I’m shit at titles, same with life

So I have no idea how I ended up on this site, from the point of browsing to signing up to typing this. But I know that, this’ll do as a distraction even for a little while until I can actually find a way to die.

I suppose people reading this are thinking ‘well, what’s her reason for wanting to die?’ and the thing with me is, is I’m just very very shit at trying to ‘adult’ my way through life. I’m gonna start from the beginning to the point where I either feel like I’ll post this or just delete it because my life might as well be deleted. Not that it should’ve began in the first instance.

I am the result of my father paying my mother for sex. That’s right- I am illegitimate. My father was married, with four sons and a successful business man living the cushy middle class life with the usual suburban house and a flashy car and a family car. However, one night he decided that wasn’t enough and following a meeting 2 hours from his hometown, far enough away for his wife to never find out, obviously, he thought it would be really fab to impregnate a drug addicted, alcoholic, prostitute who was only in for it in the hope the money would get her, her next fix. The only reason she wasn’t on the streets anymore, is because she was living with her pimp in a squat.

Now, basically, my mother found out she was pregnant and fled, two hours in the opposite direction to a shit-hole called Bridgend. Four hours from the father, and with no family, she was able to get a two-bed flat on a council estate where she became clean, and sober and learnt to look after herself for the first time in her short twenty years. She went on to have a girl, and with her daughter’s birth, the two of them had their own little family.

However, what she didn’t know, in those blissful three years they shared together, is that the father was looking for her after being contacted by the pimp on the little nokia my mother had to arranged to meet up with ‘clients’ because the pimp didn’t like the fact my mother had gotten away. My father was in a panic by this point, with a stable life back home, he knew there was only going to be so many times he could say he had to work away at the weekend before his wife caught on.

He found us when I was 4. My mother was walking me home from school when he followed her and waited for us to be in the flat before knocking on it. In shock, and not understanding at the time, I was told he was my dad. And that meant nothing to be as a 4 year old, I just said ‘ok’ and continued playing. Since then my father began paying child support to my mother, and to keep her quiet.

Everything was fine, we enjoyed a quiet life on the estate and I learned to be quite streetwise until I was 9. My mother got a boyfriend. Which was fair enough, he treated her like a queen. But then it got a bit disgusting- and the only way I can deal with it is saying it like how it was- he began raping me. My mother found out when I was 11 after I started secondary school. The school had phoned her to say they’re concerned about me because while changing for P.E. I was covered in bruises and am ‘flinchy’ around people. She denied ever hurting me, and then she realised that her other half was over about four times a week and always made some excuse to be alone with me on at least two of those occasions.

I told her everything. And we put the guy in prison. So, I’m very lucky in the sense that I got my justice. My mother told my father without me knowing because she didn’t know what to do, and contact began to cease more and more over time, and money increased and increased. He kept making excuses but I knew it was because he didn’t know how to handle me, or how to support me or what if I wanted to talk about it and he didn’t know what to say. He had it easy at home with his four boys and his fucking trophy wife who is literally too dull to realise that once a month he was going four hours away to see his secret daughter, who didn’t exist to any of his family.

All of that soon changed when I turned 14. I was in school, when the police showed up one Thursday in Janurary 2009. Everyone was used to that- there was so many fights, drug charges, assault against a teacher, someone on a mad one, that the area was used to it, it was part of the area. What I didn’t expect- was that they were there to tell me my mother had been killed by a drunk driver earlier that morning while she walked home from the shops with a pint of milk and a newspaper.

My mother got killed by an arsehole in a car while she did what she did every fucking morning- buying a newspaper. And he hit her. And killed her.

With no family, I told the police the situation I’d known for 10 years. That I never should’ve been born- my father lived four hours away and paid child support as his only means of a relationship with him. Obviously, the police rang him anyway to say that either if he didn’t take me in, I’d be put into the care of the local authority. And because my father is an absolute coward, it was the latter that happened.

I remember going back to the flat, getting my stuff and being taken to an emergency foster care placement. To think, it was the last time I’d ever be able to walk through those doors. That the council could just remove someone’s possessions and any trace of their memory and pass the roof onto a new family. My mother came so far to be able to have that home. Our home. All of it gone.

