Neglect

I didn't choose to heal; it chose me.

I remember the moment I cut the cord from my parents, and it was scary and liberating. Not knowing how they would initially react, I was pleasantly surprised and heartbroken at their lack of outreach and misunderstanding. It's like they were waiting for this moment to happen. The longer I went without speaking to them, I began to realize the cold, hard truth that they didn't care at all.

Free from their grip, I began to spiral down a dark hole inside my mind of forgotten memories. I've lost count of how many times I've wanted to give up on that darkness. How many times I've told myself it's too hard, too painful, too much. But somehow I'm still here. Still trying to fulfill my purpose in this life.

I come from a lineage of people who survived by numbing, by silencing, by pretending nothing happened. So I came to this world to break all cycles, the ultimate generational curse breaker. It's literally in my birth chart. I felt a strong purpose since I was seven years old. I'm a firm believer that we choose our parents and the hardships we endure. I will clarify that we didn't sign up for exactly what happened; free will is truly a scary concept. I'm here to break the cycles of abuse, neglect, trauma, addiction, honestly, all of it.

All of the abuse I've been through, the neglect, the sexual abuse, emotional and verbal abuse has affected me in various ways. I'm emotionally intelligent, but my emotions explode because I was never taught how to regulate. I'm learning now. I stopped giving my body to random men well over ten years ago. Always searching for something that wasn't there or trying to fill the void of pain and loneliness. Teaching myself to be kind, not just to myself, but to others as well. Creating strong, healthy boundaries, learning to say no. The most challenging of them all: addiction.

I didn't start smoking cigarettes until the day after my 18th birthday, being peer pressured into it. I continued to smoke cigarettes until I was 31 years old and quit cold turkey. I started drinking the summer after high school, under peer pressure, to fit in with my friends, and I found an outlet. A way to cope with things that I didn't remember. I felt lost but found. There was smoking of cannabis during this time. I preferred smoking over drinking, but this was before it was legal in my state to purchase cannabis. I drank heavily for the next 8 years, always searching for someone to connect with on a physical level, but nothing beyond that. When I said the healing journey chose me, this is what I mean; in September 2015, I was at a wedding with some friends, and I had been drinking. Later in the evening, I got a migraine. My first ever, and that was the turning point in my life.

It was a glamorous journey. I struggled to be sober. I struggled with staying home on the weekends, not being able to be at the bar with friends. Who were not friends, just people that happened to be drinking at the same watering hole. It honestly wasn't until after the New Year that I started to make real changes. I saw a doctor, I went on depression meds, and started practicing Yoga once per week. I spent the next few years physcially detoxing from all the crap I put in my body. I changed my diet, tried to sleep more, exercise, etc. I felt like I was walking up an icy mountain, not really making any progress but still trying. Mainly because I was still living with my parents at this time. Still under their abusive manipulation. I had no idea what I had just started.

I did quit drinking. My mom was an alcoholic, so that's an easy no for me. She killed herself three years ago. That's another story, for another time. I did, however, utilize the fact that at the beginning of 2020, marijuana became legal in my state. It was a godsend. Marijuana helped me cope and process over the next 5 years, and now here I am present moment, writing this out and struggling to let go of my edibles. My body is rejecting them, just like my body was rejecting alcohol. I crave the numbness, the release, but my heart says no. It's an internal battle that I keep to myself, wishing to be sober, but the bridge to get there is burning, itchy cravings that are the hardest part to get through.

I'm at the end of my numbing journey. I now know that I don't need it anymore. It's the in-between the old and the new, learning to cope with new techniques. I now choose healing not because it's easy, but because I'm tired of pain being the only legacy I carry forward. I refuse to be like either of my parents. I won't let my story end the same way. I also know deep in my soul that I am meant to help bring great change. It may feel like to end is all around, but I have hope that this is the downfall that we all need. Whether that's on your own personal journey or in the current state of our world. The old must be exposed before the new can be accepted.

Even if you're the first in your family to choose healing, even if no one claps for you, your choice matters. You matter. And you're not alone.

#MentalHealth #change #CPTSD #healingjourney #soberiety #choices #TraumaRecovery #AddictionRecovery

Hi, my name is barbs_loves_oats. I'm here because I've returned home after the school year, which is where I've experienced alot of emotional neglect and trauma. I'm looking for support as my trauma responses are prevalent, and I'm experiencing lots of physical symptoms and dysregulations.

#MightyTogether #Anxiety #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Depression

I think about her often - the little girl I used to be. She was small, but her heart carried mountains. There are things I wish I could whisper in her ear - things she should've known all along.

She lived in a home where love felt like walking on eggshells. She learned to shrink herself, silence her needs, and obey just to survive. Holding everything in. No one ever protected her - so she became her own protector.

She was a body, not a person. The only time she was shown love was when it was societally acceptable. Holidays and her birthday were her favorite days, she was a person who received love and gifts. But it was all for show. All was a lie.

What I'd tell her now... You were never too much, it wasn't your job to fix broken adults, your silence was survival, the blatant neglect proved how incapable they were as parents. You were not meant to just survive, you're meant to thrive, to exhale, to sleep soundly and safely, to play, to experience, to feel, and so much more. It was taken from you, I hear you and see you little one. It will be okay, one day.

Now I understand that love isn't supposed to hurt. Im learning to parent myself in real time, process my emotions. Sometimes I feel like a child when I cry and scream and don't understand why things are difficult. My anger makes sense now. I am now the version of me that I needed as a child. I've become my own savior, my own guardian angel. I will stop at nothing to make sure people know what was done to you little one.

