- Story by Q.R.
Content Warning
This story delves into sensitive topics, including childhood abuse, suicide, self-harm, and mental health challenges. It contains explicit descriptions of trauma that might be triggering. Please approach with caution and prioritize your well-being. If you or someone you know is struggling, seek professional help or support.
This account is dedicated to Sam. May her memory remind us of the importance of vigilance and the courage to speak up when we suspect abuse in the lives of those around us. Your voice can make a difference.
Part 1
My childhood was anything but ordinary; it left indelible scars on both my body and mind, which is why I am sharing my story for the first time, in the hope that it might resonate with some of you, or perhaps make those who have had similar experiences feel less alone.
It is with a heavy heart that I recount these memories.
From the age of nine to thirteen, I suffered numerous broken bones, a common occurrence for an energetic child, but in my case, there were no trees climbed, and most of the injuries were inflicted upon me by others. Being the younger of two brothers with a nine-year age difference meant that I wasn’t particularly close to my sibling, as he was mostly out with his friends. To give my father some respite, I began staying with my cousin and uncle. My cousin Sam and I, despite being a year apart, were as close as siblings, spending countless hours playing board games in my grandmother's hallway, far from the prying eyes of adults.
The opportunity to stay with Sam and my uncle was one I eagerly embraced. I would sleep on the sofa bed in Sam’s room, and we would spend the entire night playing cards and chatting. My uncle, often away for work, left us to our own devices in their modest home. It was the '80s, after all, and leaving children unsupervised was not as frowned upon as it is today.
However, as time passed, my uncle’s business started to falter, and he found himself at home more often than not, usually with a bottle of liquor within arm's reach. I was staying with them almost every weekend, and soon I began to notice bruises on Sam, which she dismissed as the result of playing netball and gymnastics at school. One September weekend, shortly after the school year had commenced, I noticed Sam was unusually quiet and seemed to be in pain. She attributed it to sports injuries, but her demeanor was uncharacteristically subdued. I didn’t press her further. As we sat in her room, she on the bed and I on the sofa bed watching television, she attempted to get up to use the restroom. As she did so, her t-shirt rode up, revealing a massive bruise, black and purple, almost the size of a dinner plate. I was stunned. Could netball really cause such a severe injury? Sam refused to discuss it, and this pattern of denial continued for several weeks.
Eventually, I mustered the courage to mention my concerns to my uncle one Saturday morning. To my shock, he became enraged and physically assaulted me, resulting in my first broken bones at the age of nine. Unable to hide the extent of my injuries, my father took me to the hospital, where they discovered three cracked ribs. I concocted a story to explain away the injuries, and that was the end of it, or so I thought.
Over the next six months, both Sam and I endured several more bouts of violence, eventually confiding in each other about the abuse we suffered at the hands of my uncle. Sam’s situation was particularly dire; she was being home-schooled by my uncle, which meant she was either ignored or subjected to violence on a daily basis. I was attending my regular school, feeding my father lies about my injuries, until he grew suspicious and pressed me for the truth. Reluctantly, I revealed the extent of the abuse, but he was incredulous that his brother, a respected business owner and pillar of the community, could be capable of such acts. I was grounded and prohibited from visiting Sam and my uncle for a while.
During this time, Sam’s situation worsened, and I felt helpless, being 30 miles away and unable to intervene. When I was eventually allowed to visit again, I did so reluctantly, hoping my presence would provide some respite for Sam. Naively, I believed that by redirecting my uncle's wrath onto myself, I could somehow protect her. I became adept at concealing my injuries, always wearing jumpers and jogging bottoms to cover the bruises on my chest, stomach, back, and legs. To this day, I am uncomfortable wearing shorts or t-shirts, a lasting reminder of my traumatic past.
Fast forward a few years, and my efforts to shield Sam from my uncle’s violence proved futile. The abuse escalated, with my uncle targeting our faces and hands, and I was eventually banned from visiting. Sam bore the brunt of his anger daily, and our family’s dark secret remained buried. At the age of twelve, I ran away from home, living on the streets until I was taken into care after being found by the police. Despite my initial refusal to divulge my identity, it was eventually discovered by a distant relative working in the system.
