my life and why I want to end it…

I´m sorry – english isn´t my mothertongue but still I´m gonna try to make some sense…

It startet when I was born. My mother never wanted me. I know, because she told me the first time when I was eight or nine. And a few times more when I grew older. She said, she only took me because she hoped I would make my father stay with her. Now that he is dead I´m starting to think she really loved him. In her very strange way.

I even start to believe, she isn´t the bad person I always thought her to be. Maybe she was just afraid and overwhelmed by problems. Her marriage was a desaster, I started to think by myself and I always loved my father more than her. Maybe because one of my first memories is my mother throwing an empty bottle of glue in my face when I was six or seven. The next one is my mother beating me with a wooden spoon.

But maybe this is all normal for a childhood and I´m just making a fuss. I don´t know. All I know that I lived thirteen years with the question: What did I do? Why does nobody love me?

I tried to change. I tried to live for dogs as my mother. I took them for a walk, I did everything she asked me to. It was never enough. And I tried to show interest in cars and motorbikes like my father. But trying to reach on of them just made me slip away from the other.

But I made it through. I got used to be alone. I never had friends in school, never knew how to talk to them – their families were not perfect, but they never understood one word that left my mouth about being beaten, punished and left alone.

First time I wanted to run away was in 3rd or 4th grade – is it “grade” in elementary schools? One girl said I would kill myself. I didn´t want to, but I started thinking about it. I thought: Who would be there? Everyone of course. Your parents and grandparents and all the good friends that teased me at school yesterday.

And then I thougt: I´m not gonna do it. They would not understand, the wouldn´t care the slightest. So I didn´t do it and went on with life.

I reached the age of 11 and with my breast growing someone finally became aware of my presence – my dear uncle. He wrote a novel for me. He taught me about the great philosophers and the art of speech. And he taught me, that I´m ugly and good for nothing. That I´m too fat, that my face is too round and my skin too pale. And I agreed. I never had friends, boys were never interested in me and I always believed my hips to be too fat. My lips too small. My eyes dirty and without a nice colour. Even my voice to be that of a boy instead of a girl.

Today I know he said these things to make me feel miserable. Well, it worked and I thought nothing… I don´t know a good word. Point is, I let him fuck me. He didn´t rape me in the classical understanding. He didn´t break my arms or made my squall in pain. To be honest, he was quiet gentle, if I remember it well. If you ignore that he was 30 or older, I was 11 and he screwed up my entire life for some sexual pleasure.

Soon I realised it to be wrong and perverted and I asked him why he does this kind of things to me. Because it is no problem, he answered, because nobody cares what happens to you. They would not even believe you. You will only break my dear brothers heart…

And he was right. I tried to talk about it. I really did. With my grandmother – his mother, even if I never mentioned him by name. She said: “Don´t be stupid. You are making things up!” The teacher at school thought I was just trying to hide my laziness. My friends were occupied with complaining about their mothers.

When I reached june in 2002, just two more month until my 13th. birthday, I had tried to kill myself 3 times. First time by cutting my arms – pain and blood and nothing more. Wasn´t nearly deep enough. Today even the scars are gone. Second time by sleeping drugs and painkillers – I woke up next morning without even an headache. Third time was an over-reacting because of the not-working painkillers. I tried them again – without effect.

My parents did not notice. In 2003 my dad asked me if I´d be love sick, because I started to withdraw from life. Truth is, I didn´t withdraw from life, I withdraw from what they called family. From being alone with male family members, from being touched by men. Even from my father, who talked to me about sex with the mother of a classmate of mine – he thougt about getting divorced, but cared too much for my mother in the end.

My uncle went on happily. Family met to celebrate my birthday = he fucked me. Family met to celebrate his birthday = he fucked me. The same on Christmas, or in holidays. And I never said “no”. I don´t know why – I felt like I deserved it as punishment for destroying my parents lifes. I thougt, without me, they could go seperate ways but because of me they suffer and so I deserve to suffer, too. Or, that was what he told me.

I didn´t expect my life to be a fairytale ending with a prince coming to save me…

Well, he didn´t come, if I´m honest. I met a boy. A boy who was seventeen or sixteen, who had braces and a shy smile. But most important, he had this eyes like black ebony. They were filled with so much strenght and spirit and joy that they glittered.

This boy gave me a chance. I remembered him, when my uncle forced himself on me. I shut my eyes and imagined his warm, dark eyes in front of me, telling me not to give in and not to cry. Telling me to stay strong and to survive.

And everytime I took the knife back in my hands I thought: Would he do this? Would he give up?

Then he got injured in 2003 and it wasn´t sure if he could ever walk again. I was staying in Gran Canaria with my grandparents – on holiday – and I searched for a newspaper and when I knew what had happend to my boy I thought: Now it is over. Now we are equal. Life has killed him exactly like me.

But he wasn´t finished. He fought his way back and I told myself: If he is strong enough, so am I. And I told my uncle no – I had to kick his balls once and told him, I´d explain everything to my dad. And I told him, my father would kill him. And himself afterwards perhaps, but first he´d finish him.

That´s how I survived.

But my story is not over. I could stopp here and try to be a perfect example. Truth is, my life is still screwed. Admiring my boy made me reach the age of twenty, great… and what do I see now?

I don´t feel anything for the people around me. Nor love, nor friendship. Of course no trust. I hate all of them. Nobody can understand how I feel, they don´t even understand that I´m not okay. That I believe myself to be ugly, that self-confidence is nothing but a nice word you can hide behind perfectly.

Everyday I fight a war even to get out of bed. And everyday I fight battles over battles not to cry myself to sleep. I hate crying – it reminds me of the rape and especially the hours after it sitting in hot water trying to feel like a human again and not like a whore. That´s what I am – a little whore. Whores don´t say “No” and neither did I. And when I´m sleeping with my boyfriend I feel like a whore too.

Pure girls that expierence love don´t do such things. They don´t ride old men. They don´t have to hide who they really are, because their true faces are cute, innocent and a little naive.

But me? I´m trying to look nice on my dads funeral, I care for my depressive mother, who lost her sense in life with my father dying so suddenly. I could vomit when I see her like this. Closing her eyes and pretending everything was fine. Maybe she loved him. Damn, same goes for me. But nobody cares – he was just my father, I have no right to mourn. I have to be strong for my mother…

And of course, I have to be nice to grandmother and uncle. Now that I´m a half-orphan I need money – his money. My boyfriend cannot pay the rent for the flat all alone. The university wants money too. The state is a bastard, who cares nothing for his people. So what am I gonna do? Killing myself? Every last honorable person would do it – but I can´t. I have to take care of my mother – remember? Like she did take care of me when I was a child and raped by her brother-in-law.

I hate myself for feeling responsible for her. I hate myself for pitying her. All I want is going to sleep and never wake up again. I want to dream and this dream shall never fade away.

I want to die. I really want to. I don´t want to think it over and over again and I don´t want people to tell me that I need to be strong and that times change. I know they do. But still I´m bleeding inside and I´m in pain and damn it, I want it to stopp. I want it all to stopp.

I don´t want to live! Life is nothing but suffering, and I don´t want to suffer anymore…