not the best bedtime story

Hi. My name is Briana.

I turned 18 yesterday. This means I’m about 1.75 years sober.

This is the first time telling my story, but I figured there’s no way I’m gonna flourish as an adult if I can’t get over this. I came here because tonight is a pretty rough night, like we all have. *sigh. When I was 15 years old I started having nightmares. Graphic, vivid nightmares. I’d wake up screaming. I started staying up as late as I possibly could to avoid them. It got to the point where 3 hours of sleep was my average a night. My boyfriend at the time kept complaining that I had bags under my eyes and people were asking me if I was sick. I said no. My boyfriend…hmm…him. That wasn’t a lovely relationship. 2 weeks into it he hit me for the first time. In the following month I was punched and kicked too many times to count, including smacked across the face with a history book. The crowning jewel was him throwing me down the stairs. That’s when I left him. 

And then I found a group of people. We called ourselves “the crew.” We were seriously a bunch of misfits, but unlikely so. All of us were in the top ten of our different classes (I was a sophomore, we had a few freshmen, 2 seniors, and the rest were juniors) We would all get high during the week, and drunk on the weekends. I wasn’t into at first- my parents raised me “good.” But I realized that if I was drunk, when I passed out, I could sleep for hours, without any nightmares. How glorious this was! After three months of horror every single night, I had a cure. Somehow, miraculously, I kept my grades up. Nothing below an A. My parents thought I was perfect, and I was trying to show them they were right. They didn’t need to know about the crew. They didn’t need to know about my insomnia. But ofcourse, I was headed down a long, dark road.

I would consider myself an addict. I went further than anyone in the crew. I was hooked on pills for a while. I can say there’s about a six month period in my life where I wasn’t sober once. The self-loathing started. I re-started my bulimia. I liked the feeling of getting rid of something from my body. Of having the control. I couldn’t control my dreams, but I could control my body. When I would wake up at night in a panic, I would cut. It started off small, and gradually progressed to razors. I would keep one on my bedside table, and it would be a habit. Pass out, have a nightmare, wake up, cut. Repeat as necessary. I don’t want to trigger anyone…I just really liked cutting. I still do, but I’m trying to stop. It’s the one thing from my past that’s managed to follow me to this point. And one night, I started cutting, and didn’t stop. I took a bunch of pills…too many to remember. And I kept slicing. I must’ve hit a nerve or something because my entire arm went numb. Seeing my blood reminded me that I didn’t actually want to die. But I couldn’t tell my parents. Then I’d be a disappointment. And I’m not a disappointment. I’m perfect, remember? ha.

I called a friend, and he helped me through the night. And by helped me I mean he kept yelling, (and sorry if this offends anyone) “Don’t you f***ing die on me, Bri. Don’t you f***ing die” He stayed on the phone with me until I passed out, probably from the combination of pills and blood loss. The next morning I woke up to the sound of my vibrating phone. It was him, calling to make sure I had made it through the night.

We started talking on the phone every night. I think at first it was him making sure I went to bed in a good mood. After a while it was just a habit. My second attempt came about a month later. He was leaving for a week to see his family across state. He made me promise that I’d be okay, and I smiled and said yes. Ofcourse, I reasoned later, dying isn’t that bad. It’s “okay.” I wrote a note. Don’t ask me why I tried to do it again. It’s that…when you think you’re about to die, every breath you take is so sweet. Every minute you fight against yourself for is that much better. I texted him, “There’s a note under my pillow. I’m sorry. I love you” and kept cutting.

The next day when I realized I was alive was horrible. I freaked out, throwing stuff across my room and screaming into a pillow. I was covered in blood. My bed was covered. I had no idea where my razor was. My phone was full of messages of him freaking out. He came home early because “obviously, you need a hug”, something I still feel guilty about.

That night, my parents sat me down in the living room. They showed me that they had my razor. They had my note. It was a tough night. Everyone was crying. I confessed to the bulimia and cutting. They had no idea about the crew. My parents took me to a therapist. She told me that I was manic-depressive, and would benefit from medication. We couldn’t afford the meds, so I just stayed in therapy for about two months, and stopped going. (we couldn’t afford that anymore, either)

Today, I’m sober. I have no new cuts on my body. I haven’t had a suicide attempt in about 6 months. I am employed as a cashier. I’ve had people grab my wrist and ask, “sweetheart, why?” and I just jerk away. It’s embarrassing, but I’ve gotten used to it. I have two scars on my wrist that makes it obvious what my intentions were. That’s all they need to know. If they could see the scars on my thighs they would probably never shop at the store again.

So…what the heck was I dreaming about every night to kick off this path? A repressed memory.

I was raped when I was 5 years old.

I don’t want to talk about it. That’s all you need to know.

I know that people judge me on a daily basis. I’m too short, my hair is too poofy, I’m albino, I have suicide scars.

But today, tonight, I can honestly say that I am beautiful. I am strong. I’ve made bad decisions and I’ve made some serious mistakes. But in the end it doesn’t matter. Because I LIVED. I survived. And trust me, if I can do it, you can do it too.