Alex Brunelle

Hidden Struggles

In the past few months, my fellow students may have noticed my attendance has not
been...perfect. I will show up one day and not be there for the rest of the week. Or I’ll show up,
but I would fall asleep in class, unable to learn out of pure exhaustion. This is not without
reason. The past few months have been the most stressful I’ve had...possibly ever. Multiple
times, I’ve been on the edge of a cliff, seeing nothing but darkness below, and taken a leap of
faith- not knowing where I’d land.
This story starts in 2012. My mother remarried the love of her childhood life- my
stepmother. It wasn’t long after she moved in that things got suspicious, but it wasn’t until the
summer between 7th and 8th grade- 2013- that I realized that how I was being treated was
abusive. Not in a physical way. Emotionally. I would be called names, told I was “creepy” for
things I couldn’t help. I have autism and ADHD and because of it I am constantly fidgeting. She
would call it weird and annoying.
When I told my mom about what was going on, she refused to believe me, telling me I
was making things up. This repeated abuse followed by assurance that it was all in my head led
me into a deep depression which is still around to this day, and also gave me major anxiety.
This lasted up until last November, the abuse cycling. It would be fine then suddenly I’d be
afraid for my life even though- up until then- she had never laid a hand on me. Whenever
something was stressing my stepmother out, she would take her anger out on me.
I was 17 years old, two months from being 18, when it happened. My mother was away,
working, which didn’t happen very often due to a medical condition she has which made it
almost impossible for her to work, leaving my stepmom to look after me and my younger
brother, who stayed in the basement most of the time. I had been sent home early from work. I
was feeling very sick, dizzy, nauseous, like I was about to fall down. And my stepmom let me
rest...for a few hours. Now, in that house, every Saturday we (meaning me) had to do major
chores. My brother had to vacuum the living room. I had to deep clean the upstairs bathroom
and the kitchen. It wasn’t fair, but I knew complaining would be pointless. However, when my
stepmother told me I had to do my chores that day, even though I was sick, and very obviously
so, I had to complain. I could barely stand up, let alone clean anything. So I stayed in bed,
ignoring multiple texts from her threatening to take away my phone and taking my TV off the
wall if I didn’t comply. The rule was if I was sick, I was allowed to be on my phone and was
exempt from doing chores. That was the rule. She came upstairs and wrenched the phone out
of my hand. And when I still refused to clean, that’s when...she hit me. Twice. I ran downstairs
to call mom on the house phone, but she wrenched that out of my grasp, too, and pushed me.
My back hit a bookshelf. It ended up bruising, and that bruise lasted a week. I knew what I had
to do then. I packed a bag and left, sobbing.
I stayed at my friend’s house for a couple days. They were extremely kind to me, but I
knew it was only temporary. While staying there, I had only what I brought with me. My
stepmom would not let me back into the house, not even to get some things. Then one day, my
mom texted me, letting me know that I had a permanent place to stay with a friend of her’s.
They had a room for me in the basement. I moved in with this family and stayed with them for
two months. My stepmother packed all my stuff into boxes, messily, and didn’t even tape the
boxes up. My friend Sarah had to pack the boxes into her car, and almost all of the boxes had
their untaped bottoms fall out, spilling all its contents on the ground. It wasn’t until I had been
there for a month when I found out they also only intended to have me stay for a few days. My
own mother had lied to me and told me it was permanent, and packing up my stuff only
solidified it.
What followed were many sleepless nights, legal battles, and DCYF calls. My parents
insisted it was safe for me to come home, and my mother constantly guilt tripped me and
gaslighted me, saying that it was my fault completely that I left. I would constantly be on the
verge of a mental breakdown. I was being overwhelmed with school, my parents, and such. The
only place I was truly happy was when I was rehearsing Christmas Carol. It was my escape
from reality, where I could be myself and not have to worry about what was going on in my life.
Outside of that I could barely get out of bed without being encouraged. I lost focus, motivation,
enthusiasm...to this day I am still trying to find those things.
My eighteenth birthday was probably the worst birthday I’ve ever had. I spend five hours
in a doctor’s office, and found out that the very next day I would be moving again, but this time
to a place where I wouldn’t have any friendly faces, I would be on my own. The next day I
moved to where I am now- a shelter for men who have experienced domestic abuse. I’ve had to
juggle school, and how I’m going to eat, and friends, and family, and although I still have people
that help me, I’ve honestly never felt so alone. My motivation is at an all-time low. It takes a
great deal of effort just to get out of bed in the morning. Even with seven alarms, I still end up
staying in bed until one in the afternoon some days.
And through all this, I’ve still had to deal with bullying. Petty drama. I no longer see the
point of it, which makes it hurt that much worse. I’ve got enough on my plate, I don’t need my
peers being mean over small things.
So much has changed in the past few months. I’ve moved multiple times. I’ve been
forced to grow up. To mature. To stand up for myself. I’ve cut off people who I used to love.
Who I once thought loved me. And I want people to learn from this.
There’s more to every story. Maybe somebody looks like they’re slacking off, but in
reality they haven’t slept in three days and they’ve had to turn their phone off because their
mom won’t stop calling them to try and guilt-trip them into coming home. Maybe somebody
looks upset, but when you ask what’s wrong they smile and say it’s nothing, but in reality
everything is happening at once and they have no idea how to fix it.
Everybody has a different story to tell. A different experience. A different way they’ve
grown up and matured. I want to tell my story to the world, to show that determination and
patience can make all the difference.