There's something profoundly difficult about telling your story when you've spent your entire life struggling to find the words. For years, I've carried these experiences in silence not because I wanted to keep them hidden, but because I never learned how to give voice to pain, to trauma, to the weight of simply surviving.
This is my attempt to break that silence.
A Childhood Without Light
From the moment I entered this world, the odds were stacked against me. I was born with a genetic condition that will eventually take my sight completely. Even now, without contact lenses, the world is nothing but shapeless blur a constant reminder that clarity, in every sense, has always been just out of reach.
But the darkness I've faced goes far deeper than what my eyes can't see.
I was placed into foster care with a family who saw me as nothing more than a paycheck. There was no love, no warmth, no sense of belonging. They took the money meant for my care and pocketed it for themselves. By the time I was twelve years old, they had abandoned me entirely, leaving me to raise myself in a house that was never a home.
Twelve years old. Still a child. Already alone.
The Black Sheep
When you're different when you don't fit the mold, when you're struggling with things others can't see, you become the target. I was bullied relentlessly, both outside those walls and within them. I was the black sheep, the scapegoat, the one who took the blame for everything that went wrong.
Every day felt like a battle just to exist.
As I grew older, the pattern continued. I found myself in abusive relationships, drawn to people who mirrored the neglect and cruelty I'd known my whole life. I didn't know what love looked like, so I accepted whatever scraps of attention came my way, no matter how toxic.
The War With My Body
By the time I was fifteen or sixteen, the depression and self-hatred had manifested into something I couldn't control: an eating disorder.
It started quietly, as these things often do. I'd skip meals. Forget to eat. Tell myself I didn't deserve food. The depression made everything feel pointless, including taking care of myself.
Then people started commenting on my body. The weight. The "beer belly." The "dad body." Every cruel joke, every sideways glance, every comment about how I looked it all fed into the voice in my head that said I was disgusting, that I was wrong, that I needed to fix myself.
So I stopped eating. Or rather, I tried to eat as little as possible. Most days, I'd force down one meal and even that felt like too much. There were days when I'd completely forget to eat, only realizing when my body was shaking uncontrollably from hunger.
But even then, I couldn't bring myself to care. Food felt like a punishment, not nourishment. My relationship with my body became another battlefield in a war I was already losing.
Standing on the Edge
There were moments, too many moments, when I couldn't see a way forward. When the pain became so overwhelming that ending it all seemed like the only escape. I've stood on that edge multiple times, convinced that the world would be better off without me.
To be completely honest, I still struggle with self-hatred. There's a voice inside that tells me I'm worthless, that I don't deserve to be here. I can't always explain why it's there or where it comes from, it just is.
When Help Comes With a Price Tag
I tried to get professional help. I really did.
But every door I knocked on came with the same answer: it would cost money. Therapy, counseling, treatment programs all of it required payment upfront. And if you don't have money? You're turned away.
The message was clear: if you need help, you have to pay for it first. Otherwise, you're not worth saving.
It's a cruel irony, isn't it? The people who are struggling the most who've lost everything, who have nothing left are the ones who can't afford the help they desperately need. The system that's supposed to catch you when you fall only works if you can pay the admission fee.
That realization didn't help my recovery. If anything, it reinforced every negative thought I'd ever had about myself. See? Even professionals don't think you're worth helping unless you can pay them.
So I kept struggling alone, because that's all I could afford to do.
Drowning in Addiction
When COVID hit, I was already drowning. The isolation, the uncertainty, the weight of everything I'd been carrying it all became too much. I turned to the only escape I could find: alcohol and drugs.
What started as a way to numb the pain quickly spiraled into something I couldn't control. There were days when I'd consume 15 to 20 bottles of beer before noon, then continue with drugs for the rest of the day. Every single day. For three years.
My entire life revolved around the next drink, the next hit. I was spending every penny I had just to keep the numbness going, to avoid feeling anything at all.
