I never went to therapy. Mom wouldn’t allow it. She said it could “complicate things.” I knew what she meant — it might unravel too much, might shine a light on things she didn’t want anyone to see. And if they saw… they might take me away.
I learned how to exist without really living.
When I finally moved out, put distance between myself and my mother, and scraped by to support myself, I quickly learned one thing: the world doesn’t slow down for a traumatized, Deaf kid. It doesn’t care. It will not reach out to you. If you want to survive, you have to keep up with it.
So I did.
I told myself I didn’t need my mother. I wanted her to know I could live without her, even if it meant breaking myself in the process. My coping mechanism became simple: cut memories before they could take root. Lock feelings away before they couldbreathe. If they slipped through, I buried them deeper, worked extra shifts until exhaustion numbed me, kept my hands busy so my mind wouldn’t have the chance to wander.
I became skilled at avoiding anything that could wake the ghosts.
When something tried to, my brain would push it down automatically, like some twisted psychological immune system—keeping me functional without ever healing me.
It’s like I stuffed every feeling, every jagged memory into a locked box. Hidden, but never forgotten.
But I never forgot that I was worthless. That my only value was being used.
And I made peace with it.
As long as I kept my head down, as long as I stayed quiet, stayed invisible.
As long as I worked and earned enough money to gradually pay off my mother’s debts.
As long as I kept my mind far away from what happened.
And then I met him.
Alex.
The man who walked straight to the center of me and pulled out something I didn’t know I still had. Something my brain had spent years protecting me from feeling. My mind screamed for me to stay away from him, but my heart didn’t listen. Maybe I didn’t really try to push him away. Maybe a part of me never wanted to.
Because he was the first person I wanted to use my voice for.
The first in years.
Even that night in the alley — I was terrified, but not of him; I was scared of what I was seeing him do, yes, but not of him.
The man with the blue eyes who looked at me like I was something sacred.
Like I was worth something.
And I’d never seen that look directed at me before.
It was intimidating.
But I liked it.
That look was the beginning. The moment something long dead inside me stirred, blooming into something I didn’t have a name for at the time.
Being with Alex became another coping mechanism for me.
But this time, a better one.
A place where I didn’t feel alone.
it felt… safe.
Not the fake kind of safety I built for myself over the years—the brittle, temporary shelters I crawled into just to survive, but a safety that felt real. Solid. The kind that made me forget how numb I was inside.
