Here we go I guess

Hi. I’ve never done anything like this before. I never really like talking to people about my suicidal tendencies, mostly because the people I need to share this with and want help from, are the people that don’t want to hear anything about this.

I don’t see a max on the amount of characters permitted, so I guess I’m going to tell you my whole story..

 

 

I was born on the 15th of April, 1994, in Milan, Italy–I am 100% Italian, with both parents being Italian. Apparently, according to my mother, I wasn’t planned.. you see, the thing with my mother is that she likes to blame everything on everyone else but herself. So anything bad that ever happened to her, she blamed on others, including me after I was born. Apparently she gained a whole load of weight when she got pregnant with me. She got so fat that her arthritis got worse and worse throughout the years. For years, from since I was real small, my mother raised me to believe that her pregnancy with me ruined her body and made her totally incapable of doing any kind of hard work. Many years later, when I was 18, I found from my grandmother and my aunt, that my mother had started to put on weight after her 19th birthday.. waaaay before I was born. All my life, my mother raised me telling me that she loved me, but as soon as she would get angry at me, I was the “mistake” that should have never happened. The daughter that was never supposed to have been born. Not only that, but my mother was originally the violent parent.

You see, when people ask me how I got my name.. “Sakura”.. people think it’s a “class” name, “awesome”. They’re jealous. And every time they ask me to tell them the story as to why I have a Japanese name. Here’s the long story short: my father was pretty much ignored by his family and he ended up pretty much being raised by his Japanese Kung-Fu master. My mother on the other hand, has simply always been a Japanese fangirl. Them two had sex and I popped out of nowhere. People usually praise this story. They think that a dad who underwent Kung-Fu training the serious way–not the way other people do it for tournaments and money–is a “cool” back story to my name. The awful thing that they don’t know is that my father has serious anger management issues that I obviously wouldn’t talk about on the first time meeting someone. My father began the Kung-Fu training to train his mind and his body, therefore obtaining total control over himself. One day, he became a Kung-Fu master himself. He has the paper and handmade tattoos to prove it too. But let’s go back to my mother being the violent parent, right? I still remember the conversation between them as clear as day. The days where my mother suddenly believed that I had to be “disciplined” by being hit again and again. My mother–being fat and all–was complaining about how every time she slapped me, the capillaries in her fingers would explode, leaving her bruised more than I, and that every time she used a utensil on me, it would break. So she began to convince my father that he was the one that had to beat me, because she was too frail to do it herself. I remember my father complaining and protesting to that idea, until–as usual–my mother got what she wanted and he beat me for the first time that night. From then on it was hell. I didn’t know what to do but scream in protest every time a hand was being laid on me. I’d scream and cry so loud that they thought I was going hysterical, so they would put me in the bath and shoot cold water on me from the shower head until I quieted down. Some other times they would just lock me up in my room and let me scream “let me out” and throw chairs at the door  to my heart’s content, until I had no energies left and decided to sleep. This was only one of the many things that happened in that house. Another one was that when my father wanted me to stop crying, he’d hit me again and again saying “smile” and he’d keep hitting me until I stopped crying and smiled. The thing is.. my father was married before he was married to my mother. He had four kids with that woman. I didn’t know this when I was two years of age but–and you might laugh at this, it’s your own choice whether to believe it or not–the problem is that on my mother’s side of the family, psychic abilities are a thing. When I was two, somehow I knew I had older siblings, so instead of asking for a little sister or a little brother, I kept saying that I wanted an older brother–which I think would be in reference of my brother Sunn, who stuck with the family instead of leaving the way his other siblings did. My parents kept telling me that I couldn’t have an older sibling, as I would be the eldest, being the firstborn, but I refused to listen and kept demanding for an older brother. At that point I think it’s my fault I pushed so much, because I convinced my father to try and unite the two families… obviously, it was a terrible idea. The two older brothers ended up beating me up for fun and games, and one of them sexually assaulted me. I was three years old by then. It took me six years to tell my mother about what that pig did to me. Not only that, but throughout the years, my father’s beating got worse. It started with a strong slap on the face and escalated to him grabbing me by the hair and throwing me from one side of the room to the other, or punching my back so my lungs would go into shock and cut my breathing for a few seconds. I swear, the first time that happened to me I thought I was dying.

