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Born into Ruins: A Survivor’s Story of Grief, Healing, and Home
I wrote this piece as a way to process and summarize parts of my story that I’ve carried for a long time. It’s personal, raw, and reflects the heavy realities of growing up in trauma, losing a parent, and eventually finding love and safety in unlikely places.
Sharing this isn’t easy, but I’m doing it in the hope that someone who’s lived through similar experiences might read it and feel even a small sense of comfort or recognition. You’re not alone.
(This was shared under a pen name for privacy. Thank you for reading.)—
Content Warning: Addiction, child abuse, death, emotional/physical neglect
Before I was ever took my first breath, my mother had already introduced me to crack, meth, cocaine, heroin, and pills—substances that formed the foundation of the world I was brought into. From the earliest years of my life, I slept on floors, park benches, sidewalks, and in homeless shelters. I was exposed to violence—physical, domestic, and even sexual—long before I could fully understand what any of it meant.
By the time I could form full memories, I had already seen things no child should. Strangers wandered in and out of our homes, often in altered states. I never knew their names, only that they weren’t safe. I learned early how to be quiet and careful. I lived anxious, always on edge, always afraid of what might happen next.
My parents, both worn down by addiction and desperation, tried to provide the only ways they knew how. If they weren’t selling food stamps or drugs, they were dumpster-diving, reselling expired snack cakes or stale chips—whatever they could find. When I was hungry, that’s what I ate.
Even when we had a roof over our heads, it was never truly shelter. Roaches, bed bugs, and fleas infested everything. Even if I had a bed, it wasn’t safe to sleep in. And when I didn’t, I lay on the floor, bugs crawling across my skin. The lice on my scalp got so bad, I remember people staring at me with wide eyes—pity, judgment, concern. Maybe all three.
School wasn’t a refuge. I missed it constantly—sometimes because my parents didn’t care to send me, sometimes because I couldn’t bear to go. Other kids whispered and pointed, calling out what was crawling on me. As cruel as it was, I understood. Who would want to sit next to the girl with bugs? So I stayed home. Truancy letters came, but nothing changed.
Eventually, our house was raided. CPS took me when I was around six. As terrified as I was to be separated from my parents, the roaches were gone. The strangers were gone. And for the first time, the fear was quieter—still there, but different. I was still a scared child. But I could breathe.
When I returned, things seemed… better. My parents had a new house. They looked happy. Maybe even sober. I remember being hopeful. But it didn’t last. The drugs came back. The strangers came back. The bugs. The hunger. The fear. It all came back.
If not for a friend’s mom down the street, I wouldn’t have eaten. Our fridge and stove were overrun with roaches. I remember asking my mom for a sandwich. She pointed to the bologna. It was already crawling. The fridge. The sink. The walls. Anywhere you looked—something was moving.
The few moments of joy I remember from childhood were always shadowed by fear, hunger, or exhaustion.
And then came the day that changed me forever.
I was nine. Five days before my tenth birthday. I walked through the side door, into the living room, and found my dad face down, unresponsive. I’d seen people pass out before—but this was different. I felt something shift inside me. I knew.
I ran to get help, but it was too late. I could feel the thread between us snap. The universe paused long enough to let my heart break.
That day never left me. The tightness in my throat, the weight in my lungs, the helplessness of knowing I couldn’t save him. Wanting to scream so loud it shattered the world.
“You don’t have a daddy anymore,” my mother sobbed.
When I went to say goodbye, it didn’t feel real. His blood still stained the carpet from the paramedics. His body was pale. Still. Cold. And that was strange—because I remembered how warm he always was. I held his finger one last time. His hands were always too big compared to mine. Then I let go.
He never came back. I’m not sure I did either.
I thought it couldn’t get worse. But it did. My mother unraveled. She disappeared emotionally, swallowed by grief and addiction. She was no longer a parent. I was alone. I cried myself to sleep most nights, wishing my dad would come back just to hold me one last time. But he didn’t. And no one else really did, either.
So I became the caregiver. I wiped her tears. I sat through her meltdowns. I tried to be strong. I was a child, trying to save a mother who had stopped trying. Eventually I realized—I was drowning too. And if I wanted to survive, I had to let go. Again.
At 13, my brother and his wife took me in. They were barely adults, just kids themselves, but they gave me what I never had: a home. My own room. A clean bed. A TV, a phone, even a game console. A full fridge. I never went to bed hungry again.
They stayed up with me night after night, combing every single bug and egg out of my hair—patiently, gently, lovingly. Until one day… they were gone. The bugs. The itching. The shame. The fear. They made sure I went to school every day. They stood up for me. They celebrated my birthday. They celebrated me. They cared.
They gave up their youth, their peace of mind—so I could have mine. They became parents when they hadn’t even finished growing up. They gave me what every child deserves: safety, love, stability, and most importantly—hope.
Life hasn’t been perfect since. But I can say, without hesitation, they saved me in every way a person can be saved.
They gave me a second chance at life. They are the reason I believe in love that heals. In people who choose to do good, even when life hasn’t been kind to them.
I owe them everything.
And to anyone out there who has lived, or is still living, through something like this: you’re not alone. You may have been dealt an impossible hand—but you are not broken. You are still here. You are worthy of love. Of healing. Of comfort & peace. If no one else has told you that—they should have.
So let me say it now:
I see you.
I hear you.
I believe you.
I love you.
#Childhooodtrauma #Grief #MentalHealth #Addiction #Healing #Survivor
