I Was Nothing

I thought I was nothing once…
It seemed I was a small, insignificant part of the world, and when I died everything would keep moving forward as if I didn’t ever existed in the first place. My hopelessness… my struggles… they were all too much for me. I was ready to die, not knowing what was on the other side, but hoping it was better than the hell I was living.

I was two years old when my parents divorced. I was the daughter of a 24 year old Sunday School Teacher and a beautiful 18 year old High School Graduate, but others in our community seen it differently.
I was a “scandal” baby. The preacher’s son (My father) was an alcoholic, that put my mother through hell on a daily basis. For my sake, she filed for divorce soon after their marriage, and gained custody of me.
I was able to visit my father every weekend, according to the court order, but that’s never how it worked out…
I would wait by the door with my bags packed, looking for his car, hoping it would pull into my drive way. Hours would go by, and he’d never show…

In order to support us, my mother became a “dancer”. I was to young to understand this, so she didn’t bother telling me, but I got to meet all the men she picked up at work.
When I was four, she dated a man named Shaun. He had a two year old daughter, and they moved in with us for a little while. I remember choking the young girl against the wall, not allowing her to breathe, and feeling so much hatred for her and her father, thinking they stole my mommy from me.
Shaun and my mother’s relationship was short lived, and many other came and went… Until John.

I was five or six when John came into the picture. He was scary, and I told my mother that. She laughed.
Six months into their relationship, they got married and bought a house, all while I was visiting my father in Kentucky.
When I came home, my whole life had changed.
Every night, I would cover my head with my blankets and cry, as I heard the screams of my mother, and dishes being thrown and shattering to pieces. I remember one night, I gathered enough courage to leave my room and try to help my mother. I was screamed at by John, and I cried. My mother went to pick me up and cradle me, but he grabbed her a dragged her to the bedroom and locked the door. I waited by the door, sobbing, as I heard the heavy breathing, the creaking bed, and the moans of my mother, who would never take care of me after that day.

At this point, my Daddy was my hero, always saying he would come save me. I believed him wholeheartedly.
I always did excellent academically.  I was far more advanced the other students my age. I enjoyed school, mostly because it was an escape from home. I was on the honor roll every year, and I won many awards for my achievements, including the Young Author’s Award for a book I wrote in the fourth grade. Unfortunately, that would all change in time.

When I was seven, I took a trip to Disney with my Aunt, my younger cousin, and my older cousin. Little did I know, this trip would be the start of years of sexual abuse by my older cousin… it when on for 10 years. I won’t go into any details on this part of the story.

When I was 9, I realized what my Dad was, and why he was never around. I started to hate him, too, along with the rest of the world. I was alone, wishing I would have been born as someone else, with a real mommy and daddy that loved me… I started self mutilating then, and became more and more violent.

At age 10, I started smoking pot, and since I was extremely intelligent for my age, the older kids had no problem hanging out with me, especially since I helped them pass their classes. I had friends, that did drugs, and for some reason, that made me feel good. They were my family… or so I thought.

Soon, I lost my virginity, and I thought I was in love, but it turns out I had my mother’s taste in men. I was abused… and I had had enough.
I was alone again, so I moved onto bigger, better things. At 14, I started using cocaine.
My mother had moved on by then, going through more boyfriends who hurts us. I still tried to protect her, and got my ass kicked a few times for it.
She started coming home later and later at night, drunk. I would bath her, get her dressed, and tuck her into bed as she cried about how miserable her life was. I was my mommy’s mommy… And it killed me inside, especially when I found out my mother had an incurable disease…

The years went on, the same old routine… I would get kicked out of school for assault, I would come home to screaming  and fists flying just to hear it turn into another fuck session.
I rarely talked to my father. I told all my friends he had died when I was little. It was easier for me to deal with that way.
My drug use was at an all time high… I was cold and alone, unloved and unwanted, but I told myself I didn’t need love. I didn’t need anyone, because I was there for me.
Eventually, I was sent to a mental institution, for a number of things, and there I got clean, but not by choice.
There were many people there that I started helping. I would tell them things about me, and somehow, it made them feel better… it made them feel like living. Suddenly, I realized my purpose. I was meant to help others like me… They were alone, too, searching for a reason to keep moving forward… I could help them find that reason.

I somewhat mended my relationship with my father, but shortly after he died… His liver failed.
I slipped back into depression for awhile… and went on a drinking binge. I was 16. My mother kicked me out shortly after my 17th birthday, and it was then that I found hope again.
In the arms of my only friend.

He was there for me as much as he could be through it all, even the parts that I didn’t share here today.
He has gotten me back into writing, into sharing my story and helping others, and now I actively participate in Suicide Prevention.
I am able to be contacted anytime, day or night, at renewrrn13@hotmail.com, or by text/calls (734) 430-5560

No one deserves to be alone, and no one deserves to miss out on a chance to be happy… I almost did, when I considered taking my own life…

I am Chelsii Rene’, 18 years old, and I am a survivor. You can be, too.