The Shit that Built Me.... And Broke Me (13-17)

Age 13–17: Survival Mode

By thirteen, I was done being a fucking kid. My body was always on high alert, my brain bracing for the next verbal punch, the next mood swing, the next shitstorm. Survival had become my goddamn full-time job.

The abuse didn’t just continue—it got meaner. Sharper. Smarter. My mother’s fiancé’s manipulations, his words, his punishments—they carved holes in me that I stuffed with whatever scraps of armor I could find. Every single day was a test: would I survive this one without losing a piece of my soul? Could I even breathe without feeling like I was drowning in fear, shame, and anger?

I learned early that being myself was dangerous. I was gay, and that truth had to stay the fuck buried because I was already being told I was worthless. Every attempt at being seen or heard? Punished. Every little spark of self-expression stomped out.

But I craved something basic. Something everyone deserves: to be liked instead of feared, respected instead of ignored. I craved to be wanted, to be cared about, to feel like a human being and not some broken-ass object living under other people’s control. Robin Ottolini nailed it in Growing Down: I wanted a seat at a table I should’ve fucking flipped. That’s exactly how it felt—wanting a place in a world that was never built for me.

Coping? Fuck that. I had no luxury of coping—only surviving. Isolation became my shield. Saying no was a weapon I didn’t have. I learned to disappear in plain sight. To make myself small, quiet, and unnoticeable. To survive without leaving scraps of myself behind that could get crushed.

School wasn’t safe. Bullies ripped apart any chance I had at feeling normal. Called me feminine, gay, freak, loser. And home? Home was no sanctuary either. Every word, every look, every slap of punishment—sometimes my mom forced into it by her fiance—hammered home that I wasn’t safe anywhere. That I was on my own, all the time.

By fourteen, survival wasn’t a mindset—it was my entire life. Every day, every interaction, every word measured against the likelihood of pain or shame. My armor was heavy, my defenses absolute. I learned to pretend, to smile, to nod, to be invisible because being visible was dangerous.

And yet… I still fucking hoped. Still dreamed. Still imagined a world where I could breathe without fear. Where no one could tell me I didn’t matter. Where I could be me and not survive by shrinking myself into nothing.

Teenage years are supposed to be about discovering yourself. Dating, friends, awkward crushes, figuring out who the fuck you are. But when you grow up like this? You’re not discovering shit—you’re just surviving the house you live in.

These years forged the armor that would carry me for decades. The armor that first responders like me wear into literal hell every day. Life during these teenage years wasn’t about being a kid. It was about living, breathing, and surviving a chaos that was supposed to be home.

Every night I stayed unbroken, every moment I escaped more bruises than I earned, every small victory—that was a goddamn win.