 

But enough about the beatings from my father and the psychopathic brothers and ***** sister from my father’s side. Let’s talk some more about my mother, who always gets what she wants. Have I told you about the days my parents tried to educate me through Secondary School after we moved to Ireland? Oh yes, of course, I almost forgot to tell you about that. We moved from Italy to Ireland when I was ten years old. I was already bullied in Italian schools because I was smarter than other people in class, you see. Apparently I had learned to count over 1,000 off the pages of the books my parents had in the house and I had learned the alphabet from my mother’s cell phone–the big block-like one that was around then–and could already perform addition, subtraction, division and multiplication with decimals. When I was put into first class in Elementary school in Italy, my parents realized that I was too smart for the kids my age and the next year, instead of letting move on to Second Class, they made me take an exam to skip that and go straight to Third Class. I passed the exams and ended up there, where all the bullying shit started…

 

I’m one of the most sensitive people you will ever come across.. like for example, in Third Year in Secondary School in Ireland, after a Technical Graphic class, my crush had to go to training and was going to be late. He lightly nudged me aside and said “move” and ran out of the classroom. To that, I was utterly offended. Why? I don’t know, I’m an idiot? I felt like he had been immensely rude to me. So rude I wanted to cry. So see? That’s how ridiculously sensitive I am. So in school, in Italy, where they have no fear to bully you properly, I felt like I had no reason to live already. Every day was another day where the nerd Sakura with big, thick, red glasses would be shamed again. And after being shamed, she would get up and run away to cry in a corner. Luckily, throughout the years, I used my experience of being bullied in school and being beaten up at home and I used it to make myself strong. I started not taking any shit from anyone again. When my family and I moved to Ireland in Ennis in County Clare, it didn’t bother me that people were calling me a “foreigner”. I mean.. that’s jut bad bullying. It’s just like turning around and telling a guy “Hahaha you’re male!! You’re totally male! Go take a piss with that penis of yours, why don’t you?”……why state such an obvious fact about a person and use it for bullying?? That doesn’t make you a bully, it just makes you look stupid to those who have eyes and a brain.

Then we moved to Dunmore in Galway a couple of years later and that’s where I met my best friend Alex, but also, that’s when everything started to go downhill… and we’re back to my mother. The usual bullying story went on throughout all of my years in school here in Ireland, so there’s really nothing new to add there.. except for the fact that my parents were never satisfied with the Irish Education System, so on top of the homework that the school gave me, I had to complete the homework that my parents gave me, which was based on the Italian Education System. Their amount of homework was about double the one my school gave me and my parents wanted me to finish them all. They never accepted ‘B’s and under. If I arrived home with an exam or even an unimportant test that was graded lower than an ‘A’, I would be grounded from a week to a month or more, depending on how important the test results were and how reoccurring the “under”graded results were. One day, my mom realized that my only escape from reality was anime, so she decided to take that away from me too. She began recording the anime series I was interested in and she’d tell me that if I did all the work and all the chores–which by the way were not chores, but her house work that she should have done herself and instead she got me and my brother to do all the work for her while she sat her ass down in front of the TV or the computer while playing Sims–she’d keep that week’s recording of the episode and let me watch it. But if I failed even one task, she’d delete that week’s episode. So I did my best and realized it was paying off… until she realized it too and started to make up shit like “the chair is .2° east more than it should be” (an obviously exaggerated example, but her bullshit was just as bad). Once she started making up the bullshit, I realized I had to find another way to watch that anime, Full Metal Alchemist.. the one anime that could  separate me from the madness and injustice of the world. So I learned at what speed to lower the handle of my bedroom door so it wouldn’t squeak; I memorized all the squeaky floorboards in the hall and in the sitting room; I memorized the exact positions the TV remotes were set in on the table. Then I would turn on the TV, watch the anime on volume ‘2’ and then turn it back of, return everything to their respective places and slither back to bed silently. This was going absolutely great until my father caught me in the act, after getting out of the study after work. After he caught me, him and my mother invested in a house alarm. They placed it on my bedroom door so that it would go off every time the door would be opened. So then I decided to make a plan. I opened, just slightly, the sitting room window before going to bed. Then I came out of my room–my parents’ house is a bungalow, you see–went around to the sitting room window and stared at the window for a while, deciding to then just go back to bed.. but not before taking a piss. But how would I do that? There was an alarm at my door! So I did the sound minded thing of pissing outside my house under the full moon so I wouldn’t wake everybody up. The next morning, my mother found the sitting room window open and assumed I did what I planned on doing that previous night. She didn’t know I backed out. So she started telling all her adult friends how she had this uncontrollable daughter who climbed out of windows just to watch a stupid anime episode. So I responded to that by waking up in the middle of the night, every night just to set off the alarm and wake everybody up for a “piss”. Hah.

