based on true events
Being the product of my environment meant reinventing myself every time life threw something new my way.
It would be absurd to believe that family and social methodologies are mutually beneficial for everyone. Where there’s no law and order, a rebellious child simply invents her own. Two sides of the coin here—because not every kid can be taught by a universal approach. Balance? Tricky business.
Behind me stood a lineage of unmoved modalities—strong-willed, strongly opinionated people who lived by what worked and what didn’t. One parent leaned into narcissism; the other clung to fear and sheer tenacity. Neither side escaped dysfunction, poverty, or deep wounds. I was merely the newest product in a long, unbroken chain.
Generations had already misdefined what a “brat” was before I even showed up. My unruly persona wasn’t born overnight. I arrived with a neurobehavioral thingy—ADHD—though in the 1970s, no one thought it was anything special… except maybe a curse. Its infamy set me apart early.
Rules? What rules. I had the attention span of a gnat, and without memory to back me up, nothing stuck. That only intensified the discipline I received. More often, it was impulsiveness that landed me in the hot seat. A thought entered my head—I acted on it. Zero discernment. Maximum chaos.
Comprehension? Hijacked. A word, a color, a sound, a smell, a lone speck of lint floating by—any of it could derail me. I’d get frustrated, start over, and then ditch the project entirely. Needing to repeat everything just to retain the basics became the greatest stagnancy in my growth. Social development? Brutal.
Even though I had mom-love at home, everyone else opted to tan my hide. I lived in a swirl of constant disappointment. Trust was warped. To them, I was a willful rule-breaker. To me, they were malicious, impatient, or cruel—fuel for my defensiveness.
Discipline felt unjust. So did the world’s intolerance for the way my brain worked.
Still, the world was my oyster—or so Mom insisted. I wanted to taste, touch, and explore everything. But curiosity was met with punishment: Granny reached for the leather strap, Dad stomped it out, Mom murmured, “That’s nice,” my sisters scolded or shoved, aunts and uncles kept their distance, cousins rejected every attempt I made to belong. Peers loved my antics for entertainment—otherwise, I was told to be seen and not heard.
Quite simply, my unique ability to disturb everyone just by existing set the tone for everything I was becoming.
Not realizing how deeply I rattled the “lifers” in my orbit, I became mean to those I knew and wide-open to those I didn’t. That’s when life got complicated.
Shortly after my twelfth birthday—driven by rage and spiteful retaliation—I found myself on the receiving end of a swift eviction.
Liberation or defeat? Still up for debate.
But one thing was certain: freedom felt foreign.
Turning back wasn’t an option. I’d been rejected for a mind I couldn’t change.
And so, I ran.
based on true events
One idiom remained a beacon in my mind: the world is your oyster. But where the hell was this little oyster mom kept talking about? I wanted that oyster.
After searching through dumpsters and taking refuge in places unfit for animals, I was hit with a rude awakening—violence and destruction ruled the streets. My so-called guiding light? That elusive little pearl turned out to be nothing more than a silly, inconceivable notion.
Time passed. Eventually, I stood before the Honorable Judge Miller. He didn’t label me as delinquent or neglected—just a juvenile runaway. With that, I was placed into court custody, and a whole new world of corruption unfolded.
This one was hidden behind legal credentials and social services, where the misconduct of foster caregivers got swept under a blanket of “reform.” No matter the situation, the blame for bad behavior—and the burden of change—fell squarely on the child. Adults made the rules, and some of them were experts in unscrupulous acts.
I cycled through temporary foster placements, each with its own dictator and its own rulebook. When those homes felt unbearable, I escaped again—into the cracks and crannies of society where unrefined socialites lived by a different code.
Out there, I became both a spectator and a player. I picked up on behaviors, mimicking strength or shrinking into weakness, depending on what kept me safest. But when it came to spotting real danger—when hostility simmered just below the surface—I was clueless. A few thousand novels short of understanding the DSM, I had no idea how to read the signs.
