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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

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#AnorexiaNervosa as my only possession in life of #EatingDisorders #traumacoping #SuicideAttemptSurvivors #PTSD

Since I was a child I went through horrible abuse, sexual, physical, emotional, bullying, financial, threatened to be killed by my father and it continued until my adulthood. I am at the moment in a shelter for victims of domestic violence because of my parents. Those who should be your closest one and are most tightly connected by blood did me so much harm that I am no longer living.

When I was 8 or 9 I started developing anorexia. My body was too fat to me. But it is never about food, it's about deep suffering.I was also undiagnosed autistic and when I was 12,13 I started being suicidal and started cutting soon. Actually I was cutting myself for some time when I was like 5,6 with my sibling-because of traumas and my autism.

At 14 I was first time sitting in children psychiatrist's office. I was controlled by my father and mother. I grew up in morbid physical surrounding. My siblings were severely abused for years. Yet nobody came to help, cps, police...

I faked being better, nobody knew for my anorexia, only later few persons from school knew.I was threatened by psychiatrist at that time to be send in basical asylum for children if I don't stop cutting. In the end I ended up in that hell just 2 years after and I have traumas from there. That place is closed permanently or temporary but closed. I started having symptoms of #PTSD as a child but how could anyone notice when my abusers were closest family members and parents. And my growing in cultish "family" trapped me even more to say things and have clear look on what they do to me and my siblings.

I asked for help for anorexia first time when I was 16. It was start of nightmare of "treatments". Never treated for cause, only for consequences. I also started using hard drugs when I was 14. Alcohol was my closest love.I was planning my #Suicide for 4 years. When I was 18 I attempted and experienced clinical death.

That's just part of my hell history but I wanted to point out something.

I was hospitalised for anorexia in 2015. for zilionth time and I remember talking to my mother in one of her visits in such pain, distress "this is MY illness, nobody will take it away from me". Almost yelling and crying. Anorexia was and is only thing I have. Everything else was and is out of control and I found food, 20 years ago, as the only thing that I have choices with and control in my life in all chaos of traumas, abuse and stollen childhood, stollen femininity, stolen parts of me in rapes.

I am with two choices - to ask for help in one place or die.

I don't want to die but I don't want to recover anymore. I wanted that in past. Anorexia is only thing I have. In the end of the day only thing that is here is anorexia, I own it, I have it. It never leaves. It's like having Stockholm syndrome in some weird way.I left drugs and alcohol almost 8 years ago and never used again.

I also have my dog who isn't with me and I grieve that a lot. She cries because of me so much as my brother wrote me and since I recently started losing purpose for staying alive and started wishing to stop this suffering I only don't want to end everything because I don't want for my dog to suffer until she dies.

I am in a shelter for victims of abuse because of my parents and my rapists are walking free in the city. My life stopped even before I was born. I wasn't wanted, I was always one problem in others daily routine, I am their worst problem, I am problem which always had to be resolved.Only thing that keeps me alive is that I can't imagine my lovely dog to suffer because I no longer exist. I am in such suffering that I would say hell on earth is close to this.

I am like a ghost town, ruined to the end from wars and only one ghost exists there-my soul closed in ruins finding no peace, just existing and moving from holes to holes. It's so hard, it's painful physically.

I lost a friend because I am yoo much, became burden to others, too disabled, too much, too big (PERCEIVED) risk to be in relationship with. But I don't want it anymore nor anyone close to me because they will just worse my suffering and I have fear of being raped or abused by men.

I think I will die as a result of anorexia but my life wasn't filled with any worth. I know my parents don't love me. I know everything. But I live because I can't accept that my dog suffers if I off myself. She is my gold, love and everything. She grieves but no person ever spit a tear.

I'm still waiting courts so long with everything I reported. I am dying day by day and investigations as well as all law connected acting is so slow.

I am Catholic, I'm trying to bear suffering best I can, ask for justice and push for myself but I am unwell.

I am seeing one therapist for victims of sexual abuse but I am too destroyed and I don't believe in better life. Nobody can heal my heart and psyche which are ruined. Some things are impossible to repair.