Anyways, that story was long enough. That was just to show you guys at what lengths and measurements my parents went through just to make me do what they wanted. Granted, if what they wanted had been reasonable, then yes, I was just a bitchy daughter, but my parents are crazy. Therefore their requests are crazy. Like when they say “you have no opinion in this house because you are my daughter and I am your parent. You have no say. You must follow my word as if you were to follow the word of God.”. Excuse me? Love yourself much?

 

Pretty much, my entire life at home was like living with a mother who’s in the military–I had to wake up at 6 am and if I came out of the bathroom at 6.06 am, my mother would yell at me that I was one minute late for getting dressed, because she had only given me five minutes for the bathroom, not six–and a father who’s like a fucking cop from the drug squad and everything you do, you have to do in secret and have to be able to hide it well, or else you’d be caught by him. The simplest thing like being cheeky and taking a chocolate into your room from the kitchen would turn into some mission where you’d swear you were hiding a bag full of MDMA and ecstasy pills, not a fucking ball of chocolate.

One day though, I got tired of all their bullshit and decided to run away from home. I had already attempted that once before, but unfortunately I was 17, so the Gardaí (cops) had to hand me over to my dad, but they didn’t do it quietly. They made sure to warn him that they never wanted to hear from us about that situation ever again. That made my dad stop hitting me for about a year and a half, until one day, he snapped over the most trivial subject (The Hobbit.. I KNOW) and beat me again. Even though it was nothing compared to what he did to me many times before that, somehow that was the last straw for me and I left. My best friend knew my situation at home and witnessed it first hand, and not even, not really. She just saw my dad get up in my face, threaten me in Italian after I gave him a cheeky answer. But he was so intimidating that after that, we went to my room and she broke out in tears over me and told me how sorry she was that I had to live with such a father. All she did was hear him growl and she was already scared shitless. So on that day she made a promise to me: that no matter when, if I ever needed to get away from that house of freaks, I could go live with her and her family. And so, on February 2013, I did.

After I moved in with them, I found out that my parents had kept me in a bubble and had told me nothing about the outside world. Alex’s parents explained to me everything about Social Welfare and the Community Welfare, the Medical Card, FÁS, etc. Thanks to them I was able to apply to the Community Welfare and start off my new miserable life…

 

****

 

One day I was so bored that an old schoolmate decided to invite me to this birthday I had no business being to. This guy lived in Killarney in County Kerry, so his birthday party would also be there. We went for a field trip and drove for hours until we got there.. and that’s where I met my ex Joe. The ****.

I got to know him and we kept talking for hours over the phone and on Facebook, despite the fact that he lived in Killarney (Kerry) and I lived in Dunmore (Galway). Then, like two idiots, we decided to move in together because we were so similar to each other. We got a place in Cork.. I gave up my chance at college in Galway, gave up my family (Alex’s family and my little sister and big bro) and my best friend Alex. I gave that all up for him, because we thought we were ‘it’. We lived together and dated each other for four months. I thought I was in love, until I met Mike, and realized the Joe feelings were nothing but feelings, not love. Joe and I were identical. Both our favorite band was Linkin Park, both of us were gamers and Xbox fans. Both of us wanted a pet Husky and a cat. Both of us liked to switch around furniture every now and then. Both of us had the highest fucking sex drive imaginable, so sex was great. But there was another thing that was the same. We were both very opinionated people. Every time he’d come up with some bullshit information, I’d catch him out on it and he’d do the same. One day though, he went overboard and said to me that had I been a guy, he would have already punched me in the face. Now, knowing my past with my father and step-brother, him saying that was the worst feeling in the world at that time. It had taken me years to finally open up and be confident enough to sleep with someone. First time I moved on from feeling dirty from masturbation because of my step-brother, was the time I lost my virginity. I was 19. I lost my virginity to Joe. And after all that, he came out with a threat like that. After he said that, I decided that I needed a break, so I went to our friends’ house and I crashed on their couch, sending him the text “I’m sleeping on Thom and Lukas’ couch tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow. Sorry.”. He then text me back “I’m sure you are.”. To which then I replied to him explaining that there was no way in hell that I wanted to in any way, feel like I wanted to be away from him. I didn’t enjoy that thought at all. But the fact was that I did need the time away from him, so I had to take it. He then started sending me hateful texts and I sent some back too, to defend myself, even though in the end, after he broke up with me over text, I felt like it was all my fault, even though it wasn’t. For the months following that day, I gave up every single party or gathering of friends, because I knew that if I showed up, Joe wouldn’t, and I wanted him  to have his fun, so I stayed at home, crying myself to sleep every night. Then he began to be even more vengeful and started to take my friends away. Throughout all this, instead of realizing that maybe Joe really was a dick, I convinced myself that Joe was a beautiful man and that I had defiled him and made him into a monster. So I started punishing myself… that was the first time I ever self harmed. I tried once before that, after my ex-girlfriend broke up with me, but all I had was a shaving razor with the razors inside the thing, so I was never able to take them out to cut myself properly. This time though, I had bought myself a razor comb–I hate hairdressers doing my hair, because they never get them the way you actually want them. So I learned to do my hair myself–and therefore had individual razors that I could use to slice myself up. The amount of scars that I have is actually unbelievable. The fact that I heal unnaturally fast made it easier for me to cut again only the next day, where the cuts were already partly healed, despite the depth of them. I did it again and again, on my thighs and on my chest, both places where it was totally concealed.

