I'm breaking up with N.Y. -

This letter is long overdue if I am honest.

So much I no longer have the space to write all the names of who this is for. At this point, it is for all the trauma I have accrued from growing up in New York.

But I will credit the people that are most notable for the deepest pain caused.

On Monday, November 5th, 1990 I was born at a hospital in East Meadow, N.Y. This January 5th, at 31 years old, I am getting into a car and traveling exactly 1,676 miles away from this state.

The memories are just too much and they no longer outweigh the good.

It's not the infamous city that burned me. I have very fond memories of walking through NYC and hopping around trains to explore the burrows.

I grew up on Long Island, the place where everyone is two if not one degree apart in connection. I grew up in small towns, moving a few times between birth and my college years. From early childhood through my adolescent years I experienced a heavy timeline of trauma that I have recited only to therapists up until now. So much that I have a typed-out 12-page timeline that was written for legal purposes to outline all the addresses, events, and tragedies that happened.

My anxiety had me making an outline, printed and in chronological order for non-legal purposes too. Because like many people experience with therapy, you do not always get to see a therapist long-term due to insurance issues, expenses, moving away, or compatibility issues with the provider. It also feels very triggering and daunting to have to roll out the list of events you have gone through when your past is riddled with abuse of all kinds.

In two days though I will be getting into my husbands' car along with our three kids and driving far far away from the place(s) I once lived in. So I am making a timeline while I sit here in this state (of mind).

Every time I write out my experiences from mind to paper (or screen) it relieves me a little more and I can breathe a little bit easier. Validating these stories by letting them exist outside of my nightmares is a big deal. When you have had enough adults dismiss you as I did growing up, finally speaking your truths on a platform where you are heard means everything.

__________________________________________

I'm taking you on a journey and I wish there were better words than "nostalgia" to describe what it is like to travel backward in time and witness younger versions of yourself living through abuse.

Having Complex PTSD feels a whole lot like being a time traveler. A lot of my stories feel very CRAZY. For much of my upbringing, I did not want to tell anyone about my home because I did not think anyone else experienced what I did.

That sounds naive now and even impossible. But until 6th grade, I did not know other people had divorced parents. It took until high school to learn that other people were hit or hurt by their parents. It was not until I lived with a relative my senior year that I learned other people were chronically abused and abandoned by their parents.

In the small and quaint little neighborhoods I grew up in, I thought I was the only one with terrifying relatives and parents.

Even worse, I wondered daily what I did to have earned it.

My mother showed up on the doorstep with me in one hand and a bag of clothing in the other. My father had finally lost it and hit her back after their 3 year disaster of a marriage. Both of them were into drugs and alcohol, getting clean only when they made and had me. As I would learn in my 20's, both had untreated severe mental illnesses and self-medicated with multiple substances.

What I further did not understand was what led them to each being addicts. It was not as simple as my parents choosing to drink at home casually or experiment with drugs. My parents each had their own experience of heavy trauma. For all 57 of their years on this planet, they have carried around the burdens of having complex PTSD on top of the other mental and physical health problems due to their addictions.

My mother was not just hurt but broken by this old blue house. While ALL of my family members on her side have these fond and happy memories within those walls, I do not.

I felt for so long like I had to keep quiet about it. But I have nightmares still about sleeping in the unfinished basement on a mattress with my mother. Which was more like a cellar, dusty and web-ridden with slugs, spiders, and SO many crickets. I am terrified of crickets and will never sleep in a basement again.

When she showed up to her parents for help after the divorce, I had no idea what emotional and mental abuse she would receive for the next few years. As she attempted to go to school, get jobs, or do anything to make our lives better - her family would bully her telling her what a failure she was.

The memories I have in this house are scary. Distorted. Anything I think I remember that was nice was actually me being manipulated to make my mom feel like crap OR her whole family enabling and abusing her in front of me.

My dad had visitation and would come around sometimes to pick me up. My grandparents acted like they loved him when he came to the door and I never understood why, until I later learned how much they told my mother she deserved the crap marriage + being divorced. It was just to spite her.