Your voice will become your most powerful asset.

I will keep showing up for her.

She's safe with me now

We're healing - together.

What would you tell your younger self, if they were listening?

#MentalHealth #Trauma #survival #innerchild #healingjourney

My grandmother let me mutale myself

Hi, my name is KBWebster19. I'm here because I want to explore my feelings of neglect in my childhood. At 66 I'm just becoming aware of this and I'm trying to understand it.

#MightyTogether #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Anxiety #Depression #EatingDisorder #ADHD

"The System is Failing Disabled Kids—and I’m Living Proof"

I’ve spent my whole life in the special education system—from the inside out. I was a special education student from 1st through 6th grade. I'm now a self-identified autistic adult. I'm a mother to two beautiful, officially diagnosed autistic children. And I work inside the school system as a special education paraprofessional.

That means I’ve seen it all. And what I can’t stay silent about anymore is this: the system is failing disabled children—every single day.

Are you shocked? I’m not. I grew up in this. And now, I’m deep in it. I show up every day not just for a paycheck, but because I care about these kids. Because I am these kids. Because I’m raising them. And yet… the abuse, neglect, ignorance, and dehumanization I’ve witnessed is beyond words.

My very first year working in the system, I saw a teacher sit on a 6-year-old during a meltdown. Yes, the child was having a physical meltdown—but instead of offering support, comfort, or a sensory-safe space, the teacher sat on him, smacked him, and cornered him for 45 minutes. I reported it long before the 45 minutes were up. And when I was questioned by police, one officer actually asked me, “Well, what was the kid doing?”

Excuse me? If that had been my child, I would’ve been arrested for reacting. But this teacher, with 30 years of experience, got a slap on the wrist. Nothing changed.

My second year, a new teacher repeatedly made comments like, “These autistic kids don’t belong in school. They should be locked away.” She bullied an autistic child of color—because of her race and disability. I reported it. I went to administration again and again. I was told:

> “Tiff, just handle the behavior. She’s new to the system.”

No. No, I won’t just handle it. I told them if someone doesn’t have respect, love, and empathy for disabled kids, they have no business working with them. I was told I was a “different breed.”

I guess I am.

Because I won’t stand by while students are called “animals.” I won’t let coworkers get away with abusive, neglectful behavior. I’ve stepped in too many times. I’ve watched therapists and administrators come to me for information about students, because I was the only one who really knew them. I went far beyond my job title because the kids deserved someone to fight for them.

But here’s the truth I don’t say out loud enough:

I’m tired.

I’m burned out.

I’ve taken mental health days because I go home disgusted and brokenhearted.

And yet… I stay. Because if I don’t? Who will protect them?

Too many people are being hired to work with disabled children who don’t understand disability—and worse, don’t care to. They brag about working with special needs kids, but they don’t see them as human. They just want a résumé booster, not a relationship.

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because I’ve had enough. This isn’t just one bad teacher, or one bad school. This is happening across the country. And it’s not okay.

We need training. We need accountability. We need trauma-informed, neurodiversity-affirming professionals in these classrooms. Most of all, we need people who see these children as people—not problems.

If you’re in this system too and you’re exhausted: I see you. If you’re a parent who feels helpless: I hear you. If you’re a disabled person who’s survived this system: I stand with you.

Let’s stop pretending this is okay.

There was a time I thought I knew what strength looked like—long shifts at the hospital, exams with hardly any sleep, or standing up for a patient in a crowded ward.

Then I became a mother of two under four.

My firstborn daughter, a curious little light in my life, was just two when I conceived again. From toddler tantrums to morning sickness, from sleep regressions to swollen ankles—I mothered one while carrying another. And when my son was born, everything shifted. Not just my body, but my world, my identity, and my mental equilibrium.

While I juggled the sleepless nights and ceaseless demands, the emotional support I expected from my partner dwindled. My husband, caught in the web of online gaming and emotional distance, didn’t share the responsibility. And so, I carried it all—feeding, bathing, nurturing, entertaining, comforting—while barely holding myself together.

Some days, I felt like I was crumbling in slow motion.

There were moments I wanted to scream. Days I wanted to disappear. And nights I sobbed in silence while both children finally slept—my heart filled with guilt for wanting rest, for dreaming of help, for missing the version of me who once had time to breathe.

But every time I reached the edge, something pulled me back.

A tiny hand on my cheek. A sleepy “Mama” whispered with absolute trust. My daughter reading her brother a story. My son copying her laugh.

It wasn't just the love—they were anchoring me with the most profound purpose.

So why am I sharing this?
Because maternal mental health is not just about postnatal depression or a checklist of symptoms.
It’s about identity loss.
It’s about doing everything and still feeling like you’ve failed.
It’s about invisible wounds—bruised dreams, lonely hours, and emotional neglect.

It’s also about resilience.

Mental health isn’t always about therapy or medication (though they help immensely). Sometimes, it's about honesty. About being seen and heard. About creating safe spaces for mothers who smile in public but silently shatter in private.

At Whitecoat Whispers, I want us to break this silence.

Let’s talk about the myths of perfect motherhood.
Let’s talk about maternal rage and burnout.
Let’s talk about healing from partners who don’t step up.
Let’s talk about joy, too—the golden moments in the madness.

Because even in this chaos, there’s beauty. And even when we feel broken, we are still whole, still holy.

To every mother reading this:
You are not alone. You are not weak. You are doing more than enough.
Let’s whisper, cry, laugh—and rise—together.

💛
With empathy and truth,
Dr. Tamanna Islam Nishat
Founder, Whitecoat Whispers