This series is more than, “I’m still here, figuring it all out.”

Of course, I am. If I weren’t than this would be a submission  from beyond the grave and that would creep people out. Its more like, I’m finally here.

Not at a destination, rather a perspective of presence and acceptance. The ability to stand firmly while the wind blows in any direction it chooses without attempting to predict it’s path but a peace in its presence around me. Dictated not by the elements, but a perception of time, its passing and my presence in it.

I remember my introduction to understanding what a victim is. It began with Antoine Fisher during a time when I was personally at a crossroads of living out my best victimized life or taking a step towards autonomy. A book by Antoine Fisher helped me make that decision. I had never been to school and reading this type of book wasn’t my forte. It was a step in the direction of applying life saving efforts to my mental health and physical safety. Antione Fisher’s book recounted child abuse in a way that related and made me identify as a victim for the first time. It was perhaps the first account of my brain accepting that a victim can exhibit strength, rather than believing that my strength exempted me from being victimized and I was instead a willing participant in a difficult situation.

I knew it was time to breathe fresh air away from the chaos that held me prisoner inside a sinking ship. At the time, I was 12 years old with a kindergarten education and a fascination in theology. Who knew that these would be my greatest selling points, quite literally. It landed me in my next predicament, a cult. We’ll get into that eventually.

We are going into the trenches. My story isn’t about trauma erotica or naming names to avenge feelings that have no remedy. My journey was not an endeavor to write my abusers names on every bathroom stall. Seamless healing is what I sought and never found. Complex trauma requires an agreement between myself and the past, it’s an incurable illness and my longevity greatly depends on how I manage it. This story is for perspective. We won’t be closing our eyes and drifting off to childhood memories of summer air and recounting the day my best friend moved away. This story is different and so am I.

Childhood means different things to different people. It should never mean rekindling memories from beyond, as if they are trapped inside the mind of a corpse. I’m too far removed from my childhood for that. Thankfully a lot of time has passed.

If I were to close my eyes as memoirs so often begin, there’d be no drifting away to the sounds of drowning. It was chaos. That would be the memory. Unshakable chaos and daily uncertainty. Of which is apparently a breeding ground for a wild sense of humor and performative survival. And in that, one memory does float to the surface; praying for my mother. A face and voice I had no memory of at the time. Prayer was my only religion and an unexplainable pact existed between myself and God even though religion was not a celebrated topic in my adopted home.

I carried a photo of my brother in my pocket and a deep concern for my mother in my mind, I was six-years-old. Already a fugitive, or so it seemed, and long over due for an attitude adjustment. Quiet, calculated, and sarcastic. That’s what I remember.

There are things that make my story unique. Combining the details together can be like a flash mob of misery with good music. Secrets and uncertainty was the atmosphere in my adopted home. My adopted father was, at one time, best friends with my real father. I’m unsure if my adoption was intended to be a drug deal that resulted in bad communication but it’s too late to theorize. Bag and baby can sound similar on a 1980’s phone. My real father, Adrian, isn’t someone I was worried about. I had a far more unhealthy relationship with my real father than the worry I had for my mother. I admired my father. It’s like being the child of Al Capone. He is a bit of a local legend for all the wrong reasons. We’ll get to that eventually. Adrian has a certain style about him that produces wild memories that feel like fictional stories. He’s an enigma of his own that leaves a trail of chaotic lore and fear everywhere he goes. I admired him from afar and feared him from within. Encountering Adrian should have caused fear but I was more concerned about sharing his DNA and what that might mean for me and the possible trail I might leave behind in the future. Again, I was six-years-old and theorizing my probability of being a noticeable detriment to society.

Today I watch children with euphoria and perplexity as they move through the motions of childhood. It’s still foreign to watch them play and ignore the adults in the room. They have no need to hang on every word out of fear for their life. This isn’t a concept that I easily grasp.

Traveling back to the real beginning of this story would land us in Gary, Indiana. An abandoned city of wealth with a lot of history. So much history that I did not know until after I moved away that Michael Jackson’s childhood home is in Gary. We were plagued by other concerns. Adrian met my mom in Gary. After a stint in Texas she later returned when I was a few days old after a botched adoption plan. Living in my fathers stolen car and burglarizing his mothers basement wasn’t the life she hoped to return to. And we aren’t the type to lean on family in times of need, we know better. She tried and was turned away by her mother, a fierce and jaded Native American. The ultimate decision would be to leave me like they left baby Moses, but in a crack house instead of at the river in a basket. Not the most serene or picturesque setting to paint for Lifetime. This is more of a Showtime or Pay Per View tale.