That emergency care placement would be the first of 32 placements I’d go on to have in the two years before my 16th birthday because I started self-harming and they didn’t know how to deal with it. Instead of getting me help the social would just move me.

When I turned 16 I was moved to a hostel while I waited for a flat on the council- but even with being a care leaver, for as long as I was in the hostel, I was deemed ‘low priority’ as I was a single female. So, it took me two weeks to find a full time job while I was still doing my GCSE’s and three to find a privately rented one bedroom flat that was willing to take me without a guarantor when I showed him my documents from social services to prove I was capable of independently living and that there was no other option in my eyes.

Things began to look up, I stopped self-harming, and with a job, I was able to afford to pay my rent and save for driving lessons. There, I met my boyfriend, who would become my absolute world. I passed every single one of my GCSE’s at either A or B grade, and 11 months into living on my own, started sixth form college…and night shifts.

I was promoted in work to a shift manager, which meant better pay, and could afford my own car and the insurance and all of that with it. However, I was going to college from 9am-3pm and then working from 8pm-5am. There was only few hours between the two, and I did that Monday-Friday, doing my A level homework on break in work and sleeping when physically possible. I was exhausted, and began self-harming again to get some adrenaline in me to at least feel alive and not so ‘zombie’.

I met my boyfriend through work, he was a fellow shift manager and found out what I was having to do to pay my rent and keep the promise I made to my mother- that I’d finish my education, right the way to getting a degree. He couldn’t have been more supportive. We had an amazing relationship. I can’t really go much further into it on here.

After two and a half years on nights and school in the day, I passed my A levels with triple A grades. I quit my job a month before going to university, which was an hour away from my hometown. Far enough to get away from the association of where it was, but close enough for my boyfriend to get a train to come visit and for me to go back.

Student halls was not a good time for me. When I first went, it was absolutely incredible, made new friends, loved my course, and thought this was where I could make something of myself. My birthday came at the beginning of October and things were great.

Then October 27th arrived. And my world tore apart once again. I didn’t receive my usual 7am ‘good morning goregous’ text from my boyfriend, and I thought, ‘may he’s swapped his shift, or he’s lost his charger again’. It got to mid-day, still nothing. At 3pm and panicking I’d done something wrong, I called his mum, who also said she hadn’t heard from him. Nothing in my mind would settle, we skyped the night before and all was fine. I didn’t know what was going on.

At 5.30pm, his Dad found him hanged, in his bedroom, at his place. He killed himself. I’m still, to this day, having difficulty with how I’m coping about this and can’t go into it much.

In December, following a mental breakdown, I was sectioned to a crisis house. I spent Christmas and most of January there. In February, I moved out of student halls with the help from my university, into a one bedroom flat as I couldn’t cope. It was during this month that I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, ADHD and anorexia. I was given a care plan, and a mental health social worker and two support workers, a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I didn’t realise I’d warrant for all that!

Things got very shit again at the end of April, and following 5 attempts to take my life in 8 days, I was put back into the crisis house, and came out 19th June. Now, exactly a month after leaving, I just can’t seem to see the point anymore.

I don’t eat, or sleep, or enjoy anything, I have no family, none of my friends can handle me or know how to approach me. I’m just isolated and financially comfortable enough thanks to my uni’s ‘hardship fund’ and my dad putting an allowance in my account every month even though we haven’t seen each-other since April 2009, that I can be oblivious to the world and can’t really actually do it.

I know this sounds like a really shit explanation, I know I haven’t really explained why I want to die, and I know there’s a bit of potential there. But honestly, I’m tired of being treated like crap, people leaving, people hurting me, I’m tired of feeling absolutely worthless, I’m tired of being tired, I’m sick of myself but I’m so fucking ashamed I can’t really speak to my care team about anything and I just…want to die. I want my mum. I want my boyfriend. I want to sleep.

I know when my mum was my age, at 19, that she had it really shit, and that things changed when she had me, but I just don’t see that happening for myself. She’d have been only been 41 this August. And my boyfriend only 22 in March.

I’m sorry. I just don’t see any other way out