My memories of this place stayed with me until my teen years because my mother would mutter about them when she got extremely drunk - drunk enough to blackout soon after. Which happened a few times a year at least. I will never know if those were anniversaries of her own traumas, but I highly suspect it so.

The man's arms she raced into 3 years after living in this house was all but to get out of it. So we did. We moved in with my mothers' boss and HUSBAND - the man she married after four months of dating (on the record, since they worked together).

The next place was a second-floor apartment of a house on the other side of the same town. So I was able to stay in the same school for the next 3 years.

My memories within those walls are very blurry. I remember noises and feelings.

My mother and her husband fought a lot. At this point, I would only hear it from the other room often. Because I hid in mine to sketch and fill up books with my art. It was that or write. I dove into creation to escape the slamming and screaming.

But I do remember watching my mom leave a few times. I would cry in bed and peek out the window, hoping she would return. She did, but every time her husband would swear she could not leave again or else. Or else never came.

Instead, we went to see houses mid-school year - I remember rehearsing the graduation song in my room and feeling devastated that we were leaving mid-February. But he said it did not matter and I should not cry like a dumb little kid.

My dad begged and told me to tell them not to let that man adopt me even if they marry. My mom married him one weekend while my grandma babysat me in the blue house.

Soon after we moved to the yellow house. I spent seven hard years in that home not just hearing but seeing and being in the middle of the fights.

I probably have the most anxiety and nightmares from this place. I do not remember the mundane every day of growing up. I have not one memory of using the bathroom, brushing my teeth, washing my hair, or getting dressed. I have no memory of any holiday or birthday until I was 14 to 16. So much is hazy and it is because I blocked out severe abuse.

But if you ask some adults who would remember me, maybe -

"So your mom drinks... do you think she drinks when she is stressed? ..okay.. do you think you stress your mom out?" - my middle school guidance counselor.

- Proceeds to walk me through verbally how the alcoholism and abuse are my causing. Tells me to get back to class.

"Jean is so creative, talkative, and a pleasure to teach. She comes to my classroom during lunch and even wishes we held club after school so she wouldn't have to leave" - favorite teacher in middle school.

Does not realize I escape to her classroom often because I have formed a connection and feel safe. I am afraid to go home and lie for 7 years that school ends 1.5 hours later than it really does just to delay going home.

"Wow this is a nice guest room, where is your room? (...) your mom is so nice, I wish my mom was like her." - childhood friend

Does not realize that was my room and I was not allowed to express myself, choose anything, move anything, and was frequently emotionally abused in corners or on my bed in response to anything I asked for. My mom was a narcissistic alcoholic and not in fact nice. That was a mask.

"We are going to stop by tomorrow afternoon at ____ to check on the welfare of your child, J*** *****, as per request by her school after she reported a disturbance in the home." - CPS case worker

CPS should not tell the abuser when they are coming over, nor should it be delayed so long after the report is made. My mother got the message, my stepfather hid the alcohol, and both appeared to be neat, "kind" people the next day as they told CPS I made it up. That memory was also used as evidence in court against me when I was 17 and sued my parents for abandonment + abuse. It was to prove I was a reckless teen and a frequent liar who had no photo proof of the abuse or neglect. They won. All charges were dropped.

"You can say anything here - what happens in your home? " - High School Social Worker

The social worker who multiple times breached confidentiality, defended my abusers, and had a hand in me being expelled for being pregnant in my Junior year - while the boy paid no consequences at school or in his reputation.

I spent middle school and high school mostly masking the fact that my mother was a heavy drinker, a hard hitter, emotionally abusive, ruined every special occasion or holiday, and was completely neglectful as a parent.

I have memories instead of the gas stove nearly exploding, china being thrown, the basement being a hiding spot for her drinking so I was never taught how to wash anything or allowed there, and the living room was frequently a battle scene.

I remember the horrible miscarriage she had in that house and how it took a little part of each of us with it. I remember being thankful she had no more kids after me even though it was a very sad loss. Because any kid would have been my kid when she neglected us both.

I remember no food or only sugary cheap foods. I remember scavenging at weird hours, not having fresh fruit or raw vegetables, and stuffing chocolates into my mouth from the fridge because I was starving but not taught or allowed to use any appliances.