The best friend of my father was also related to the not so lovely owner of the crack house and on the eve of social services firing up the wagons it seems I was “rescued” and later adopted before ending up in the care of the state. And then life seemed to be at a chaotic standstill for twelve years.

Twelve years. The standstill lasted twelve years. I relied on  the German grandmother of my adopted mother. I leaned into her grace, class, wisdom, and peace. Most of all, her story. Her strength is what people see when they ask how I am alive today. She passed away the year I turned twelve. At her funeral I quietly calculated in a sea of over 200 people, planning my next move as I felt the anchor rising out of the sea. Things became rapidly unsteady, she was gone. Not a single tear was shed because the clock was ticking. Opportunity begins to arise around 12-16-years-old. I wasn’t completely sure that I’d make the right choice given the urgency to make any choice.

By the end of fall a plan was hatched from a hijacked dial up connection on a dinosaur computer given to me by a waitress. I shutter to think of the illicit things that went down in ICQ chat rooms. Anyhow, this was prior to 9/11 and the security lockdown at airports globally. The wild west of travel when twelve-year-old fugitives could freely roam the country. I had a state ID and a backpack without explosives, that was all I needed to get over 900 miles away from the current threats I faced in my adopted parents home. This flight began my “after.” Everything human about my existence began on that flight. Well, With one detour, a cult.

The person I chatted with online allowed me to stay with them when I arrived in their state. After developing an interest in theology research, a common bond was found between myself and people on the internet in creepy chat rooms. The person I chatted with and later moved in with was a very active figure in a religious group that I’d soon learn a lot more about while traveling with her to evangelize and pose as the child she helped. That’s a difficult role to fulfill while also being her secret sexual partner. Her husband and children were unaware of the reality they also lived in. I think I was unaware of the complete reality for some time. This is a lot to unpack for a later time. I’m unsure what left me with more scars, criminal life or cult life.

Let’s go back for a moment. I would personally skewer any individual or media outlet who called a child’s abuser their “partner.” However, I just said exactly that. And it relates to my other prior statement of complex trauma being an incurable affliction. I still struggle with identifying as a victim. For many years this was all just a story. When I’d think of the work it’s taken to grow past the traumatic events I’ve witnessed, there weren’t emotions tied to that thought. Now when I think of the work it has taken I feel nauseous. The reality has finally set in. This wasn’t a crazy story, this was a brutal reality. The work put in comes with the loss of average experience. Taking pride in my early independence is now just a nauseating feeling of what if, what if it hadn’t been that way. I don’t theorize these questions very often. It’s better to stay focused on being present in the now, in the what is, not the what if. But when I do consider it, I’m no longer void of its impact. Yet I still struggle to identify as victimized at random times.

An opportunity became an escape when I accepted a job out of the state after turning eighteen. I was also on the cusp of completing the task I started after obtaining the dinosaur computer; finding my mom. Things were starting to even out into a less chaotic field of survival triggered mines. I’d soon find myself at an IHOP in Tennessee sitting across from the woman I was told was dead, my mom.

This began a new silent chaos that would not end until her actual death. There’s a journey in this that I plan to share for those who do not have a typical parent-child relationship. Death is hard, the death of an abusive, neglectful, or otherwise estranged parent is complex. nine months prior to my moms death things were going according to historical record and my mother was trying for a money grab on my recently deceased sister. I was angry in a way that I rarely succumb to and nine months later the anger had not subsided. Years of my adult life was dedicated to creating a family of sorts with my mom and siblings. They were all younger and scattered, it felt urgent to bring us all together before too much time passed. The plan to bring us together eventually faded when our mother refused to move forward with us. There were years of silence between us before the year of her death.

So much of this is distant from my life today. But important to share, not the gore but for the person who faces circumstances that most ignore. That’s not a slight, what do you do? It’s hard to know. But this is why it’s important that stories be shared with an emphasis on where we go from here. The after. Perhaps even a diagnosis of our own questions and why we ask them rather than an urgency on our answers being immediately provided. The impact of complex trauma comes with quite a story. And the best stories leave us changed in a way that benefits us all rather than further traumatizing and exploiting nauseating moments for monetary gain.

When I close my eyes, I drift away to now. The after. In Antione Fisher’s book the last chapter is essentially his childhood dream fulfilled. A peaceful home, pancakes on the weekends, and laughter.

None of us know where our story ends. But I could not be more thankful for where I am. For who I am. There were mountainous regions of territory covered to arrive here. Anyone can. That’s my story. With a storm of obstacles and no education, this is a story of hope and determination that anyone can achieve. I had no special skills aside from a willingness to upend the statistical outcomes in front of me. I did not achieve what I set out to when I left at 12-years-old, almost three decades later I’ve achieved what I was meant to.