme emotional swings were exhausting, leaving me feeling out of control and disconnected from myself.

The chronic feelings of emptiness were perhaps the hardest to bear. No matter what I did, I always felt a void inside, a reminder of the love and stability I had lost. This emptiness was a constant companion, a shadow that followed me wherever I went. At times, my pain and frustration erupted as explosive anger, sometimes directed at others but often turned inward. This anger was a reflection of the helplessness I felt, a way to release the pressure that built up inside.

There were also moments when I felt disconnected from reality, as if the world around me wasn’t real. This sense of disconnection made it hard to trust others or feel grounded, leaving me feeling suspicious and alone. These traits of BPD—fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, shifting self-image, impulsive behaviours, self-harm, extreme emotional swings, chronic emptiness, explosive anger, and feelings of disconnection—shaped my life in ways I couldn’t yet understand.

By the time I was 14, my mother’s new partner had moved in, bringing with him a constant undercurrent of fear. I was terrified of him, so much so that I would hide on a shelf, curled up with a book, trying to escape the tension and danger that filled the house. It was a small, fragile refuge, but it couldn’t last forever. I had hoped he might become a father figure, someone to fill the void left by my dad, but he had no real interest in me. Instead, he was as abusive as the rest, and the safety I longed for was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, I thought, *sod this*, and left the family home. Outside, I sought connection and safety, but instead, I found myself mixing with older teens and men in their early 20s. These were people who should have known better, but they took advantage of my vulnerability. There were two separate incidents of sexual abuse during this time. One, I describe as consensual, though looking back, I can see how blurred the lines were, given my age and the power dynamics at play. The other incident is harder to recall—I’ve blocked out much of what happened, but I remember running away afterward, my body and mind screaming at me to escape. These experiences left deep scars, even if some of the details remain hidden.

My teenage years were marked by chaos and pain. I would smash my face with objects to make it look like I’d been beaten up, perhaps as a cry for attention or a way to make my internal pain visible. I also cut my arms and legs, a physical release for the emotional turmoil I carried. These actions weren’t just about the physical pain; they were a desperate attempt to feel something, anything, other than the weight of what I was enduring.

During this time, I also became my mother’s “right-hand man,” stepping into a role that no child should have to take on. My mother was trying to protect both me and my sister, but she was navigating her own trauma and doing the best she could with what she knew at the time. I don’t think she was a bad person—just very naive, perhaps overwhelmed by the circumstances. It’s clear that I love her deeply, even though I’ve carried the weight of blaming her for not being able to shield me from the pain. My compassion for her shines through, even as I acknowledge the impact her choices had on my life.

TBC

Respect should be given freely to everyone you meet.

If a king came to meet you, would you make him earn your respect or would you give him your respect freely? If a poor man came to meet you, would you make them earn your respect or would you give it to them freely?

We cannot only respect the king. Would a king have you respect him but allow you to disrespect his people? A king is not a king without his people. His people is what makes his kingdom. Only a true king would know this and want his people to be respected just as much as him. (Christ)

James 2:1-7

1 My brethren, have not the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with respect of persons.

2 For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment;

3 And ye have respect to him that weareth the rich clothing, and say unto him, Sit thou here in a good place; and say to the poor, Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool:

4 Are ye not then partial in yourselves, and are become judges of evil thoughts?

***5 Hearken, my beloved brethren, Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him?***

6 But ye have despised the poor. Do not rich men oppress you, and draw you before the judgment seats?

7 Do not they blaspheme that worthy name by the which ye are called?

We hear that respect is earned, but respect is given.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

#Depression #MentalHealth #Anxiety #Trauma #Abuse

So, I am not diagnosed but I know that I have DID.

The thing with me is that my abusers knew that I had a dissociative disorder since I was in seventh grade and they used that knowledge to further exploit me. I believe that I had it since kindergarten. I remember dissociating at 5 years old and not remembering past the indication that there would be an assault.

They campaigned and solicited people to participate in 'brainwashing' me. So every single person that I've ever been friends with, dated, or worked with, was informed about my disorder and given advice on how to take advantage of me. Including doctors, dentists, administrators, employers and law enforcement.

