The Florida project chapter 1 (for now)
Chapter one
Some things start without sound
Some beginnings don’t feel like beginnings.
They feel like aftermath.
I don’t know much about the very start of my life. I don’t know how many siblings I have or where all of them ended up. I don’t know what parts of my story were erased before I was old enough to remember them. What I do know is that I was born into a home that wasn’t safe, and long before I had language for that, my body learned it.
People say children don’t remember those early years. Maybe they don’t remember them the way adults expect — with clear images and timelines. But memory doesn’t only live in the mind. It lives in the nervous system. It shows up later as fear without a source, tension without a reason, and the constant expectation that something bad is about to happen.
Before foster care, there was instability. Neglect that went on too long. Adults who were consumed by their own addictions and violence. I was too young to understand what was happening, but not too young to be affected by it. Safety wasn’t consistent. Attention wasn’t gentle. Comfort came and went without warning.
Eventually, someone intervened. My brother and I were removed and placed into foster care, where we stayed for a large portion of our early childhood. I don’t remember the day it happened. I remember the feeling that followed — disorientation, separation, and the sense that nothing was permanent.
When we were adopted, it felt like a miracle. We were given stability, structure, and a home that looked safe from the outside. For a while, it really was the best life I could imagine. There were rules. There was routine. There were people who wanted us.
But trauma doesn’t disappear just because circumstances improve. It adapts. It waits.
As I grew older, the effects started to surface in ways I didn’t understand yet. I was sensitive. Hyper-aware. Easily overwhelmed. Adults noticed behaviors, not causes. I learned early how to mask, how to comply, how to shrink myself to avoid conflict.
School was where it became visible.
By middle school, I already felt different. Quiet. Watchful. Out of sync with the people around me. I didn’t talk much, but I noticed everything — who was safe, who wasn’t, who could hurt you without ever touching you. I wanted to belong, but I didn’t know how.
That was when I met A.
She stood out immediately. She was confident in a way I wasn’t, loud where I was quiet, unafraid of being noticed. In a place where I felt invisible and exposed at the same time, she felt like an anchor. She noticed me before anyone else did, and that attention felt like kindness.
She listened. She asked questions. She didn’t flinch when I talked about my past. When you’ve spent your life feeling overlooked or misunderstood, being seen like that feels powerful. I didn’t yet understand how easy it is to confuse attention with safety.
Over time, I started to notice that she learned my weaknesses quickly — who I trusted, who I liked, what embarrassed me, what hurt me most. At first, it felt like closeness. Then it started to feel like pressure. Boundaries blurred so gradually that I didn’t know they were being crossed.
There were red flags early on — situations she pulled me into that made me uncomfortable, moments where blame was shifted onto me for things I didn’t do. Even then, I stayed. She was my only friend, and at that age, loneliness felt more dangerous than anything else.
When she betrayed my trust openly, it shattered something in me. After that, her behavior escalated. Private information I had shared with her became public. Rumors spread fast in a school that small. In a place with so few people, once the narrative turned, there was nowhere to hide.
What hurt most wasn’t just what she did — it was how quickly everyone else followed her lead.
By the time that situation ended, adults believed it was resolved. The school moved on. I didn’t. I carried the aftermath with me: shame, confusion, guilt for things that weren’t my fault, and a distorted understanding of what friendship looked like.
I left that school believing I might finally get a reset.
I didn’t.
The next school was public — bigger, louder, less personal. I had been homeschooled for part of the year before transferring, which left me more withdrawn than ever. Walking into a building with hundreds of students after being in a single classroom environment felt overwhelming.
I stood out immediately.
I struggled to make friends. When I did connect with people, they were often struggling in similar ways — isolated, hurting, trying to cope however they could. At that age, I didn’t recognize how unhealthy that environment was. I just knew I wasn’t alone in it.
Attention started coming from places I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t know how to handle it. I was awkward, anxious, and inexperienced, which made me an easy target. Some people treated me like a curiosity. Others treated me like something disposable.
The bullying escalated quickly. It wasn’t just verbal anymore. It became physical, humiliating, and constant. I learned how to lie convincingly about injuries. I learned how to explain things away without asking for help. I learned that telling the truth didn’t always make things stop.
My mental health declined further. The numbness I had lived with for years gave way to volatility — extreme highs followed by crushing lows. I didn’t have language for what was happening inside me. I just knew I couldn’t regulate it on my own.
Around that time, escape stopped being an idea and started becoming a behavior. I didn’t think of it as danger. I thought of it as relief.
I also began to understand parts of my identity that had been buried under fear. I felt braver, louder, more willing to take risks. I mistook boldness for strength and recklessness for confidence. I didn’t see how vulnerable that made me — how visible.
By the time middle school ended, I had a T reputation. People didn’t see a kid who had survived early instability, manipulation, and relentless bullying. They saw a label. Adults saw a problem to manage. Peers saw someone easy to judge.
Middle school didn’t end quietly.
It ended with momentum.
The same dynamics followed me straight into freshman year — the same people, the same patterns, just in a bigger building with fewer safeguards and more consequences. I didn’t walk into high school as a blank slate. I walked in already carrying fear, shame, and the belief that something about me invited harm.
I didn’t know yet how much worse things were going to get.
I only knew that nothing had ever truly reset before.
And it didn’t then.
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