Fragments and Fire

Five small streets from school — Nelson Elementary in Niles, Illinois. I walked there and back alone. It sounds strange now, but this was Gen X life: latchkey kids, street smarts by necessity, and a childhood spent mostly unaccompanied.

Each street had a crossing guard. And one day, I met one named Allison. She was just a kid herself, but older than me — maybe a teen, maybe still in middle school. All I knew was her name was the same as mine, and that felt like magic.

I imprinted on her instantly — baby duck energy. (#autism) I didn’t want to go home, so I followed her instead. To her house. I was five.

I don’t remember exactly what happened while I was there. Just that I caused a stir, and eventually someone must’ve walked me home or called someone, because when I did get home… everything changed.

My mother was enraged.
And not “disappointed” or “concerned” — enraged.

She poured my after-school snack over my head. I remember the sensation — wet, sticky, cold. Shame before I even had a word for it.

And then she told me I wasn’t allowed to clean up.

Instead, she made me get undressed. Completely. Naked. And follow her around the house as her “shadow.” All evening. Like some twisted punishment-slash-game that wasn’t a game at all.

I remember the fear. The confusion. The humiliation.

And I remember the postman.
He came to the door.
He saw me.
I saw the look on his face — that flash of concern.
But no one said anything.
No one did anything.

And that might be the part that stayed with me the most.

That even when adults saw something was wrong, they looked away.

I was just a kid.
I didn’t understand boundaries. I just knew I wanted to be around someone kind.
And I got punished not just for wandering — but for existing in a way that my mother couldn’t control.

That moment set a tone:
Love is conditional.
Safety is performative.
Humiliation is punishment.
And if something bad happens, no one will come.

I don’t think I fully understood how deep that wound went until I was much older — until I started noticing how much shame I carry in my body. How hard it is for me to feel like I deserve gentleness. How easily I slip into believing I’m “too much” or “not enough” all at once.

But now, I tell the story.
Not to relive it — but to reclaim it.
To say to my younger self:

You were just a kid.
What happened wasn’t your fault.
You didn’t deserve that.
You deserved love.
You deserved softness.
You deserved someone to step in and say something.

And even though it didn’t happen then — I’m saying it now.