Auntie M’s Advocacy Project

Sometimes I pretend my life is wickedly perfect.
You know the picture: green grass, a white picket fence, everything calm and safe.

Then I wake up in a motel next to a man I technically know but somehow don’t. A man who has already managed to make me feel small, spend my money, and question things he could just as easily ask himself. And I realize I’m stuck again.

This cycle has been my life for as long as I can remember.

I can’t work the way most people do. My anxiety and PTSD wrap around everything I try to do. My mother loved the idea of having children, but responsibility was something she abandoned early. I think she gave up when I was around three years old, when I was already waking myself up in the morning and pouring my own milk.

Money became her tool. Control became her language.

Now, talking to people feels almost impossible. I still hear her voice in my head sometimes, even though she’s in Florida and has no idea where I am.

The truth is… I don’t really know where I am either.

I’m broke.
I’m in the middle of nowhere.
And it terrifies me.

But I know one thing.

I don’t want this life anymore.

I want the apartment.
I want the green grass.
I want something stable and real.

I want my life back from the ashes.