This is kind of long….
The longer I sit here the more I think about not posting this, returning to my dark corner of existence, but posting will relieve some of this pressure… I hope. I don’t know why I chose now to share my story, but then again maybe I do. For my degree I have to take a mandatory counseling class, and to pass the class we were made to stand in front of the entire class and tell about how screwed up our lives had been. Loss. Heartbreak. Rape. Molestation. Abuse. Suicide. We heard it all. Having to go through my own personal hell and then hear about everyone else’s? Why did we have to go back down memory lane and relive things that had been dead and buried? I’m already shy enough without having to stand in front of a bunch of people and explain…. No matter how I try I can never find the words, but then again why should I have to explain myself? The Professor told me to start from the beginning… so I did. I told the story of being abuse by my kindergarten teacher, about being bullied and injured in school, about moving away to a new scary place. I told him how my other teachers used to curse and yell at me till I cried. I told him I had no friends, no allies, nothing. I didn’t want to keep going, but he made me “for your grade” he said. Honestly, I think he just wanted to hear how messed up I really was, like a gawk-er at the scene of an accident. I told him how I finally found someone to talk to, she made me laugh and I was happy for awhile. Until I noticed the cuts on her arm… she would never tell me why. I just left it alone. I should have said something. A year later, she killed herself. I was horrified. What could I have done to save her? I could have said something… But I didn’t and now her blood is on my hands. I told him that losing her was like losing a part of my soul. I was upset for a long time after she passed. I was known as the Suicide Girl’s friend, or any variation of that. I didn’t understand why she left me here, but I still miss her. Over the next year I started getting “lippy” or whatever you call it. My mom and dad fought all the time normally about me or my grades. My mom decided that smacking me was a good idea. WRONG. She used to hit me and I took it til that day. I struck her back only to get held down and beaten, yanked up and pushed so hard I cracked open my head. My dad heard the noise ran in swooped me and my sister away. I got 27 stitches that day. He told me I could never tell anyone about it. EVER. So I never did. That moment was my deciding moment. I didn’t want to live. I wanted to be set free. I started with a pair of scissors over my wrist, just scratches. I grabbed a kitchen knife, not deep enough, grabbed my dad’s box knife. Bingo. I sliced and sliced until i couldn’t see anything anymore…. I woke up the next day… I was still alive…. I cleaned up the mess and myself. I couldn’t understand it. The teacher just looked at me….so did everyone else, the color drained from their faces. I wanted to sit down, but they were hooked. “What then?” So, I told them I healed, scarred, but healed. I told them that every little thing set me off, I would wait til my mom was asleep, grab the knife from its hiding place and start all over again, but this time death wasn’t what I wanted. It was pain. I cut on my thighs, legs, ankles, shoulders, wrists, feet, everywhere I could. At that time I wasn’t even in high school yet. In high school things got better for awhile. Freshman year I fell in love…. with a teacher. He was all i though about, everyday I wanted to tell him, to confess my love for him. I never did. For me it was like being ignored all over again. I know it was a stupid fantasy, but back then it was oh so real. I did everything to impress him, but with no reward, no praise. I kept cutting. Sophomore year, I met people that would become my best friends. The thing that drew us together? Cutting. We all had the scars. We talked and became close. I also got my first boyfriend. We dated 4 month….. he broke up with me saying my mood swings were insane and he couldn’t do it anymore…. I just stood there….I left school and went home to my metal comfort laying under my bed. I slashed and diced until I heard my mom call my name. I cleaned quickly, wrapped my cuts, and went to see what she wanted. She never noticed. Time went on things got bad then got better. Late my junior year after a bad day of torment and bullying at school, I let myself have it, I cut everywhere I could think of. Two nights later….. I stretched and the ugly truth was seen clear as day on my stomach. My mom screamed and yell and drug me by the wrist to the kitchen staring at me in disgust… she took pictures….. of everything. Every mark every scar… then she drew a knife from the block… “Do it.” I stared at her…. “Show me how you did this.” So I did. I sliced into my flesh right in front of her…. she screamed snatched the knife from my hand…. it was a test….a test that I failed. She screamed and threw me in my room. Told me to wait til my dad got home. I look out at my class, Some of the older woman with children are crying. Many of them are just staring with mouths wide open… I just stood there for a minute then I started again. My dad wasn’t angry… just sad. He couldn’t even look at me. That night he and my mom fought over why I did what I did, blaming each other. That night my dad left….. he left me there. I never wanted to cut more in my life, but my friend had been taken. I just laid there and cried….. a week later my dad came back, and everyone pretended like nothing had happened. Mom never got me help. Never took me to a doctor. Never did anything. I stopped for awhile, I mean getting body checks 2 times a day for 6 months really kind of prevents it. Things got back to “normal” soon enough……
Part one.
Sorry this was scary long just was in the writing mood I guess
5 comments
Do you ever wonder if some mothers just don’t have much of a maternal instinct?
The optimist in me wants to believe that most parents are trying to do the best job that they’re capable of, but let’s face it – parents are human beings that have their own issues/baggage as well. Some people who breed aren’t really cut out to be parents.
Its strange. You need a license to drive, fish or hunt, but anybody can make babies. No qualifications or training needed. No mental health check, no background check – nada.
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you felt victimized all over again for feeling forced to tell your story. That’s the sad thing–people often have this huger and curiosity to “know” just to know. Whenever I am having a hard time and people ask, I just say it’s complicated. They try to pry and dig. The only time I told someone since I’ve moved was when I drank. He pryed ad pryed eve though he knew it was personal. In the end, he knew, but I’m left alone. I don’t expect him to support me or anything since I’m trying to isolate before I die, but it does hurt that as the only person who knows, he is distant.
I have to say that the story of your mother really resonated with me. As a child, I could never tell. There was only one time social services was involved, but it didn’t change anything. In movies and TV shows, they usually portray an alcoholic father as the abuser. Society think child abusers are obvious, full of rage in public, and freaks of nature. They’re not. They can be hidden behind every door. They smile, wear pretty clothes, and have friends. For a long time, I hated women with expensive jewelry who were well-dressed.
The knife incident also clicked with me and I know that terror, shame and disbelief of her reaction. My mother told me I was crazy and said that if I wanted to hurt myself, she’d help me. And so she did. She lifted up the back of my shirt make long scratches, digging her nails in over and over again and asked me if I felt better. I’m so sorry. I could never say that out loud and ever planned to share any of that here. But I read your post, and it just really rang in my heart. I’m so sorry about her reaction. I’ve also had my mother tell me to kill myself–and it really is just one of those horrendous moments in the world when you feel like nobody will even believe you. Trapped inside your own home and body…
I’m not sure what you’re going to school for, but your empathy, clarity of words and strength tell me that you can go so far. I think you have a lot to offer in the world, so I hope you’re here just to rant/vent and find support and not to end your life.
You hit a weak spot in me. I’m usually on here browsing for ways to die, and try not to get wrapped up in these types of posts.
I’m going to school to become a funeral director and embalmer, a mortician if you would like to call it that.
It’s an important job. After numerous morbid conversations about death on suicide sites, I find I’m less creeped out by the idea.
I enjoy my work in the preparation room, I can detach from the world back there… I see what people look like after they take their own lives… I see the families. It shocks me to see how many of them are angry… Then again it shocked me to see how many were absolute wrecks