Then one day, something shifted. I was sitting in front of my laptop, carefully preparing my usual dose. I used it, waiting for that familiar escape but nothing happened. No relief. No numbness. Nothing.
And in that moment of unexpected clarity, a single thought cut through the fog: This is what I'm spending all my money on?
It wasn't a grand epiphany. It wasn't some dramatic turning point. It was just... a realization. A quiet moment of seeing the truth I'd been avoiding.
That was three years ago. I've been sober ever since.
A Glimpse of Light
In October 2023, something miraculous happened. My daughter was born.
For the first time in my entire life, I felt genuine happiness. Pure, uncomplicated joy. She was my light in a world that had been nothing but darkness. Every moment with her felt like a gift I didn't deserve but desperately needed.
She gave me purpose. She gave me hope. She gave me a reason to keep fighting, to stay sober, to believe that maybe just maybe,I could break the cycle and give her the love I never received.
For those precious months, I finally understood what it meant to love and be loved unconditionally.
When the Light Was Stolen
Then, in 2025, everything shattered.
Her mother took her. Without warning, without discussion, without mercy. One day my daughter was there, and the next she was gone abducted from my life as suddenly as she had entered it.
The only source of genuine happiness I'd ever known, ripped away in an instant.
The grief is indescribable. It's a wound that doesn't heal, a loss that compounds every other loss I've ever experienced. I went from finally having something to live for, to being more alone than I'd ever been.
No family. No friends. No daughter.
Just me, drowning in a grief so profound that some days I don't know how to keep breathing through it.
Finding My Voice in the Silence
So why am I telling you all of this? Why now?
Because I'm learning slowly, painfully that my story matters. That giving voice to these experiences, no matter how messy or broken they are, is an act of reclamation. Every word I share is a small rebellion against the silence that's been forced upon me my entire life.
I'm channeling my message through videos on TikTok, showcasing the battle and my attempts at recovery. But it's more than just content it's my truth, raw and unfiltered.
And through SHONEL, I'm building something bigger than myself. SHONEL is where I share my feelings, my struggles, my journey. It's my way of saying to the world: we are here. We exist. We matter.
I want to create a community a space where people who've been through similar darkness can find each other, help each other, and heal together. A place where no one has to fight alone, where your worth isn't measured by what you can afford, where your voice matters simply because you exist.
Through SHONEL, I hope to raise awareness that there are so many of us out here, struggling in silence, fighting battles no one sees. And maybe, just maybe, by sharing my story, I can help someone else find the courage to share theirs.
It's not easy. Some days, the words won't come. Some days, the weight is too heavy. But I keep trying, because I know there are others out there who feel just as lost, just as voiceless, just as alone.
To Anyone Who Needs to Hear This
If my story resonates with you if you've been the black sheep, if you've survived abuse, if you've battled an eating disorder, if you've fought addiction, if you've been turned away from help because you couldn't afford it, if you've lost everything, if you've had your child taken from you, if you've stood on that edge wondering if anyone would even notice you were gone I want you to know something:
You are not alone.
Your pain is real. Your struggle is valid. And your life your beautiful, complicated, messy life has value, even when you can't see it. Even when the system tells you otherwise. Even when you can't afford the help you need.
I'm still here, still fighting, still learning to believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserve to take up space in this world. Three years sober. Still struggling with food. Still grieving the loss of my daughter. Still battling the voice that says I'm not enough.
But still here.
And if I can keep going, so can you.
We are so much more than what was done to us. We are more than our trauma, more than our pain, more than our addictions, more than our eating disorders, more than our losses, more than the voices that tell us we're not enough.
Our stories deserve to be told. Our voices deserve to be heard.
And we deserve to survive.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, addiction, or an eating disorder, please reach out for help. In the UK, you can contact Samaritans at 116 123 (available 24/7 and free to call), FRANK about drugs at 0300 123 6600, Beat (eating disorder support) at 0808 801 0677, or contact your GP for NHS mental health services which are free at the point of use. You matter, and support is available.
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