My name is Kyla. I am 15 years old. I think I will start this with a timeline.
June 11, 1997- Born
I was born in Calgary, Alberta. That’s in Canada for those of you who don’t know.
The first two years of my life were spent in my grandfathers house, located in a quiet and respectable community, as my parents were poor and couldn’t support themselves.
I was raised in a neighborhood that was known for its criminals. We lived in a run down townhouse. Â Our neighbors were drug addicts and whores. We even lived next to a crackhouse.
Police sirens were always wailing in the background, and it got to the point where I didn’t notice them.
I lived there for 9 years.
When I was 9 years old, I had a sleepover with a friend. My mom didn’t really like me to have sleepovers at other peoples houses because she was aware that the other kids parents often weren’t home or they were doing drugs in front of their children. But she let me go after a huge amount of persuasion.
I wish she had stood her ground and said no.
This girl raped me.
It all started with a kiss. I didn’t know what she was doing, because my parents were very overprotective and when she started touching me, I was confused. I didn’t put up much of a fight because I didn’t know if this was normal. I didn’t know if this was something that happened during sleepovers. But I knew my mom wouldn’t think it right. So I tried to stop her. I said no.
Quietly. Feebly. Weak.
She was done with me about 5 minutes after I squeaked that no.
It took me 10 minutes to tell her no. 15 minutes in total.
15 minutes that would change my life forever.
I started cutting myself around that time. I was confused and I was angry. I hated my mom for saying I could go to that sleepover. Somehow, it was her fault.
No one knew about the cutting. I didn’t really know if anyone else did it. I didn’t know if it was even wrong. But I knew that I should hide it. I cut my ankles. I drew flowers and butterflies. I thought it was pretty. I was almost 11 when my mom found me sitting on the floor with a thumbtack against my skin and a rose drawn in my own blood.
“Mom, isn’t it pretty?”
She was horrified. I got in so much trouble. She told me that she used to when she was young, and it’s unhealthy and wrong. So I stopped.
In our neighborhood, there were two brothers that had just moved in a few streets over. They were bad news. Both were sex obsessed, and one was already drinking at the age of 13.
His brother was my age. I was hanging out with their friends, so when they moved in, I started hanging with them too. The older boy was always talking explicitly about genitalia, mostly the female side. I learned a lot about boobies from this kid. His brother was less verbally expressive, but he was always running up to girls, feeling them up and running away as she attempted to regain her dignity.
He did it to me multiple times. He took a special interest in me. The worst incident I remember is when he pinned me to the ground in front of his brother and started humping me as I struggled. His brother pulled him off me and backhanded him. He said something along the lines of “You don’t do that. Not in public.”
Hypocritical considering he wa famous for fingering girls on the playground, but at least he didn’t stand idle as I was violated.
I stopped hanging out with these kids as much, and as winter came, I realized how much fun staying inside alone could be.
I got a brand new Nintendo DS for Christmas that year.
Staying inside worked for me especially when I had access to a gaming system.
We moved to a different neighborhood that year.
February 14.
I’ve lived here ever since.
This is where the storm hit.
Grade 7.
I remember thinking I was so cool.
It’s amazing how much of an illusion it was.
I had a huge circle of friends and we were happy.
Back then that was all it took to be ‘cool’.
But the reality was I was a skinny little girl clothed in stained hand me downs and scabs on the corners of my lips from nervous picking. I was surrounded by fake people who would only end up growing up and moving on. Leaving me. Leaving the ugly girl in the dust. I can’t believe how naive I was. I used to trust people.
I had a couple boyfriends in grade 7. One boy, I hugged. The next I held hands. They only ever lasted a few weeks. Maybe a few days.
But one boy started something. He started my dependency. I dated him for around 3-4 months… Maybe more, maybe less depending on if you count how many times I broke up and got back together with him.
Each time I dated him, I felt happy… But not right. I always felt it was wrong. So I’d break up with him and feel good about doing the right thing for a day or so. But then is feel like I’m missing something. I felt alone. So I’d apologize and we’d give it another try.
He was my first kiss.
Kisses were a big deal when I was 11.
Even now, I can never forget it. My very first kiss. Or at least my first willing one. Just a quick peck, but it has stayed with me for 4 years.
I dumped him for the last time right before the Valentines Day Dance. I was barely a decade old and I already had the worst timing. And I was already a *****.
I went to the dance with one of his best friends.
Dumped him a week later.
The worst part? Each time I broke up with someone, it was via my friends. Or a note. I couldn’t say it to anyone’s face. I was a coward.
I stopped dating for almost 4 years.
I didn’t date. But I was a slut.
I was 12 years old when I met Vikki.
Beginning grade 8,she was new to the school.
I didn’t talk to her until I introduced myself to her in Humanities Class. We paired up in Gym the next day, and gradually became inseparable. She used to go to David Thompson School, but got kicked out. I learned that she spelt her name with two Ks cause of a boy she dated named Keegan K. I learned that they had many sexual adventures. I told her I was sexually active cause I thought that would make us closer friends. Instead we became those girls. The girls flashing our chests. The girls talking big but not doing much. I never had sex with anyone that year. All that happened was I let some boys touch my breasts.
During a field trip to the swimming pool, I flirted with this boy. I told him I might give him a blow job. He got excited and he made it happen. Kinda. I never went through with it. I followed him into the family change rooms and he got ready. I walked out because I got scared. Even through all I had been through, I had some sort of self worth telling me I was too good for him. I didn’t love him. Why would I do anything intimate with someone I didn’t love?
