“Tracey, cover your stomach and suck it in!” Women should have flat stomachs.

“Tracey, cover your bosom; they’re too big!”

“Tracey, speak up; you’re mumbling.”

“Tracey, be quiet! Nobody wants to hear that. Children should be seen and not heard.”

“Oh Tracey, your life isn’t that bad. It could be worse.”

“Tracey, if you behaved better, you wouldn’t get hurt. Just be respectful.”

“MUM! You don’t throw babies!”

“Tracey, I had it much worse when I was young. Toughen up!”

I don’t remember anything before the age of three when I had a family. My first memories were of physical abuse by a strange man my mother ran away with, leaving my father. She hid my sister and me for six years, never staying in one place for more than six months. I was very protective of my younger sister and often took the abuse from our mother and others for both of us.

I saw my father again at nine years old after years of telepathic communication via music while we were separated. The damage had been done, and we could never repair the maternal bond. I was terrified of men. My father could see that my mother’s behavior patterns were deeply ingrained in me, and I would continue the cycles unknowingly.

I first packed my bag and jumped out a window when I was three years old; I often ran away when I couldn’t control a situation. I was diagnosed with depression and medicated at nine years old. On my fifteenth birthday, my mother’s second husband beat me up. I tried to get help, but he was too well-respected in the community. I then took 160 pills to try and escape the situation. I had a seizure in front of my Nana and sister; the hospital pumped my stomach and referred me to Starship Hospital, where I spent three months undergoing psychological assessments.

I wandered the streets and became a mother by 16. I got pregnant by a 24-year-old man with a heavy alcohol addiction; my mother said I was lucky he would take me on. My second child came 13 months later, and I ran from him two weeks after that. Somehow, I ended up working in a brothel and addicted to meth by 19 years old.

I became pregnant with my third child at twenty and escaped prostitution. At 22, I had my fourth child for a friend I had trauma-bonded with who couldn’t naturally conceive. I became attached to the baby and gave her up against my own will. This caused another suicide attempt, meth use via needles, and a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder.

It woke me up. I saw the light. I realized I needed to save myself and my children from all this trauma, but I didn’t know how. I ran with my children and put orders in place to keep us safe from their alcoholic father. I saw my first therapist in 2013; she helped me save our lives. I got clean from meth at the age of 25 and continued to work with her for 6 years.

My father passed away, and I married a childhood friend of my brother’s, whom I stayed with for 5 years. One day, the government took my children, forcing me to leave the life I had built to fight for them. I got them back 10 months later, but they were very traumatized. We are still healing as a family from the separation. I sent my children away from my hometown to keep them safe, knowing I would follow, and I did.

I have now been completely clean from meth for 10 years, marijuana for one year, and free from domestic violence for 2 years. I spend my time recovering and learning how to live a life of safety and harmony that I could only imagine.

I feel as if I have entered a whole new world as a new person with battle scars. Every day, I am grateful that I kept going and made it here. I understand devotion. I fear absolutely nothing, but I am wary of everything because I have experienced or witnessed it all.