I stopped working because my employers were intentionally triggering my trauma in an effort to get me to live with the main abusers and be financially dependent on them. But I ended up in a homeless shelter. My main abusers tried to make me live with them but my system completely shut down so that I couldn't be bossed around and they kicked me out. By shut down I mean that I was having catatonic episodes where I couldn't move or speak for 3-8 hours. I didn't know about my DID at that time and the doctors mocked me when I said that I was dissociating and that I needed help. Therapists weren't helpful either. No one explained that it was catatonia, they just stared at me when I described what was happening and sent me back to the shelter with no medication or anything.

I was being sex trafficked for three decades and my city has widespread knowledge about it. My friends and coworkers would tell my alters about the abuse. My abusers would tell my alters that I was fake or that I was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My alters didn't believe them so people would describe the abusive situations to me but with names or locations changed. So many people knew about the trafficking but did nothing to stop it. Most people facilitated or supported the trafficking because they wanted to exert control over me. My alters that endured the abuse is still holding onto the most traumatic memories. I've been piecing things together for the past two years, isolating myself from all humans.

I feel like a monster that nobody would ever understand. I'm still in shock but I'm getting better. I'm having less catatonic episodes, since I've been isolating, but I want to know more about integration. I want to be normal however, I feel like I'll probably always be like this. Is this a lifelong disorder? Are there any people who successfully integrate?

My mom didn’t seem to care too much since she was reassured that I was in good hands. Every day after school, I would go straight to Nino's house and stay there. His parents usually arrived home from work around 8 PM, and they always seemed happy. I would see them talking about their day, sharing stories about work, and sometimes, they would even buy me small gifts—like toys, marbles, rubber bands, and collectible cards. They treated me like their own son.

I could see the joy on Nino's face whenever his parents showed me kindness. They seemed genuinely happy, and I have to admit, in those moments, I felt happy too.

After dinner, I would go home, sleep, wake up, go to school, and repeat the same routine every day. It all started to feel normal—like this was just how life was supposed to be.

I missed my friends. I missed playing video games. Back then, having a phone wasn’t common, so as a kid, I loved going out, walking around, and exploring places with my friends. Nino would sometimes go out with his own friends too, which gave me a chance to sneak away and be with mine on weekends.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to, that Nino had forbidden me from playing with them—but I just couldn’t help it. I wanted to be with my friends.

Until one day, Nino had to go home early. He was looking for me, and he knew exactly where to find me. I was in the middle of a game when he suddenly stormed in, furious.

"You son of a ****! I told you, didn't I? You're not allowed to play!" he shouted.

I felt my heart sink. I knew I was in trouble.

As I followed him back to his house, I could already feel the anger radiating from him. Then, out of nowhere, he pinched my ears—hard. It hurt so much that I ran and hid under their bed, hoping he would cool down.

But to my shock, he grabbed a belt. And then, he started hitting me.

After that happened, I stopped going out with my friends and only spent time with Nino. Every day, it became our routine—I would go to his house, and we would have fun "sex" in the way he wanted.

One day, I noticed something different. He was seeing a girl.

When he introduced me to her, he casually called me their "Ampon"—their adopted child. I just stared at him, confused but silent. I knew they have a relationship.

I saw them kissing, but strangely, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t care. I really didn’t care.

But despite having a girlfriend, his treatment toward me never changed. Nothing changed.

The abuse continued.

I started my first year of high school, Nino was more involved in my life than ever. He was incredibly supportive—at least, that’s how it looked on the surface. He even gave me a phone.

It was 2011 or 2012, and having a colored phone at my age was rare. The brand was Byrd, or maybe Bird—I don’t remember exactly. My teachers were surprised, and my classmates thought it was cool. I should have felt cool too, but I didn’t.

Instead, I felt alone.

I avoided interacting with anyone. I spent my lunch breaks by myself. I developed a strange habit—I loved digging in the dirt, creating holes over and over again. I didn’t know why, but something about it felt right. It became my daily routine at school: I’d find a quiet spot, sit by myself, and just dig.

One day, Nino visited my school and caught me in the act. He saw my phone lying in the dirt because I had kept it in my pocket while digging, and it must have fallen out. He was furious. He stormed over to me, yelling, demanding that I stop.

But I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen.

Then, one day, I lost the phone completely.

When Nino found out, he was seriously. He took his belt and beat me again.

But that day, I didn’t care.

It wasn’t my phone anyway.

The only thing I felt was fear—fear of his anger.

Wait for part 4

Sat 8th at 10 pm February 2025, and wrote a post about Suicidal Ideation and abuse please return my post