But he told his friends and every one else on the planet that I did.
I didn’t feel like fighting it because I knew I wouldn’t win. So he built me the reputation. And I accepted it.
But I was still scared of intimacy. I invented a fake boyfriend in order to tell everyone I wasn’t available for sex. When I made arrangements for sex with a guy for his birthday, I got cold feet and said my boyfriend was abusive and would hurt me if I hooked up with this guy.
I was trapped in a spiderweb of my own lies.
My mother brought me to a counselor. She diagnosed me with reactive attachment disorder. It pretty much means that my mother and I never connected when I was young, so I tend to react negatively when it comes to her. But I knew it was a misdiagnosis. I hated her because I blamed her for my rape.
She also brought up my cutting in these sessions. I smiled awkwardly when talking about it.
“Do you think this is funny?”
She asked me with a disgusted look on her face. I didn’t answer her. She was just another person who didn’t understand me. Happiness is my defense mechanism. If I’m uncomfortable, I will smile. I will laugh. I will do anything to make sure I don’t have to talk about it anymore. Smiling just happens to make people think you’re okay.
Talking about it set off a trigger.
I started cutting again. Only deeper. Much, much, deeper.
I cut everyday for months. My entire grade 8 school year, I cut myself. Vikki knew about it. She did it too.
But she didn’t know… And doesn’t know about the attempted suicides. Soon after Christmas, I felt like I was in a living hell. It hurt so much. I took a handful of painkillers. If it killed me, at least it wouldn’t hurt anymore. If it killed me, the pain died with me. But I didn’t die. Not enough drugs I guess.
Speaking of drugs, I had started smoking both tobacco and pot. But that has really nothing to do with it because I didn’t do them for the sake of feeling better or reliving stress. I did them cause Vikki did them. And that’s the end of that.
My second suicide attempt took place the 3rd of February. I mixed rubbing alcohol, energy drinks and other household chemicals and drank it all. It was probably a liter worth.
I curled up on my bed, suicide note clenched in my fist. I rocked back and forth, tearless. I was done crying. I was done living. I was just waiting now. I waited an hour for something to happen. But nothing did. I got up from my bed, left the note on the floor and walked to the kitchen. I ate something and went to sleep. And I woke up the next day. Alive.
I don’t know what happened, but for the next few days, I wondered if the churches I had gone to had any truth to what they preached.
I was genuinely curious for once.
I was 14 when I met Jason. He was my youth pastor. I had been ‘Christian’ for a couple months here, but it was just an act. I hadn’t cut myself for a very long time. My mom had pulled me out of school and started homeschooling me due to issues I was having in the public school system. Vikki had been court ordered to a group home because of a prostitution charge. I was doing okay. I wasn’t happy, but it was better than before.
Fire Conference.
Jason’s church paid for me to got to this youth weekend called “Fire Conference”
It changed something in me.
I still can’t really describe what it changed, but I felt good after. You could even say I felt on ‘fire’.
I started attending Jason’s church and even got on the worship team.
This youth group was flourishing and we were connecting with people. I was getting into this whole Christian thing. I really felt full of faith.
But then there was Austin.
Austin is my boyfriend. He broke my walls. I never expected to fall in love again. I never felt the need to date again. I didn’t think I ever would. But like I said, he broke that wall.
But he also broke some other things. He broke my heart.
December 23, 2013
He broke up with me. He said he couldn’t date me. I didn’t believe it at first. There was no way. He said forever. He said he loved me.
I broke apart. I had trusted someone, and they betrayed me. Again. All the memories and reasons I had for not dating flashed before my eyes, and I hated myself for giving in to this boy and letting him take my heart and break it.
I cut myself.
I’ve heard people say that crying over a boy is ridiculous, and I wonder what they’d say if I knew I cut because of one, but I don’t think it’s ridiculous.
You can’t help what you feel.
As it turns out, he felt he had made “the biggest mistake of his life” and got back together with me. I let the cuts heal.
But I kept the blades.
Everytime I was stressed or angry, I cut.
I shouldn’t even be writing that in past tense, because right before I started writing this, I was cutting.
But I want you to understand something. At this moment, I don’t want to die. I just want to feel something. And cutting is the way I feel. At this moment, I live by these words:Â When your life has left scars, when there’s been blood on you’re arms, when two attempts fail and death refuses you, you can know what I’ve been through, and maybe take my hand and understand why in the rain I choose to stand, I will stand.
But this moment is only a moment, and I don’t know what the next moment will bring.
I need help. And I need someone to understand.
That someone were all differing to is you.
2 comments
This is a really late response, but I felt like I needed to respond anyway –
It’s not fair that people have to go through such traumatic things at young ages, or even at ANY age. But nobody ever said life was fair. Do you think telling either your mom or Austin would help? I know it seems intimidating, but who knows, you might feel better if you let it out to someone; give them the chance to help.
I can definitely relate to feeling numb. Sometimes I just… I feel like my emotions have been lost. I just don’t care. But there are ways to feel other than cutting.
Kyla, if you need help, don’t be afraid to ask. Whether it’s someone you know personally or someone on this website, know that you DO have people here for you.
Talk to me if you ever need me. Good luck <3
I guess I could tell Austin.
I mean sometimes I feel that I coud tell him…
But I freeze up.
I can’t seem to get the words out.