In school, we’re taught a lot of lies—like the idea of the American Dream being something anyone can achieve. I strongly disagree. It feels more like a marketing slogan than a reality. It's designed to make people work hard... just to make someone else's dream come true. “Land of the free”? Let’s be real—that’s a tagline, not a truth.
Anyway, I say all that to give context to the rest of this post. Because lately, I've been struggling. A lot.
Maybe Facebook isn’t the ideal place to vent—maybe I should be more “hip with the times” and start a TikTok or Insta. Who knows, maybe I could go viral crying in my car while holding a coffee I can’t afford. 😂 But seriously, I didn’t even feel old until recently. Then it hit me: I’m 43. My health is a mess. I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes five years ago, along with hypothyroidism, sleep apnea, heart issues, and lipedema. Basically, if there’s a body system that could break down, mine’s raising its hand like a teacher’s pet.
The truth is, things haven’t ever really gone well for me. If we’re being honest, my life reads more like a cautionary tale than a fairytale.
My mom was a drunk carnie who had me at 13 (yep, she was pregnant at 12—beat that, Jerry Springer), and my dad… well, he was a literal murderer. Institutionalized most of his life, labeled a danger to society, and passed away four years ago. My stepdad is a great man, and I’m grateful he came back into my life a few years ago. But even with him around, I often feel like I’m watching life from the outside, just trying to hold it all together with humor, duct tape, and a prayer.
This backstory matters because it’s shaped how I view the world now. I’m not writing this for pity, just putting it out there in hopes that maybe someone will read it and feel a little less alone.
I know I’m not the only one. There is still good left in the world—moments worth living for. And sure, no one can make you happy except you, but sometimes the only thing getting me through the day is knowing that somewhere, someone is watching funny cat videos in their pajamas and just vibing. That, my friends, is the real dream.
Growing up, my life was a roller coaster from hell with no seatbelt. Homeless until I was 10, shuffled through a revolving door of stepdads, and at one point left with my ***** grandfather (yep, just throwing that out there like a trauma confetti cannon). When my mom finally came back for us, it was an upgrade, but still… the bar was low.
By 14, I had basically raised my three younger siblings. I cooked, cleaned, babysat—you name it. I thought we’d always stick together. Then I “fell in love” with a guy I’d known forever. He was 18. I was 14. We lived under a bridge off and on for four years (romantic, right?). That ended when he robbed my aunt and I covered for him—because, you guessed it, he was already in legal trouble. Insert “I was young and dumb” disclaimer here.
After that, I bounced in and out of lockdown facilities. On my 18th birthday, I was released with a hundred bucks and a “good luck” from my PO. No education past 11th grade. No direction. Just “freedom.”
When I called my mom to pick me up, she did—but it was clear I wasn’t exactly welcomed back. She’d found religion and gone full doomsday prepper Baptist. I was raised on hellfire sermons and cleaning church bathrooms. I was supposed to marry a pastor. Spoiler: I didn’t. (Can you imagine this personality as a pastor’s wife?!)
Because I wouldn’t fall back in line, I was kicked out. Again. I ended up staying with someone I thought I could trust—a “street brother” who turned out to be another predator. At this point, my life was reading like the plot of a Netflix docuseries.
And here's a fun twist: with all the dysfunction I grew up around—Hells Angels, drugs, violence—I never once did drugs, drank, or smoked. Nothing. Because I saw where that road led and wanted no part of it.
Eventually, I met a guy nine years older than me. He was charming, funny, and three days in, he proposed. Naturally, I said yes (because that’s what emotionally wounded 18-year-olds with no stable home do, right?). But weeks later, I caught him cheating on me—with an 18-year-old special-ed girl named Helga with size-F boobs. You really can’t make this stuff up.
And that’s only the first half of my story.
IrishRain Community Member 
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