Trust became something to avoid at all costs. Defensiveness became my first line of survival.
Out on my own, I banged into personal boundaries like a pinball. I was easy to provoke and easy to punish. Eventually, I was picked up again and sent to a youth detention center. Oddly enough, it was the most structured form of rehab I’d ever had. But it was too little, too late. The anger, the callouses—they were already embedded.
Months passed in lockup. Several court hearings later, I agreed to placement with one persistent woman. Her fostering was a pain in my you-know-what, but somehow, I stayed in her care for a full year. That said something about her ability to shift my perception—even if only slightly.
After that, I was deemed “rehabilitated” and sent back home.
Oops. Did I say rehabilitated? I’m not sure how that fits with someone who has ADHD.
Back at home, something felt off. Everyone seemed strangely unfamiliar—like actors playing the wrong roles. People weren’t who they said they were, and none of it made a lick of sense. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one dealing with emotional upheaval.
But by then, I had already developed a quick, fiery rage and no tolerance for obscured intentions. I had no patience for pretense. And when you combine all that with the erratic behavior in my family? We weren’t just dysfunctional—we were volatile.
Far from what “normal” was supposed to look like.
based on true events
It wasn’t long before tempers flared under chaos—possibly just days—and then, once again, I ran. Slightly older now, and with a bit more experience under my belt after nearly two years in foster care and detention, I hit the streets with sharper instincts and a deeper wariness.
This time around, life on the lam introduced me to countless disturbed people cloaked in “nice guy” skins. My perception stretched past anything I’d thought possible.
With criminal distractions and easy access to drugs, I grew numb to my own emotions and defaulted to submissive behaviors. Adaptability and low-grade acceptance took precedence over any lingering hope for a better life. After being knocked down, drugged, beaten, tossed aside, and thrown to the wolves more times than I could count, survival took over. Dreaming was a luxury I could no longer afford.
As a young girl on the streets, the nights were cold and crushing. Loneliness burrowed deep—deep enough that I sometimes fantasized about reconciliation with my family. But I knew better. No one in my family really understood me. Every attempt at connection was like speaking different languages. I felt every inch of their uninterest. And with ADHD tightening its grip, I remained brave in the shadows of abusers.
Running became second nature. I ran from everyone, everything, even myself.
With no mature plan, no clear direction, I lived moment to moment—always chasing something, always half-starving for the next adventure. It's a wonder I survived at all. The next five years became a blur of deprivation and maddening victories—none easily won, none easily forgotten. Each one carved a lesson in blood.
Through the stormy chaos of my ADHD existence, something unexpected happened. Amid the noise, I discovered a strange kind of stability—a shift in perception—during pregnancy. For the first time, my brain processed things differently. The world came at me differently.
It was mysterious and fleeting, but it gave me just enough clarity to imagine something else… someone else. And from there, I began to reinvent myself.
But reinvention doesn’t come easy—not with ADHD as your co-pilot. I fought hard to make sense of anything, to contain the mess inside my head long enough to focus on the road ahead.
Side note: The Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams was more than a song—it was an anthem. It held me together during some of the toughest nights. The lyrics didn’t judge me. The beat didn’t ask questions. That song reminded me I was still here.
Fact or Fiction?
You tell me.
Did a teenage girl really navigate all that chaos and come out breathing?
Did she really outrun the system, survive predators, dodge institutions, numb herself into submission, and still manage to find purpose in a child she never planned for?
Or is this just another overblown sob story—another runaway with a wild imagination and a knack for dramatics?
You decide.
But if you’ve ever wondered what happens to the ones who slip through the cracks—the ones no one bets on—keep reading. Because this isn’t the end of the story.
Not even close.
OUT YOU GO | Twisted | SLEEPLESS | CALLOW
IRON ACCORD | LOCUM | THE LETTER | CURVEBALL
SCRAMBLED | DEZEREA | POSER | BELLAMY HILL