An open road winding toward sunrise beneath dramatic blue clouds

In my own words.

A place for the thoughts, stories, and truths I choose to make public.

About me

I'm Brayden. I'm from Wisconsin. I'm transgender, and I live with ADHD, depression, anxiety, PTSD, and autism.

I was raised by my mom and her boyfriend from the time I was six. My earliest memory is hitting him with my jump rope because he was yelling at my mom. I grew up in a house where friends couldn't come over, a house run on the drug business with no real jobs, where every day was "car rides" and arguments. My mom was physically abused, and I was sexually abused for years. I'll tell more of that story here.

Most days you'll find me under the hood of my WRX or lost in a game. My house is run by Cora, my cattle dog, and three cats: Luda, Orzo, and Penne.

I recently ended my engagement. It wasn't sudden. For a long time I felt like I was the only one challenging anything in the relationship, what direction we should take in life, what our next project should be. Like I was navigating and shaping the whole thing by myself, with a yes-man for a partner.

My ex and I bought a house together, and now we're figuring out how to live in it together, because neither of us could afford it on our own.

I started this blog to tell my side of the story, honestly and unfiltered. If you're going through something like this too, you're not alone here.

Published writing

Where It Started

I don't remember much from before I was six. From what I was told, my mom was out a lot, waitressing and going to concerts and shows.

Around six, my mom found her boyfriend. One of my earliest memories is hearing him yelling at my mom while I was outside. I took my jump rope and hit him in the back with it. All he said was, "You better get your kid."

After that, my childhood was bouncing around almost every year. My mom and her boyfriend were drug dealers. Most days after school they'd call it "joy riding," but they were out slinging drugs, usually with his son.

From the time I was six, I was being molested. It started with the neighbor's kid in their attic. Then from six to thirteen, it was my mom's boyfriend's son.

When I had a choice in how I dressed, I chose boy clothes.

At thirteen, I was forced to move in with my biological father. They had buried themselves in financial stress and couldn't support me anymore. I remember having no electricity, having to shit in a plastic bag, waiting for my ramen noodles to soak up the water so I could eat them.

That's where this chapter ends. More to come.

Leave My Mom Alone

The environment was hostile. My mom and her boyfriend were using and selling drugs. I couldn't have people over, ever. They argued and fought all the time, and he put his hands on my mom.

One of the last big ones happened on a morning before school. I was in middle school. I heard him throw my mom on the floor upstairs, and I'd had enough. I yelled, "Leave my mom alone!"

He came downstairs with a video recorder and started filming me, telling me to pack my stuff and leave. So I packed a bag. He kept yelling and screaming, then grabbed the bag from me and said I was leaving with just the clothes on my back. I told him to stop touching me. The whole time he had the camera shoved in my face, yelling "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you," and asking his son to back him up. His son did.

I got to the front door and ran straight across Longfellow Elementary to my best friend's house. I'd spent so much time there that her family basically considered me one of their own. I told them everything that was happening.

Her dad walked me back over with 911 ready to dial in his sweater pocket and demanded they give me my clothes and some of my belongings. Eventually, they did. Later that day, my mom escaped through the bathroom window and made it to their house too.

That was the morning I left.

My Father's House

At thirteen, I was forced to move in with my biological father. My mom and her boyfriend had buried themselves in financial stress and couldn't support me anymore.

It wasn't planned. I got called down to the principal's office in the middle of the school day. I was never one to get in trouble, so I was worried. That's when he took me to his home.

While I was living there, my dad persuaded me to talk to the police about what was going on in my mom's home. One of the things I told them was about my mom slapping a pan out of my hands and telling me not to use that one. It was a pan they were making crack in.

That led to the police raiding the house, the one kiddy corner from Longfellow Elementary.

It wasn't until later, as an adult, that my mom told me I'd fucked it up for them by going to the police. That if I hadn't, they were on their way to getting a new home.

He forced me to wear girl clothes because he was afraid of how people would perceive us, living in Sussex. I'd grown up around Milwaukee, and suddenly I was somewhere I had to hide who I was. I tried to cooperate, but I'd hide boy clothes in my backpack and change into them at school.

At some point my mom brought over two black garbage bags full of my name-brand clothes. Back then it was FUBU, Adidas, Nike, P. Miller, JNCO, and two Kobe Bryant jerseys, both authentic, both from my uncle. My bio dad gave them all to Goodwill and didn't tell me until a couple months later.

I threw myself into sports: softball, basketball, wrestling. Anything to be out of the house. Anything that felt like me.

At seventeen, I ran away. I jumped off the second story of his house onto a tall pine tree and didn't look back. I ended up housed with people older than me. I thought they were my friends.