There was no mistake where we were now.
Each day felt longer than the last.
Some days seemed normal—but only because we’d redefined what normal meant.

Even when things were quiet, I still carried that weight. That tension in my chest. PTSD, though I didn’t know the word then. On the good days, the silence made me more anxious—because I feared what the next day might bring.

School Was a Break, But Barely

School was my escape. A place to eat—thanks to the Black Panthers—and a rare chance to feel like a kid. But even there, the fear followed me. What if I came home and my mom was gone? What if my sister never came back?

Learning wasn’t my focus. Survival was.

The Pain Wasn’t Just Emotional

I can’t remember exactly when, but physical abuse became part of our world.
Mistakes had consequences—sometimes brutal ones.
And the mental strain only made it harder to breathe.

I’ll give you one example.
One morning, my little brother and I skipped the bus and wandered to the comic book store. I didn’t think anyone would notice.

They did.

When we got home, I took the hit. I was the oldest. It was my idea. He didn’t deserve the punishment. That was my first real lesson in accountability.

My mom always said, “Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash.”
She always owned her choices—even the painful ones. That stuck with me.

Protecting Others, Even at a Cost

Like my big sister did for me, I stepped in for my brother.
I made sure the blame stopped with me—even if it meant absorbing more pain so no one else had to.

We saw a lot back then. Street fights. People overdosing. Addicts on corners and behind dumpsters. I even saw things I don’t think my parents wanted us to see. I’ll give them credit for one thing: I think they tried to shield us from their drug abuse. And honestly, that effort meant something.

Still, I learned too early that sometimes, the person you protect doesn’t even know they’ve been protected.

The Day Everything Changed

During a visit to my grandma’s, I was taking a bath when someone saw the marks on my back. I panicked.

I lied. Said someone at school did it.
The old “fell down the stairs” playbook.

But that moment changed everything. I didn’t go home that day.

And suddenly, the anxiety I’d lived with for years?
It exploded into dread.
Would I see my mom again? My siblings? My sister? Would they need to absorb the punishment meant for me, or because of me?

This was a different kind of fear. I wasn’t just scared of pain—I was scared of never going back. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

Blame. Ownership. Growth.

Even in the face of abuse, I told myself: “I caused it.”
Because I was there. I must’ve done something. That was my mindset.

To this day, that instinct still lives in me.
If I’m involved, I take responsibility.
That mindset can be toxic—but I’ve learned how to weaponize it. It’s how I fix things. How I get shit done. Why blame someone when trying to get things done and the other person makes a mistake? Ultimately, it’s my project, I don’t care how we got here, I only care about what we need to do to get this done.

It’s what makes me reliable. Relentless. Unfuckwithable.

I don’t leave anything to fate.
But that day? Fate stepped in anyway—and pulled me somewhere new.

That shift, being removed from my home, it wasn’t the end of my story. It was the first step toward becoming who I am now. But I didn’t know that yet.

What was next?!?!?! I was about to find out. Even in the face of positivity, people still suffer.