I Wasn't Supposed to Survive... But I Did

My story begins with a little girl—confused and lost.

It wasn’t until I took this course that I realized I had PTSD from my childhood. And that in order to heal, I had to start there.

From the time I was five years old until high school, my life was completely unpredictable.

Both of my parents were drug addicts.

My father was a functional user—you’d never know unless someone told you.

But my mother? She was not functional.

Every morning was different. I never knew what to expect. If I woke up and smelled food, I knew it would be a good day.

That meant:

• I’d have breakfast.
• I’d have a packed lunch.
• I wouldn’t have to wake up my sisters and get them ready for school.
• Most importantly, I wouldn’t have to wake my mom up for a ride to school.

And if today was a really good day, there was a 50/50 chance tomorrow would be good too.

But if today was a bad day… everything changed.

• No breakfast.
• Maybe cereal—if I could find a clean bowl.
• No lunch, with or without a smiley face on the paper bag.
• I had to wake up my sisters, get them ready, and handle everything alone.

Worst of all, I had to wake her up.

That usually took six nudges before she came to—and when she did, she would start yelling and cursing at me. That screaming would last all the way to school—the three of us crammed into a two-seater Datsun, windows rolled up, cigarette smoke filling the air.

Hopefully, we weren’t late.

By the end of every school day, all I could think about was what I would come home to.

• Would she still be asleep?
• Would she be locked in her room with her friends?
• Would she be sweet as honey?
• Or would my parents be fighting again?

When they fought, it was bad.

My dad wanted a Betty Crocker wife—a woman who cooked, cleaned, and raised her children the “right” way. Instead, he got the complete opposite.

• The house was always a mess.
• The laundry piled up.
• She rarely cooked.

If it weren’t for my father teaching me self-respect, I don’t know how I would have turned out. He spent weekends with us, and took us to church. Meanwhile, my mother stayed locked in her room.

Then, when I was 14 years old, my mom took my Nana to the airport—and never came back.

That’s when my dad got sober.

At first, we were told that my mother had been in a bad car accident and was in the hospital. But then, a few days later, her car was towed to our house—with no dents, no scratches.

I was so confused. I knew something was off. Then, five days later, my dad got a call in the middle of the night.

She had been found.

• Beaten.
• Unclothed.
• Left for dead in the mountains.

She was hospitalized for days.

My dad, relieved she was alive, was also forced to confront the truth—she had been with another man at a bar the night she disappeared.

That event sent my sisters and me into lockdown. And at my age, I rebelled.

• I cut school.
• I did drugs.
• I sought attention in all the wrong places.

I can admit that now, that I was desperate for love.

By my senior year, I had to make up two and a half years of coursework to graduate on time.

But I did it.

On June 10, 1997, I turned 18 years old, graduated high school—and was six months pregnant.

A month later, I married my daughter’s father. That marriage lasted five years. We were young, and we added drugs into the mix, so it fell apart.

Then, I reconnected with an old boyfriend from high school—Martin.

We had always been great friends. We had history. We clicked. But then, drugs entered the relationship, and Martin changed.

• He was using at a level I had never been exposed to before.
• Then came the controlling.
• Then came the violence.
• He told me to stop wearing makeup.
• He told me to wear sweats and keep my head down.

I refused, and that’s the first time he hit me.

Martin only got worse.

• He punched me with a closed fist.
• He choked me until I passed out.

Finally, my mother had enough. She called the police.

I was furious, but that anger didn’t last long...

Because soon after, on Christmas night, 2005, Martin kidnapped me.

• He held me captive for five days.
• He beat me, tortured me, shattered my bones, knocked out my teeth.
• I was digging my own grave when I prayed for death.

On the fifth day, he changed again. 

He was loving, apologetic. He promised to get me help—because I was bleeding from a stab wound in my leg.

On the way to the hospital, he started panicking. He sensed that I would try to escape.

"If you do something stupid, I’ll kill you before anyone can stop me."

At that moment, I didn’t care.

We weren’t going fast—maybe 15 miles per hour. But I jumped.

I threw myself out of the car, and I almost got hit by the police.

💜 But I lived.

Martin was arrested a week later.

He was charged with attempted murder and sentenced to 15 years.

This year, he was released.

When I joined ARCS, I thought I was learning about helping others with trauma, but I had no idea how much I needed healing.

I never realized how much I had been carrying from my childhood. I never saw my life as child abuse—but it was. And it affected everything.

Through ARCS, I have finally found a safe space.

• A space with no judgment.
• A space where no one looks down on me.
• A space where I can finally breathe.

And with this education, I want to give that same safe space to others.

Because it feels good to say:

💜 I am a survivor.