The clearest memory I have and still use in my nightmares - the map it takes to leave my bedroom, turn right, tiptoe down every other step, turn left, race through the dining room without bumping the wide cherrywood table set, squeezing through the narrow kitchen to the back door - holding the knob in an upward motion as I twist it open and press the screen with the other hand to slide through the screen door with my thin body, rotating around to close it so gently behind me. Leaving the wood door wide open, crouching down and climbing off the cement steps sideways over the edge.. creeping against the walled edge of the house to the side gate...unlatching again with a firm upper motion to not hit the metal loud against the handle... wiggling through a crack and relatching it so the gate does not continue to swing open and hit his car... crawling down next to his four-door car on the ground so the motion sensor light won't turn on in the driveway. Turning left again and crouching past the irises against the fence... then standing up and full on running down the block.

I ran away multiple times and I think I remember all the times because of the specificity of motions it took to get out.

I still dream I am trapped in my childhood bedroom in this house. Only people I love are in the house somewhere and I hear them. Like my kids or husband. So I have to decide between chasing the voices of them crying out to me or doing that escape routine alone. --- this. is. anxiety.

It matters that I ran to different places in the three years prior to being abandoned at 16. It matters because those homes ruined me too.

My father lived in this one. I barely remember it and not because I was not old enough or did not visit enough.

I lived here for six months in the ninth grade, when a CPS call was actually taken seriously and a favorite teacher did in fact take my story seriously.

My mother got so drunk one night, specifically in January during the midterms of my first year in the High School.

ALL the students were told to STUDY well for the next mornings exam. It was not just a midterm but there was a state assessment. I must have floated in like a ghost that morning because the night before I spent most of the night sleeping with my huge antique dressed pushed in front of my bedroom door. I needed to keep her out after she tried to murder me.

I spent six whole months in this house but I only remember a few things because I was in a state of shock. That is what the doctor said that my dad took me to. I did not have a stomach bug, but I threw up several times and barely ate for weeks because I was physically in shock after that night. I only remember needing to block the door because her arms were reaching in for my neck and hair.

It matters that when I left to go back to the yellow house, it was mandated by court I return since my mother had legal custody and she was going to take action. The CPS call did not stick as well as the custody agreement post-divorce had.

After I moved out, I never visited there again. He would no longer have me over. By the time I was in the following grade, my father was on heavy drugs again and wanted to end his life. He lost his mind and sort of broke up with me.

I suppose he really just ghosted me for months until I finally went to see him to tell him I was pregnant...

He tried to run me over with his truck. Rage in his eyes and anger that seemingly pierced through me.

It also matters that I ran away quite a few times to this house, across town in another neighborhood. Because the one boyfriend I had for a few years lived here. The one who also had divorced parents, an alcoholic mother, and was thankful to be an only child - up until he wasn't.

It also matters that he created not one, not two, but three pregnancies with me. It matters that only the first was consensual. It matters that the school did not kick him out. It matters that his family swept everything under the rug and chose to not be involed. Then tried to blackmail and squeeze their way in years later until I refused and advocated for that not to happen.

It matters that I would break into the front window hidden behind the bushes to the right. The one that led to his bed. It matters that I thought at some point I would move in here for good and escape my abusive home.. at 14, 15, 16....

It matters that I advocated for my daughter to be kept. It matters that I kept her at 16, while I was in spring of my junior year.

I want everyone to know even years later that it matters entirely.

Because I was SIXTEEN.

I only now see it all in greater perspective.

The pain and trauma followed me. I am healing now at 31 with a 14 year old.

I am so glad I did not marry him. In fact, when my mother and stepfather kicked me out of the house with only a plastic grocery bag of belongings in my hand - when my school told me I was "exempt", "excused from finals" and they "wished me luck".. When I was told to go get my G.E.D. but denied any information or support -

All the pain, problems, the hundreds of nights I was in danger and traumatized.. the adults who never advocated, stood up for me, protected me, or held my guardians responsible for anything-

It did not simply resolve itself or go away.

So despite all the memories that other people have of those towns, those people, and those places - my break up with all the places that hurt me was necessary for survival. For mine and my child's.

