⚠️ Trigger / Trauma Disclaimer: This post includes mentions of emotional abuse, sexual trauma, and mental health struggles. It is shared from my lived experience as part of my healing and faith journey. Please read with care, and pause if you need to. You are not alone. 🕊️Bismillāh ir-Raḥmān ir-Raḥīm 🌿

Before I could ever tell you about my first husband, my affair, or how I ultimately found Islam, you have to understand the teenage girl who came before all of that — the one who built an entire identity out of trying to escape herself.

After my grandfather died, AOL became my escape.

It was the one place I could breathe.

The dial-up tone was a portal, and the screen’s glow felt warmer than my own home.

Online, I could be anyone.

And anyone was better than who I was — or who I’d been made to feel I was.

In real life, I was “the problem child,” the cousin who’d been assaulted and blamed for it, the daughter of a woman too tired to see the truth.

In chatrooms, I was mysterious, untouchable, wanted.

And when you grow up being told you’re a burden, “wanted” feels a lot like “worthy.”

💻 A Screen Name and a Second Chance

By the time I was a teenager, I was living on food stamps, HUD housing, Medicaid, and TANF.

My mom said she “couldn’t” work, but the truth was, she didn’t want to.

After years of being taken care of by her parents and her husband, she didn’t know how to survive on her own.

And when depression sneaks in — especially after domestic violence and divorce — doing what you’re supposed to do becomes almost impossible.

Now I can see that with compassion.

Back then, I saw it as abandonment.

So I stayed up late online, hiding in chatrooms, pretending I had a life worth envying.

Some girls had sleepovers. I had screen names and dial tones.

💍 The Marriage That Looked Like Freedom

By the time I turned eighteen, I was desperate for a way out.

That’s when I met Justin.

He wasn’t like the others — he was local, older, calm, steady.

He had a car, a job, an apartment, and most importantly, he wanted me.

And when you grow up never feeling chosen, being wanted feels like salvation.

We met through AOL.

He liked punk and metal, so suddenly, I did too.

He had piercings, a loud truck, and played Magic: The Gathering.

He wasn’t just a man; he was rebellion with a heartbeat.

When he proposed, it wasn’t romantic.

It was a $100 Walmart ring handed to me in someone’s living room while the guys compared computer parts.

No one clapped.

But I did — for myself.

Because I wasn’t saying yes to him, I was saying yes to freedom.

Even if it came wrapped in cubic zirconia and denial.

💊 The Pills That Silenced Me

The first few months of marriage were calm — until they weren’t.

I brought my trauma with me, and he brought his silence.

My mother’s voice still echoed in the background, dictating how I should behave, how I should “earn” peace.

When my emotions got too big, they decided together that I was “bipolar.”

No psychiatrist, no testing, just two people mistaking trauma for disorder.

That’s how I ended up on Lexapro and Clonazepam, medicated into stillness.

At first, I thought I was healing.

But healing doesn’t make you numb.

I’d stand in the shower for half an hour, staring at the wall, wondering if this was adulthood.

If this was love.

If this was better than what I left behind.

It wasn’t.

That chemical fog lasted from 2005 to 2009 — four years of existing in quiet survival until the birth of my son, Ahmed, snapped me back awake.

When I finally stopped the pills, it was like breathing after years underwater.

I wasn’t bipolar.

I was traumatized.

And they treated the symptom instead of the wound.

🍸 The Freedom That Wasn’t

When Justin and I separated, I felt free — and that was dangerous.

I got a job at a dive bar, kept the trailer, and found a roommate who didn’t mind the noise.

For the first time, I wasn’t someone’s daughter or wife.

I was just me.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

I filled the silence with everything I could — men, music, chaos.

I was impulsive, reckless, and starving for validation.

Back then, I didn’t know I was autistic or had ADHD.

I didn’t understand that my brain craved dopamine like oxygen.

Every flirtation, every touch, every risk felt like proof that I was still alive.

I wasn’t healing.

I was surviving — loudly, desperately, and alone.

And then came Chris.

If Justin was my cage, Chris was the fire I didn’t see coming.

🌙 Reflection

Healing has a way of turning hindsight into humility.

I’ve made peace with the girl I was — the one who thought rebellion was freedom and attention was love.

She wasn’t broken; she was just loud about her pain.

If you’ve ever mistaken chaos for connection, or thought running away was the same as moving on — this one’s for you.

Because freedom without healing is just another form of captivity.

With endless duʿāʾ and gratitude,

RebekahAnn 🌿

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