Just another story…

So many people posting their story.. Thought I’d post mine.

I guess all the ‘bad stuff’ really started when I was 11. Sure my dad abused us before then, but only as a dicaplin. Pulling the hair.. Slapping the face.. Kicking your ass all the way up the stairs to your room..

When I was 11, I was molested. May 6th, 2005. About 4am from my guess. It was at my best friend’s birthday party. Her dad. Needless to say I don’t really talk to her anymore. She got too messed up for obvious reasons.

It wasn’t too bad really. I just woke up with his hand on my crotch. Didn’t want to believe it so I rolled over and tried to get more sleep. I was sleeping on the floor between the pull out bed and couch. He started touching me more, put his hand down my pants, grabbed my foot and made me touch him. He asked me if I wanted an orgasm. I just whimpered my ‘no’ and he left. ‘It’s okay’, he said. it wasn’t okay. Not one bit. I still had to deal with him the next day. My friend said he kept staring at me. Of course he didn’t want me to tell our little secret.

And I didn’t. Not for 2 years after, when my mom was reading my diary and asked why I hate him. She pretty much forced it out of me. It was 3 years before the cops found out. Natuarally, they didn’t do anything. I was too weak to press charges. I just wanted it to be over..

After that, everything my dad did seemed way worse. I remember him saying something about me not really having it that bad. He didn’t understand. The mental abuse was always the worst. ‘if you want to act like a *****, you’ll get treated like one.’. That seemed to be his favorite thing to say..

Inevitably, CAS got involved. Children’s Aid Society. What an AMAZING organization. I must say, they made my life a living hell for a while. I was 14. I didn’t get a say, and they were kind enough to tell me that. Things got better because of them. My dad doesn’t hurt us anymore.. But for what seemed like the longest time they made things worse.
One night, it got so bad. My dad slapped me so much my lip bled and earings came out. My mom wasn’t home, was out with a friend for a few days. I got put in a foster home for the next night, thankfully I got to leave when my mom got home the next day. This girl started crying… She wanted to leave so bad. Didn’t understand why I got to and she didn’t.
Oh, and the cutting. That started when I was 12, although I had done it before, I fucked it up. Cut the heel/sole of my foot. Dumb idea. It doesn’t bleed, just hurts and doesn’t heal for weeks. One of the first ‘real’ times, I carved words in my thigh with a nail. ‘HELL, PAIN, FEAR’, one under the other. Those words described everything. I was so afraid of my father, I lived in hell. I used to cut everyday in grade 6. As soon as I woke up, at school, after school, constantly.

Now whenever I cut, I pretty much always need stitches. Try doing that everyday. Doesn’t work, so at least I cut a lot less.

School was always he’ll, but for some reason, when I switched schools (again) for grade 7-8, my teachers loved me. One gave me tea whenever I was upset, even if I acted out. I miss her..

When I was in grade 8, dispite the admiration from my teachers, at one point I felt so betraid. It was stupid to think that I could trust them.. That was the first ‘big’ cut. A razor blade in the washroom. Principal walked in shortly after. 7 stitches in my wrist. To this day it’s still the deepest. It was huge. Higher up on my arm so there was more fat to slice through. Brutal. Hurt like a ***** for about a week. Oops?

Don’t really know what else to write, and it’s long enough, so we’ll leave it at that. That was my life up until high school. Then the depression got worse. I’ll write another post about my high school life some other time..

Thanks for reading, I know it’s long.