My story did get better after I left the yellow house. I did get help. Relatives took me in 2 hours away from that crappy old town. I finished High School with honors and got accepted into community college with scholarships that I applied to.

I did go on to not one but two colleges in Suffolk County, N.Y.

I would tell you that life turned around dramatically after that but it is all a matter of perspective.

If you ask any of my blood-related family - I was a dramatic, "talking-back" teen who ran away, had abort**ns, had a baby, and dropped out of school. I was wild. I was the black sheep.

I sure was.

I was the one who left because I did not want to pretend or risk my life.

I was messaged, called, and invited by different relatives back into those houses... even my parents each had their share of reaching out over the years. Up until I was 27 in fact. Married with two more babies and living in NY state.

But I declined every time. Now I cannot wait to leave it all behind.

In 3 decades, I have been through so many forms of abuse. I experienced r*pe, abort**n, traumatic b*rth, and severe bullying from my families while pregnant, physical and emotional abuse, narcissistic abuse from my parents and boyfriends, affairs, and weaponized cheating to make me comply, harassment, stalking, neglect, and abandonment.

By 18 I had not learned how to do laundry, cook, wash myself properly, study or learn with focus or proper retention, how to make or use money properly, how to spot danger or recognize a dangerous person, how to drive, or build any kind of relationships that were healthy.

I ran right into abusive relationships, snuggled up to abusers, took big risks to travel at any hour in places that were not safe. I dated older boys, any boy who liked me, all the boys who wanted to be physical, and the boy who promised to be my escape from the abuse at home. I engaged in s*xual things within abusive relationships because I was submitting and being treated like I was very special.

I did not know I was groomed for emotional abuse over and over only to be discarded, often with the help of the persons' friends and even their parents. Because I also dated people with f*cked up parents.

What did I learn in N.Y.?

How to raise myself. Barely.

I learned how to travel and live on pennies. I learned how to file for court, custody, protection, and child support by 18. I learned how to file for financial aid, medical insurance, and scholarships too.

I am grateful for how tough I became and how much I worked to achieve my goals while in my twenties.

But I still did not learn how to choose healthy partners, navigate hard situations, or steer clear of abuse.

I did not learn in N.Y. how to build a loving home.

3466 words in - I have realized that N.Y. was a state of trauma for me.

So moving to Texas this week is a radical form of self love.

I am driving across the country with my husband and little babies not just to move into some new apartment (and address for my memory).

After 31 prior years of trauma and living in survival mode... for the memories I have not typed here that still exist in my body and mind...

I am writing my breakup with New York because it is time for me to cross a new doorway.

It is time for me to feel a sense of HOME.

To give my kids a childhood they do not have to break up with or make peace with.

It is time for me to teach my daughter about the do's, the dont's of early adulthood. Because my mother and father were never capable of having kids or teaching me anything other than survival skills to fend against them.

It is time for me to feel safe in a bedroom and kitchen. To not walk on eggshells. To not feel ridiculed or like I do everything all wrong.

It is time for me to be able to breathe deeper than I ever have before. Not feel crippling anxiety at the thought of a ghost from the past showing up on my door front.

This break up means so much more knowing that when I drive away this week, I will be getting as far away as I have ever been from those houses and the evil people who still dwell in some of them.

I am ready to experience safety, good health, and joy.

Goodbye, at last, New York. -

This letter was written for me, as a release of all the pain I have carried on my shoulders all these years. Even though I do not have "pictures" of the abuse and no legal action was ever taken - I feel justice every time I write to share. I know more people like me exist out there. Who have been abused, broken, and abandoned by their families. Who have been ignored and betrayed by the system. Who have been belittled and degraded by their abusers only to have people swear their abusers are great people. I know people out there have chosen not to have a pregnancy with their abuser. There are teen moms out there who were forced to either terminate OR keep their child, but also abused by the systems and their own families or the partner after. I know there are people out there who hate their home towns because of the painful memories. This piece is for you too. I am sorry no one believed you then. But I believe you now. And should you ever get the chance to start over - do it. You may have had a past of abuse, but you deserve a future that is about thriving - not just surviving. Thank you for reading. - Jean Grey