Wasting Away…

Life is just not what everyone else makes it out to be. I can have a nice home, a decent job and people around me…. But I am never happy or satisfied. Meds bring 2 or 3 short months of false contentedness. Then its gone.

Maybe I should explain my whole story:
I was born to pretty young parents, had 2 younger brothers. My home always seemed tense, and that lead to a divorce when I was 6. We went to live wih my mom; she soon found a new boyfriend who was an abusive, angry person. He drank, would explode in rage and beat up my mom and siblings, along with myself. I feared for my younger brothers and mom. As a small child I stepped up to the full grown man raging at us. Ive been thrown into walls, punched, kicked, slapped and shook. He swore at us, screamed and threw things. It was a nightmare. I would sleep with knives under my pillow, waiting for him to break into the room I shared with my brothers. I was a small fearless little warrior.

But things changed. He was infuriated by a small blonde girl standing up to him. So he told my mom to choose between him and her own children. She choose him.

We were driven to my father’s. I watched the car drive away down the hill and turn the corner out of sight. It was that moment that really broke me. He had found a way to get to me.

I spent a few months living with my dad at my grandma’s house. He was too lazy to work enough to afford a place for him and his kids. After that my mom took us back, unable to be away from her kids. Her boyfriend and her had supposedly found God and changed, wanting us back. He did change; he went from being awful all the time to being fake and ‘nice’ to people at church, while threatening us to not talk about his outbursts and violence at home. Oh, and did I mention that he continually stole all our money and racked up tens of thousands in debt? Because yeah, he did. He kept us living in poverty. I spent hours picking bottles and waiting in hand-out lines.

This went on for a few years. We got to visit my dad on weekends and during the summer. Things were an unsettling stable. I was broken. The outgoing strong child I had been gave way for a small, timid girl who spent all her free time indoors, had no friends and acted more like an adult than a kid. During one of the many times I was stuck watching my brothers I had an accident and broke my tailbone. Shortly after that, the move happened.

My newly married mom and her boyfriend-turned-husband decided to move 8 hours away from my real dad to a dinky little town far away from the ocean I had come to love. I was an outcast there among kids that had been going to school together since pre-K. I made no friends, and decided to homeschool myself from grade 8 on. During this time my depression that had been growin got to an all time low. I lagged in my school work, ending up 2 years behind. My tailbone injury began causing daily pain. I started cutting at 14, unknown to anyone else around me. I would get into huge arguing matches with my now step-dad. Both of us swearing and screaming at each other. I would usually leave: running away into the darkness of the night and not caring if I lived or died. I had a few places that were safe for sleeping at: behind dumpsters in quiet areas of town, under stairs or in doorways. Sometimes I’d wander home instead of spending the night outside. My mom would leave the back door open, against my step-dad’s wishes, hoping I would come home.

I went through several more years of depression and rage, cutting and running. Then the suicide attempts began. I couldn’t deal with the way things were going down. I tried running away, moving out. Finally after a few attempts I got a place of my own. It’s been hard: I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. The doctors and mental health people in my area all know how difficult I am. They don’t want to deal with me. The paramedics know my address by heart thanks to all my suicide attempts and overdoses. I can’t hold a job more than 2 or 3 months before being unable to handle the pressure and quitting. Money is always an issue. The food bank is my weekly grocery “shopping”.

I’m at the end if my rope. People keep telling me that I’ll cause so much pain by leaving this world. They don’t consider how I am in mental turmoil everyday and have been for the past 10+ years. What about my pain? It doesn’t end. It never will. I know in time they’ll be able to move on with their lives. Yet all they do is worry about is keeping their lives perfect. Im a dirty blot of ink on their crisp white lives. They ty to be “supportive”; cinstantly asking me how things are, how work is going, how im doing. I can see right through it. They’re all waiting for the next time I quit a job, or can’t make rent, or attempt another suicide. Its not actually abot me – they’re just making sure to keep that little black sheep off to the side and in order with their perfectness.

And here I am. Covered in scars and cuts, writing down my feelings instead of attempting another self murder. It’s only a matter of time.