Returning home, I isolated myself from the world, refusing to attend school or interact with anyone. A few months later, I received the devastating news that Sam had taken her own life, shortly after her fourteenth birthday. She had slit her wrists, and the news shattered me. The realization that my uncle had systematically broken her spirit, and that I had been powerless to prevent it, was too much to bear. It has been years since that fateful day, but the memory still brings tears to my eyes. It is the only thing that does.
Sam's autopsy showed the extent of the abuse, hundreds of untreated injuries. The police and local papers ran after my uncle with a vengeance. He died in prison 6 years later, so I was told.
Part 2
I can't remember all the details of my case, but I do remember one thing clearly: Sam was my light in the darkness. Months after her suicide, I tried to take my own life. This wasn't just one attempt; it was the first of five or six over 18 months. One time, I walked into the sea and submerged myself. I wasn't breathing when someone pulled me out, right when everything was going dark and I felt at peace. That peace got interrupted by a lifeguard in yellow and red.
After that, I made more attempts: tried to walk in front of a lorry, climbed a bridge to jump, and got found on some cliffs. Nothing ever worked. I spent years in psych wards, numbed by pills. I existed but felt like an empty shell.
As an adult, I tried to put all this behind me, but it was hard. I couldn't find a job I liked; my CV was too long with short-term, dead-end jobs. I drifted around, mostly staying alone in my council flat, diving into books. Reading became important to me; it helped keep my mind from wandering into dark places. This is when I started reading about psychedelics and got heavily into using LSD. My 20s are mostly a blur, full of countless acid trips. It opened my mind in ways I can't fully explain, though not in artistic terms. What it did help was boosting my interest in science and engineering. I could see how things worked, and I wanted to know more.
I eventually applied to a university near me and got accepted for a degree in forensic science. Because I had no high school qualifications, I had to do an extra foundation year. It felt weird being in uni surrounded by people 10 years younger, but I did open up a bit and made some friends. Still, I mostly kept to myself. I had my ups and downs during that time, I still saw a psychologist, and took many medications. Despite all this, I graduated with a 2:1 degree. But then the reality of job hunting hit, and I fell back into a depressive state, even making a few more half-hearted attempts at suicide.
I continued to live like this, occasionally finding reasonable jobs and still reading as much as I could. Many years later, I returned to using LSD, but less recklessly. I started microdosing, beginning with small doses of 10µg every three days, coupled with some form of meditation. At first, I wasn’t sure it was making a difference, so I adjusted the dose. One day, I realized that my suicidal thoughts had faded and that I was feeling less miserable. I continued this regimen for six months before taking a short break. When I stopped, I felt the darkness creeping back, so I resumed microdosing. Now, it’s been 8 years of taking LSD three times a week at a 12µg volumetric dose, without any breaks.
Part 3
Now I'm 46, and on the surface, things look good. I've got a stable job as a Biomedical Engineer that pays pretty well. I own a house and a car, and I'm engaged to be married. By all counts, I should be happy. But the truth is, I'm scarred for life, both mentally and physically.
I've been diagnosed with Asperger's and manic depression. My memory is terrible unless we're talking about something technical. I'm not on any meds for my conditions, just microdosing, which, to be honest, I think is the only reason I'm still here. Without it, I start to think about using everyday things to end my life. These thoughts don't stop; from jumping off bridges to using razor blades in the bath or heavy electrical equipment during my past dead-end jobs, I've considered it all.
Physically, it's not much better. I've had more than 140 broken bones over the years, and most didn't heal right, including a broken vertebra in my spine. I have to take morphine four times a day to manage the pain, which never really goes away. My back is a bit hunched, noticeable enough, and even after several surgeries, the pain's never leaving me.
So, that's my story. You can use it or not; it's all up to you. It's far from a complete tale—too many gaps in my memory for that. My earliest memories start around age 13, and maybe it's for the best that I don't remember much before that. Some stuff has come back in therapy as an adult, and I kind of wish it hadn't.
I've never really shared all of this with anyone new in my life. My partner doesn't even know the full extent of it. But putting it down here, thanks to the anonymity of the internet, is doable, although not easy to write, that's for sure.
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