You meant well.
I think.
You saw the bruises.
You saw the burn.
You ticked the boxes and filled out the forms.
You removed me from danger.
But you never asked what I needed.
You just placed me.
Moved me.
Labelled me.
Filed me away like a problem that had been temporarily managed.
Do you know what it’s like to be “placed”?
To be relocated like furniture?
To smile at strangers in kitchens that smell nothing like home?
To sleep in a bed that still holds the ghost of someone else’s nightmares?
I wasn’t looking for perfection.
I was looking for safety.
I was looking for someone to say, “I see you.”
But your reports never included my silence.
Your training didn’t cover the sound of a cupboard door locking behind me in my head.
You protected my body.
But you abandoned my spirit.
You made me feel like a case.
Like a file with legs.
And when I started acting out—when the trauma showed up in ways you didn’t approve of—you punished the symptom and ignored the source.
I’m not writing this in rage.
I’m writing it in recognition.
Because I know there are good people in that system.
People who care.
People who tried.
But intention doesn’t fix impact.
And somewhere along the way, you forgot that I was a child.
Not a broken adult in training.
I made it out.
But parts of me never did.
And maybe if you had listened closer—
if someone, anyone, had stayed still long enough to see me—
those parts wouldn’t still be wandering.
Recommended Posts:
Dear Mum, You Never Asked Why I Screamed
Dear Me, Age 7
Dear Spector
Dear The Girl I Hurt
Dear The Man I Was Becoming