Not long after that though, despite the promises of perseverance and support they made, my friends, that unfortunately I had made through Joe, all ditched me because of him. After the break up, I had to live on Thom and Lukas’ couch, because I had nowhere else to stay. But after Thom and Lukas got kicked out of their place, I became homeless. I went to the Homeless Persons unit and I was placed in a women and children’s B&B. I lived there for about three weeks and then had to move to a temporary place so I wouldn’t be put in Simon’s House. You see, right around the time I was out of Thom and Lukas’ and into the B&B, that was the time I woke up and realized that Joe was the Devil in person. I never wanted to have anything to do with him again. For months I thought I had changed a beautiful person into a monster and wanted to kill myself because of it… but it turns out that that was monster was already there.. I just have the tendency of always seeing angel wings where there are none. Which is exactly what’s happened in my current romantic situation.

You’d think that after something so horrible, I’d pick a good guy and learn the lesson, right? Half right. Half wrong. I picked a good guy alright, I just didn’t learn the lesson… after Joe, I met Mike. Mike is seriously the person I think is the one for me. There is no doubt about it. He’s my one and only. The only problem..? Music is his wife. He will never have time for me. God knows, he tried. He tried as hard as he could, he just couldn’t make time for both me and his music. And I completely understood. We went out for four months and those were honestly, the best four months of my life. He taught me the value of loving yourself and taking care of yourself before you take care of anyone else. I didn’t know that before him. I always put everyone else as a priority over myself. Other people’s happiness prevailed to mine. Mike changed that about me. After my relationship with Mike, I was healthier, happier and after five months and a half, I was ready to maybe look at someone else, apart from him. And I found… Gary.

 

Now… I know this story’s long, but I’m almost towards the end, so please bear with me..

When I met Gary, the first impression that I got of him was spectacular: he loves camping, plays guitar in the perfect melodic sound that resonates in your heart, he sings and has an amazingly sexy voice, but is shy about it, he’s clean (he always brushed his teeth everywhere ha). No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find anything wrong with him. First thing I though when I met him: “I sooooooo want to ride him. He is sexy. As. Fuck.”. I even went home on the bus daydreaming about a random day at camping where I’d get him off-guard and tel him I wanted to suck him and we’d have mad sex. It was insane how my vagina responded to his presence. Totally insane.

So what happened next? Well, some other event happened and we met again. We talked for six to seven hours straight, I’m not even kidding you. We got to know each other quite well, in the space of a day. After that, we slept over at my Cork best friend’s house (Gavin’s house) and things started to heat up. He then took me to one of his close friends’ house and I net the woman in his life that he considers his sister. He pretty much introduced me to whom he considered family and then we went to bed. We cuddled and fell asleep. The next morning was just as heated. Sexy as fuck. And then after, he left the room and came back with coffee. He’d made me coffee in bed. Awh~

A good few weeks were like that. He moved into my apartment because he needed a place to stay and I was happy to help. I was already hosting another one of my friends at my apartment at the time, because she needed a place to stay as well, except that all she did was leech for two to three months and never paid me back. Gary on the other hand, was an amazing lover and amazing cook. He’d bring me breakfast in bed every morning and we’d smoke joints all day, watching TV and listening to music. There were days where we’d just lie on each other and listen to each other’s breathing until we’d fall asleep. One day we were walking through town and this old man babbled something and I couldn’t make out what he’d said. Then Gary holds my hand out of the blue and I cringe, asking him what the old man had said, and he told me he told him to hold my hand, and so he did. From then on we were acting as if we were together. We were super couple-y with each other in front of people or not, we didn’t care. It was us against the world…

Or so I thought.

