When Did I Start to Disappear?

I don’t remember much of my childhood, just fragments, mostly the kind that sting. One of the earliest memories I trust is from when I was five. I tried to sneak out of my mother’s apartment early in the morning to play, only to be stopped by a door alarm. I cried when I realized it had been installed because neighbors had seen me outside at the playground in a diaper, alone, between four and six a.m. I didn’t know I was disappearing. I just wanted to play.

I was often confused by the reactions of adults around me. Their responses didn’t match my reality. I didn’t feel safe in my body, and I didn’t feel safe in my home. I spent most of my time in my room, grounded, forgotten, invisible. Even after I got a job in high school, my mother and stepfather would forget I was home. I’d walk downstairs and see them cleaning up after dinner, and they’d say they forgot I was there. I cried about that more than I ever admitted.

I learned to read emotional cues before I learned to name my own feelings. My mother’s “vibe” dictated my voice. If she felt off, I stayed silent. I called it daydreaming, but now I know it was dissociation. I lost years to it. I have photos that prove I was alive, but I don’t remember how. I started self-harming in middle school, and that’s when I knew something was wrong. When I told my mother, she met me with anger instead of compassion. That moment taught me to hide everything.

I wasn’t allowed to cry. I wasn’t allowed to be sad. I wasn’t allowed to be me. So I lied, to protect myself, to survive. I’ve forgotten entire years. I’ve performed diluted versions of myself to fit into boxes I never chose. I’ve felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Boundaries weren’t modeled; they were broken. I remember being fourteen or fifteen when my stepdad tried to spank me. I panicked. My mother sided with him.

Love was something I had to earn. Safety lived in chaos. Quiet felt dangerous. I’ve always trusted my aunt; she raised me until I was four. She was fourteen when I was born. That says everything. I feared my mother, and I never questioned why. I first heard the word “dissociation” as a teenager, but it didn’t resonate until my mid-twenties. Until therapy. Until I started telling the truth.

March 2025 changed everything. I cut off my mother. I started medication again. And suddenly, my childhood looked different. I wish someone had asked me if I was okay. But more than that, I wish someone had said, “I love you,” or “I’m sorry.” My younger self deserved to hear that she wasn’t too much, that she wasn’t a burden. That she was authentically herself, and that she had people who cared, even if it didn’t feel like it. That wanting to die just to stop being a burden was too much weight for a twelve-year-old to carry, and I’m sorry she didn’t have anyone to help her hold it.

I’m just glad she’s still here to tell her story.