My early childhood did not leave room for diagnosis. Not only was I low-income, but my mother was actively avoiding taking me to doctors for fear of them discovering my sexual abuse. I was extremely gifted in some ways, but deficient enough in others for me to never qualify for any advanced classes or special education classes. They tried to move me up a grade, but the same year they also considered holding me back. No one could figure out what I needed. Unfortunately, I moved schools too many times for anyone to get to know me or recognize my needs. When I hit middle school I had no idea what made me different, but I knew I was. I made four friends throughout middle school, one of which ended being a boy who I allowed to take my virginity far before I was ready or healed from my childhood abuse. Without receiving therapy, medication, or any previous intervention I was sent to wilderness therapy. For the next three years I would be institutionalized in troubled teen facilities, the longest of which is now closed for abusing its patients. No one could figure out what was happening in my brain. They blamed it all on trauma, landing on diagnoses of PTSD, followed much later by Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD hit me like a truck. Was I unstable? My relationships were always good when I managed to make friends, how could I be BPD? I went along with this diagnosis, until I was sent to a facility full of girls diagnosed with BPD. It startled me how many of these girls were completely opposite of me. They were reckless, loud, impulsive, and dismissive. I didn't understand how I fit into the BPD umbrella. I fought long and hard to be reevaluated. Autism wasn't even in the picture until I had been diagnosed. Soon after, I started finding out how many of my close friends had ASD diagnoses. Through my diagnosis, I was able to find peace in knowing that I am different, but not just because people have hurt me. As much as trauma shaped parts of who I am, I would not have made it through without the intense joy my special interests have brought me. I thank my autism for allowing me to become deeply fascinated in things like lost media, which has led to my interest in becoming a future archivist. Had my brain worked any differently, I don't know if I would've fallen so deeply in love with Pauly Shore movies, Woodrow Wilson's strange presidency, cats, and a few other things (some of which were phased out due to being made fun of when I was younger). In many ways, autism has been deeply frustrating, painful, and destructive --- but I wouldn't rather have my mind work any other way.

Trauma does not define us, though it may shape our personalities, tastes, interests, and outlooks. I am still struggling to know who I am outside of my trauma. I'm a survivor of emotional abuse, sexual abuse, covert incest, corrupt mental health facilities, and the victim of a narcissistic parent. When I was younger, I took complete identity in my special interests. Whether it became anime, indie music, or 90s buddy comedies, I would immerse myself in a completely different universe. These other universes were how I survived the abuse I faced in and outside of the home. As my depression worsened, so did my ability to engage with my special interests. This felt like I literally became worthless. All I had was the load I carried. I felt entitled to my depression, like everything I had gone through justified my own misery and in many ways, it did. At this point, I was surviving for my cat. I had no interest in pursuing my dreams, overcoming my trauma, or being better than my parents. You have two choices when you make it to that extreme of a point: you kill yourself outright or you drain your mental energy to comply with society. I could not bear the thought of leaving my cat behind, so I survived. I did what others told me would make me successful, avoided the things that brought me genuine joy, and drained myself socially and emotionally. The only thing that got me out of this slump, funnily enough, was an Instagram post. This post was very simple; there were four slides, each containing the same crudely-drawn snake consuming its own tail. The first said "how to break the cycle in 3 simple steps." The second tells the reader to feel all of it, feel so very deeply that it hurts. The third tells the reader to love just as deeply as they hurt. And the fourth says "heal out of spite." The first day after reading the post, I sobbed. The second, I told my friends and family how deeply I loved them. And on the third day I thought about how angry I was, how much I hated those who had abused me. From then on, I've been healing, all out of spite. I hate what happened to me, so why would I let that dictate the way I behaved? I hate the things my parents did to me, so why should I be sad that they don't want to be a part of my life? Giving myself this space has changed my life. No longer am I a victim of abuse, but a survivor. I've been able to get back into the things I love like music, lost media, and working towards a fulfilling future.

Generational trauma is the ugliest cycle. Had my grandparents not been abused, perhaps my parents wouldn't have perpetuated the same hostility. It is incredibly difficult to raise a child, however, this difficulty is not an excuse for covert incest, emotional, and sexual abuse. My mother was molested as a child. This trauma contributed to her later diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. She claimed the sexual abuse to be the worst thing to have ever happened to her but, if it was so damaging, why would she pass the same trauma on to me? Since the age of seven I have felt dirty. There's not a day in my life where I don't remember the sight of my mother doing things I didn't understand or how it felt to close my eyes and wait for the hands to get off of me. My father had two well-off parents who adored him, a baby brother, and a beautiful lakeside home in Michigan. So why at 8 years old was he suicidal? He refused to be medicated for depression or ADHD, leading to a lifetime of self-medication. His mother, a tried-and-true 70s “flower child” couldn’t stand to see him in pain, so she not only allowed but introduced my father to marijuana. To this day, he consumes THC AM to PM, only worsened by the sudden deaths of his parents around 2012. I was expelled from a boarding school in the eighth grade for marijuana possession (provided to me by my father). This was the kickstart to high school. I was sent to a wilderness program in Utah, despite never trying traditional therapy or medication. I felt my dad wanted to get rid of me, that he couldn’t handle me when I was anything but content. I did wonderfully. All that progress was flipped on its head when I arrived at Spring Ridge Academy in Mayer, Arizona. They utilized food and sleep deprivation, isolation, attack therapy — all of the methods utilized by the banned 80s troubled teen facilities her own husband had operated. I was there for a year, significantly shorter than the average stay. I left the facility at 15 years old with zero psychiatric medication, a fear-based relationship with my father, and a deep feeling of emptiness. I lived in fear for the next few months, until my emotional anguish led to a suicide attempt resulting in another placement. I worked as hard as I could to graduate high school a year early so I could go straight to college from the facility without having to endure my father’s behavior at home. I thought if I could just become an adult, even if I wasn’t, I could keep myself safe. I couldn’t. I went to college at 17 in Arizona, where my dad quickly dropped me off and shut off my bank account, phone, and contact with me. Admittedly, I lost my mind. I dropped out, got my ESA cat, and sat rotting in bed for the next three months. I’m 18, and have been taken in by an amazing family that has helped me manage my MDD, CPTSD, and ASD since I left college. Currently, my mother is homeless, on drugs, and presumably half-dead. My father, using his inheritance money, is traveling around the world with his girlfriend, refusing to speak to me, the family I live with, and any friends or family of his that has chosen to support me. There is nothing I want more than to become the person my parents weren’t. A loving mother, a wife, a college graduate, and a net positive to functioning society.