#Anorexia #Rape #Abuse #Survivor #Loneliness #hurt #PTSD #ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder

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First vacation post divorce #PostDivorce #Divorce #Survivor #NarcissisticAbuse

Well I'm sitting at the airport waiting to catch my first plane to DFW then onto Alaska!! I realized this week that this is my first vacation without my ex. We were together 26 years so as much as this is exciting, I am also feeling sad. I am deep into the trauma bond still even though I have been divorced for 7 months now. I know it takes time to heal and mourn the loss of my marriage, but you would think that after all he put me through, the emotional, verbal, financial, and in the end the physical abuse I wouldnt even care. It takes time to mend a broken heart. The thoughts of why I wasn't ever good enough, and only if I stayed longer he might of changed, but once he put his hands around my neck and choked me to the floor in front of our daughter I knew it was over. I also am very aware that if I stayed any longer I might not be here today.
I made the right choices to leave but man, moving on is hard. I still have contact with him and I still see him every week when I come back to the house to do laundry, see my kids, and see my little Yorkie pup that he bought me hoping that I might just stay. I traumatize myself every week over and over again. He even drove me to the airport this morning.
I know that what I am doing is prolonging moving on, but right now I guess I still like the pain. Again, it's the trauma bond I have with him.
I won't beat myself up for my choices, as this is a process that I am going through. It's a beautiful journey of self discovery and self-awareness. I am still grieving a huge loss but at the same time I am learning who I am.
One step at a time!

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Recovery, 1 month since the end. 18.05.2022-21.01.2025.

A month was yesterday since the end of a horrible traumatic period of my life, especially the last two years, with an extremely traumatic event, of losing a dear person to those who tormented me all this time. So how have I been doing since? I'm freed. It took time, but grateful to have nothing to do with these people again. And people can be saved only if they choose to. And I chose to.
And I am grateful to the amazing company I work for, And my coworkers. To my family And friends, to my activities. To you all for the support. And here is my #photodiary about the recovery.
1. To signify the end And also for security I painted my hair red. 2. My theology books. 3. My dance shoes 4. My town 5. My leotards And costumes 6. My pharmacy books 7. My sign of hope, the spider 8. My music instrument, 9. Part of my new tattoo.
#Trauma #Recovery #Gratitude #Survivor

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Making a decision #BipolarDisorder #Survivor #Work #Career #Disability #AddictionRecovery

I love my job! I am a Certified Peer Advocate and I get to deal with clients on a daily via phone to follow them on their recovery from substance abuse. However, I keep making small mistakes that have now added up to a possible termination. As much as I love my job I also am more of a face to face type of person. The phone doesn't give me that option. So I remembered that when God wants to remove something from your life he throws roadblocks till I make that decision. I work part time as I am on disability and I have been wanting to get a full time job for awhile now. Maybe these minor mistakes are the road blocks! So with the help of friends I am talking out about this situation. Making a pro and con list, and I am writing it on here for some feedback. This is how my recovery works for me today. I reach out to others. WOW! I have definitely come a long way in my healing journey!

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Coping skills

#coping #Depression #Anxiety #BPD #schzo #Bipolar #ADHD #OCD #overwhelmed #Survivor

hey everyone.. just thought i would share some coping strategies and distractions you can use when feeling overwhelmed..

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I'm new here!

In the journey of life, every soul seeks to enrich its existence, weaving a tapestry of experiences, knowledge, and connections. My name resonates with the desire for growth and enlightenment. I am Jen, an ardent seeker of wisdom and empowerment. Through the labyrinth of existence, I embrace every tool and insight, cherishing the moments of sharing, learning, and evolving.
Life unfurls its mysteries through victories and losses, offering us glimpses of purpose and community. Each encounter, each lesson, whether gained or lost, contributes to the symphony of our existence. In the depths of our struggles, we often feel alone, grappling with battles we believe are uniquely ours. Yet, within the human experience, lies a paradox; while our paths are individual, our emotions, our quests, are shared.
It is amidst this shared human tapestry that platforms like this emerge as beacons of light. They offer sanctuary for the curious, the seekers, and the wanderers. Here, we find solace in the realization that our struggles, our triumphs, are threads woven into the fabric of a larger narrative—a narrative of community, empathy, and understanding.
As I stumbled upon this platform, my curiosity ignited like a flame in the dark. It beckoned me, promising a sanctuary where minds converge, ideas intertwine, and understanding blossoms. For in this digital agora, we transcend boundaries of time and space, forging connections that transcend the limitations of our mortal coils.
So, let us journey together, fellow seekers, as we navigate the labyrinth of existence. Let us share our stories, our wisdom, and our vulnerabilities, for it is in this communion of souls that we find the true essence of what it means to be human.

#MightyTogether #Recovery #ADHD #PTSD #onelove #MentalHealth #Survivor

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#Allergies #MentalHealth #Survivor

In the beginning when it first began. September 2022. Something had grabbed a hold of me & was having it merry way all up & through me. From head to toe & rapid pace. I could feel & see it but no one else claimed to either.

From the inside of my body out.

Talking bout really digging into my mental & standing firmly to my beliefs. Not allowing ANYONE TO DEHUMANIZE MY ESTEEM BEHIND THIS MEDICAL HORROR I WAS ACTUALLY LIVING.

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