When The Little Mermaid came out in 1989, I was almost 11. At the time, I didn’t just admire Ariel—I was her. A girl silenced. A girl trapped in a world where her voice didn’t matter, where rules were suffocating, and love felt conditional. She gave up her voice to escape. So did I—just in a different way.
I wasn’t allowed to be a child. I was told I lived in a dictatorship. I was helping raise my siblings before I hit middle school. I had to be the responsible one, the strong one, the fix-it-all one. And when I tried to speak up about the pain I was in, I was met with silence… or worse—blame.
Now, at 46 years old, I’m still being told how to live my life. Still being called unstable for explaining the reason behind my emotional responses. Still being scapegoated for decisions that were never mine to begin with.
My sister says it’s not my story to tell.
But let me ask you:
How would you feel if someone tried to erase you from your own life?
If they said you don’t exist—because your truth made them uncomfortable?
She blames me for her dropping out of college—when the truth is, she made her own decisions. She was supposed to go to school during the week and work weekends and summers. That was the deal. I didn’t break it—she did. But somehow, I’m still the problem.
In January, she threatened to evict me. Not out of necessity. Out of control. After a long day of work, cleaning, and homework, I was relaxing in my room—quiet, calm, grounded. She approached me to help her with something, and when I gently offered a solution, she snapped. She chased me down the hall, tried to physically corner me, and shoved herself against my bedroom door. I had to brace it with my shoulder just to keep her out.
That’s not a sibling argument. That’s aggression. That’s abuse.
And yesterday? I went back to my mother’s house to get my mail—with a police escort. Again. She had changed the locks. Again. Illegally. Again. I’ve done everything by the book, and I’m still being treated like the criminal when all I’ve ever done is survive what was done to me.
People say I’m “dwelling on the past.” But the past is still happening. It’s still playing out in courtrooms, in text messages, in police reports, in emotional and physical intimidation.
Let me be clear:
My suicidal ideations weren’t about weakness. They were about being erased, silenced, and scapegoated by the people I was told would love me.
I haven’t attempted to take my life since 2007.
I haven’t exploded in violence since 2008.
I have grown. I have healed. I have fought my way through every system designed to ignore people like me. And I have worked for my stability—emotionally, academically, spiritually, and professionally.
I’ve earned a 4.0 GPA.
I’ve built businesses from nothing.
I’ve rebuilt my life over and over again.
And I’m still standing. Still growing. Still here.
So when someone says I don’t have the right to tell my story?
When someone says I don’t exist?
When someone tries to lock me out—physically, emotionally, or metaphorically?
I speak louder.
Because if I don’t name this, I carry it.
And I’m done carrying the shame that doesn’t belong to me.
I didn’t get a fairytale ending. There was no prince, no castle, no rescue.
But I rescued myself.
I am not the villain.
I am not crazy.
I am not unstable.
I am a survivor, and this is my story.
If that makes people uncomfortable, they can sit with their discomfort. I’ve sat with mine long enough.
