I Understand That This Is The "disabled People Know Our Own Limitations" Website, But Ime, If You Are

I've been thinking over the shitshow that was my adolescence and wondering how I can be different as an adult and what I can do to protect the children in my life. Thinking about how fucking much I always hated people saying "just ask for help" when help didn't fucking exist. Asking for help meant taking a leap off a cliff, blind, and hoping someone would catch me. And nobody fucking did.

And I realized. Just now. Just today. That if instead of being told "just ask for help," I had been told "get as much evidence as you can and then get out and then ask for help" maybe things would have been different. If I had just been told how to protect myself, maybe.

on friends and soulmates and that type of love that feels like it's going to burst right out of your heart

@/zmije / @/leptodiera / @/bichopalo / lyrics from two best friends by bb bean / animatedjames on youtube / @/killingmyselfbutnotdying / unknown / @/sadiekane / friedrich neitzsche / katfish draws / @/elytrians / @/wormbus-art aka @/angel-pond / @/mushysuggestion / the unsent project / mhairi mcfarlane / unknown

I made up a way to explain fatigue!

I just spent three hours writing a 2500 word letter to my stepmom explaining how fucking stupid it is for her to keep insisting I was "spoiled" when I was actually literally trafficked and paid for all of the "things" my mother gave me with my own fucking body. I doubt I'll give it to her. but still. i wrote it.

Jesus Christ this fucking disorder. I've had someone screaming and crying inside my fucking head all day and it's taking everything in me to not let them front and I just wanna lay down inside like ten blankets and not have to be real

I have a medical issue that's triggering sensory flashbacks multiple times a day for the last couple of weeks and I'm SO TIRED AND OVER IT.

There were people complaining about how I'd ruin my rapists life by reporting him but I'm 32 fucking years old and cant function like a normal human. Someone complain about how they ruined MY life.

Being sex trafficked as a kid in broad fucking daylight in the United States is dystopian af, and gave me a dissociative disorder. I'm on three psych meds. Every time I go to the hospital or a new doctor, they see "PTSD" in my chart and tell me my symptoms are anxiety, and that has almost killed me THREE TIMES.

My trafficker is free. My rapists are all either free or dead. The one I took to trial got everything expunged from the records. Somehow he even got the news articles taken down.

And I'm just... Still here. Still trying to cope. Still living in fear of people who probably don't think of me at all.

I was just thinking about how weird it was that my mother never let me have a job, she was so against me working. and then I realized:

I had a job. She didn't want me to waste time flipping burgers when she could be pimping me out. That was my job, to her.

My sense of self and understanding of my own situation is so shattered that it's taken me like 15 years to even put that together.