Hurt

It’s plain and simple, I am hurt. I don’t know whether to
call it depressed, bipolar or maybe even suicidal. I don’t fit fully into one
of those categories. After all I see my emotions as a vase; One that’s cracked and
overfilled, but painted over and glued to hide the unwanted things. Every time
something emotional happens it feels like someone took my vase and slammed it
down on a table, causing the fragile makeover to shatter, letting a cascade of
water to spill through. Of course then I have to scurry and pick up all the pieces
and carefully repaint every little detail back on. Now of course you are
wondering what has brought me to this point. I was born, to a woman, whom had
already birthed 2 kids prior, very premature; 3 months to be exact. She was
very young herself, probably in her early twenties. She knew nothing of being a
mother, so she tossed every child aside, to be devoured by the so called
helpful social services. As for me? She kept me for 12 months, playing house
with her latest boyfriend. He then, dropped me on my head, causing me to have serious
seizures. Social services stepped in and took yet another one of her children.
I was sent off to a foster home, and stayed there for 2 years out growing my
seizures and developing into a healthy youth. But my mother’s Mother couldn’t
stand around and watch all her grandchildren be taken away to foster homes. She
went to court and fought for custody of all three of us; me and my two elder
siblings. She won, of course being the educated woman she is, and took on the
new responsibility of three young children, alone. She hadn’t been married
then. She was doing okay for half a year, until she had her devastating mental
breakdown. I was four then. She knew she wasn’t mentally capable of taking care
of all three of us, and she couldn’t face the possibility of having us taken
away back to foster homes, after she fought so hard. So she did what any other desperate
grandmother would do. She gave us all away to relatives, asking each one to
take care of us, to nurture us into adult hood. This is where my story really
begins. I was four at the time, and got taken away from yet another parent I had
grown attached to, and put in with a strange family. They were my grandmother’s
sister and her husband and family. They already had three children; Two daughters
of the age 17 and 20. And a son, age 18. They owned a ranch. That whole family
makes me want die. The first incident of sexual abuse started when I was 5. I
will never ever forget that day.  The sun
was shining through the green living room curtains. The couches were spread out
circling the T.V. A rocking chair sat in the middle. He sat there. Beckoning me
closer. Those eyes. I do not wish to continue. That night, I used to sleep on a
purple matt, I cried. I cried for my grandmother, I cried for love. I cried for
anyone. I had no one. I remember the feeling well. The feeling of utter
aloneness. True fear. The dirtiness. I don’t know when the abuse stopped, but
it did. I try to think back for any details, but it’s gone. It feels like there
is a ripped out page of my life, that my mind refuses to let me remember. I
know the feelings well though. After that, I was forced to live them. I still
had contact with my grandmother, and I begged her to let me come stay with her,
I was twelve at the time, and I begged her so much every day every chance I got
to talk to her, but the response was the same. I can’t. I’m not healthy enough
to take care of you. I felt alone. I turned to the only other people in the
household. The three children of his. They were just as bad as him. One time,
Marissa, the younger daughter, asked me to choose a belt. Choose the belt she
was going to whip me with, because I tried to stand up for myself when she
wanted me to clean her room. I stood up, and got beaten down. So many times.
And when He realized that I was becoming bolder and more aware of the cruelness
that they were putting me through was wrong, he got scared. He started buying
me gifts, buying me everything a twelve year old would want. Me being an Idiot mistaken
it for a sign of love. I thought that Even though he did things to me, maybe I could
finally have a parent figure, love, happiness. Someone to replace the void left
by my grandmother. I hate myself for it. I asked for a guitar. One time he was
so angry at me for visiting the neighbors, he nearly hit me over the head with
it. I was scared of him. I was scared of myself. I was scared to tell people. I
tried to forget my past, to pretend everything was okay, but I realized that
the only way to get my grandmother to understand, how cruel this life was to
tell her the truth. I knew when. She came down for a weekend, and I took my
chance. I told her, I cried. I felt numb. I felt nothing. She couldn’t believe
that all that had happened to me under the roof of her own sister. I knew it
was true. I remember everything. Everything. Everything. I didn’t want to go
back. I was scared that she would send me back. But she didn’t. She took me
away from that house. I never felt so relieved to watch that house get smaller
and smaller in the back window of her jeep. I still felt numb though. Nothingness.
It wasn’t until I was safely in her home that I cried. But it wasn’t over. We
had to file a police report. To tell all what had happened. But I was scared.
What if the police sent me back there. They asked me if I needed anything from
that house before they arrest him. I requested one thing. My guitar. The
intrament that I used to play to keep myself company. When hed come into my
room Id play it. I’d play it to keep the monster away. The music soothed me.
But they sold it. Everything they ever bought me they sold it all. My clothing
they threw in the dump. My room they painted it over, I’ve heard. They left me
with nothing. I know today that it was there sick way of making me pay for
telling their secret. That family. Makes. Me. Want. To Die. By then I was 14.
Starting a new school. A new family yet again. Except this time I had my
grandmother. The void was filled. But I never really did realize how much my
past has affected me until now. I am 15 now. I try to have boyfriends but it
feels weird. I feel guilty that I cant touch them. I don’t want to. I cant even
hug them with out thinking of him. It makes my stomach churn. I have very few
friends now. I like it that way. I love it that way. But every time I get into
an argument with my grandparents I cry. My past spills out. It hurts. I don’t feel
suicidal, but It hurts so much. I don’t know what to do. He never did go to
jail. They thought I was lying. All of them. But I cant help how they think. I
have learned that now. But to help myself, whenever I feel my cracks showing
through, I take out my new guitar and I play. I sing for the lost. I sing in
hopes for a future. I sing while the paint drys. So I guess what I’m asking
here is for a cure, but hell, there isn’t a cure for being Brocken. There isn’t
a cure for utter loss. There isn’t a cure that’ll erase my past. But why my
emotions are so weird though, is what I’m confused about. One second I’m happy,
the next I’m sad, the next I’m irritated and then lastly I feel nothing.
Nothing at all. That’s the worst one. To get straight to the point, I hate
myself. I could go on, forever listing reasons why I am a worthless, how I cant
be good for anyone anymore. I stand in front of a mirror for thinking about how
awful I look when other people say I’m okay.  Hell I even create free time to bash myself,
but I don’t realize that I’ve done it until I have tears streaming down my face.