Then people from his home town started asking questions. Were we together? Were we not? So he panicked and started to ruin everything. He began by telling me not to fall in love with him, and that if it was happening, to turn that love into friendly love, because he didn’t want to be in a relationship. He didn’t want me. He explained to me the horrible thing that happened to him in his previous relationship–it’s not my place to say what happened, seeing as this text is only for me to be honest about my life and no-one else’s–and I felt his pain. What his ex-girlfriend did was torturous and unforgivable, in my eyes. She ended things suiting her own needs only, without accounting for other human beings that would be involved. I’ve never met this woman and I hate her from the bottom of my heart. She’s a spastic.

Anyways, Gary told me about his previous relationship and told me how he could never love again, ever in his life. That night was horrible. We went out camping that night, it was supposed to be the perfect night where we were going to walk along the beach at night, together, under the full moon. Instead, it ended up with him telling me that we  shouldn’t have sex anymore because I was getting attached. I felt so rejected I wanted to jump into the ocean. I almost did, at one point. The whole “unspoken relationship”, as he called it, was a mistake. A lie. The cuddles, the kisses, the hand-holding, the playing with my hair, that was all him daydreaming and wishing it was his ex. He told me that to my face. That whole time, he didn’t enjoy the company with me, he enjoyed the company with me so that he could pretend to be with her. And for so long, I begged him to stay around, because I preferred to have him as a friend with benefits, than not having him at all. So I stayed in that toxic shell, until like an idiot, I fell in love with him. Why? I don’t know. I’m an idiot, I guess.

So one day I told him that I loved him. I thought he should know, as I believe every person has the right to know the truth, no matter what. And also, people should be allowed to tell the truth, if it weighs them down too much. I didn’t tell him I loved him until I couldn’t hold it in anymore. On that day, he told me what I did was horrible. He told me I should never have confessed my love for him. He told me that we will never be together, ever. For definite. When he told me that I went to the lake nearby and tried to jump in, but I was too much of a coward. When I came back I simply said nothing to him. I couldn’t even look at him. After all that work I did on him, I still wasn’t enough to make him move on from his slut ex-girlfriend–and I’m not saying she’s a slut because I don’t like her, I have a proper point backing that up, I’m just not going to say it because I don’t like to ***** about people behind their back before I’ve already done it to their face.

For another month it kept going like that, until I realized that from wanting to be with me to pretend to still be with his ***** ex-girlfriend, he was now using me for sex. He lied to my face about us being together so my feelings for him would make me open up, literally. After sex, he even kept on the lie and cuddled me more and even held my hand.

See, this may not sound like that much of a problem, but there are promises he made, that he has broke over one hundred times. One of the promises was that if he was ever to sleep with another girl, he would be careful and wouldn’t let me find out, because I love him and he didn’t want me getting hurt. He broke that promise when he went upstairs to the room we were sharing and had sex with some slut in the bed we were sharing. Yes, it was his bed. But it was also my bed. The second promise he broke, is the one about honesty. I asked him to be 100% honest with me no matter what, because no matter hope much the truth can hurt me, it could never hurt me as much as me finding out I’ve been lied to, even if it was to “protect” me. And the other promise was that he would never be physical with me again, other than sex of course. So no more cuddles, hugs, holding hands, kisses, etc. But that night, after over a month of no couple-y behavior, when he lied about us being together, he kept up the lie with his body language, cuddling me and falling asleep in the cuddles. Waking up to get under the cover beds and first thing he does is take my hand so I can spoon him and he can keep holding my hand with his. He even fell asleep again, holding my hand.

And then two nights later, he tells me it was just sex and that he didn’t mean anything he said that night and that he lied to me “only not to be a dick”. Yeah, my fucking ass, you did.

Also.. he’s facing prison charges and he said that if he’s going to prison for seven years, he’s going to commit suicide for definite.

Guys.. this whole time I’ve found reason to live and that’s why my cowardly self is still fucking alive… If he’s dead though.. I’m dead. No doubt. I’ll breathe ******** gas and just sleep till I die. Or I’ll trip on mushrooms and walk straight into the river.

I’m already thinking about my last few words to all the people I care for. If I do end up dead, at least I know I’ll have written a good letter.

 

 

Sorry about the horrible mistakes I made in this text.. remember…. I’m Italian