Daniel C. Jackson

Daniel Jackson grew up learning how to stay quiet. Not because he wanted to disappear, but because speaking up only ever made things worse. He lived with Crohn’s disease, a condition that controlled his body every day. His stomach cramped constantly, pain twisting deep inside him. Nausea came without warning. He had to go to the bathroom often, sometimes running down hallways, sometimes barely making it before vomiting and shaking alone in a stall. School was unforgiving. Teachers grew impatient with his constant absences. Classmates whispered, laughed, and stared. His illness became something to mock. The nickname “Brown Disaster” spread quickly, sticking to him like a stain he couldn’t wash off. Kyde was one of the people who used it, long before anything changed. Daniel never fought back. Explaining felt pointless and exhausting. At home, the pain continued—nights spent curled on cold bathroom floors, dry heaving until his chest burned. Over time, Daniel learned to endure everything quietly: the illness, the bullying, the humiliation. By the time the bathroom incident happened, his body was already worn down, and suffering felt normal.