My first memories were formed in the shadows of a dark corner under my bed in a hopelessly messy bedroom I shared with my older sister. She was the one who wanted me dead from the beginning and would have probably done the deed herself if she thought she could get away with it.

I remember wanting to shrink into a ball and stay curled up under my blanket, under my bed, while the chaos raged all around me. Even my bedroom had no sanctity and was far from a refuge from the madness. Even getting under my bed was a chore as it was a minefield of all sorts of broken toys, crumpled paper and dried up cat shit.

Everywhere I tried to hide in the cave (also known as my childhood home) proved a challenge but I had no choice. It was either hide or end up pulled into the fight – whichever fight that happened to be – and I was far too little and far too frail for that.

I still hadn’t fully recovered from being dropped onto my head and was having seizures as my first memories were forming, so between the chaos at home and being taken from doctor to doctor, hospital to hospital, what I do remember isn’t pleasant.

Child abuse and neglect isn’t pleasant, though, which is why I’m writing this blog and laying my story bare. There will be no book to sell, no donations solicited. Just my reality.

Hopefully it helps someone else survive and thrive the way I have been able to. ❤