It’s been over a decade since it really began.
My parents were ordinary and loving during my childhood. My mother was a stay at home mom. She took care of my eldest brother, my younger sister, and myself. My father was a chemical engineer. He worked hard but also made time for his family. I remember the short summers felt like forever. I remember many happy, warm days and nights.
I can’t remember how old I was when I first resisted punishment from my parents. If I was told to do something, for example, go to my room, I would freeze my body. My teeth clenched, my eyes glazed over. It was as if something other than myself was inside. Something very dark. I would not move or speak. I don’t know how the thought came into my head. I don’t know where it came from. One day it just happened. It didn’t stop for many years to come.
My poor mother. I still weep with guilt at the thought of how much emotional pain I caused her. She would have to physically pick me up in order to get me to where I had to be. I was in 4th or 5th grade when she first had to pull me out of bed, put me in the shower, bathe me herself, dress me, and drag me to school. This would happen all the way up until the beginning of high school. By then she had stopped fighting.
There wasn’t anything I hated more than going to school. That is the time my first experiences of bullying began. It was the first time I had ever lost friends, felt isolated, and teamed up against. My mother always told me to just ignore bullying. She never taught me to stand up for myself or to defend myself. She never truly stepped in and tried to handle the situation. When I tried to talk to her about the bullying, I couldn’t finish before she would cut me off and address what I did wrong in the situation. It was as if that was all she heard and whatever else I had to say was disregarded. Once I realized this I never turned to her for a listening ear again.
My fathers way of discipline and handling my resiliance was significantly more aggressive. He was a strong, fierce looking man. Both of my parents were former body builders. Some days he would see my mother struggling he would step in, roaring in his loud, terrifying voice, grabbing my arm, pulling and yanking me about in attempts to get me moving. Even the fear of him could not break whatever it was that consumed me. I forced my body to go limp. I let him drag me, I let him yank me. It was truly hopeless.
My father and I had a special bond before those days. My mother told me when I was a toddler that she picked up a toad and showed it to me. Ever since I have grown a strong love and appreciation for amphibians and reptiles. My father supported this. He would take me to local ponds and creeks during the summer. He taught me how to catch frogs and snakes. During yearly camping trips we would set out on our own to catch critturs, admire them, and eventually set them free. Sometimes I miss those days. Sometimes I miss when my father was a father.
THE DECLINE OF OUR FAMILY
I was in my second year of middle school when my siblings and I were informed that my father was laid off. He was just a hair away from getting his Ph.D in chemical enginereering. His employers had funded his schooling. It was the beginning of dark, difficult days. I often would hear my father screaming at my mother while she cried from the top of the stairs. They slept on a pullout couch in the living room while my eldest brother had his own room. My sister and I shared the other room. I never saw my father hit my mother, but some nights I could hear thuds and furniture moving along with the screaming and crying. I was almost certain that he put his hands on her.
Shortly after my father lost his job he was diagnosed with colon cancer, which he ended up surviving. My mother somehow managed to take care of all of us and financially hold us afloat by cleaning homes for family and friends for about four years. I watched my mother gain weight and form deep wrinkles. Her face slowly transformed into a mask of pure exhaustion. Both of my parents had always been drinkers, but during this time they both abused the bottle. After my fathers cancer had been taken care of, alcohol became his vice. He turned into a bitter, sour, miserable man. On my better days I’d be eating my breakfast before school and watch him as he poured himself a drink, with huge headphones blasting music into his ears. During the summer he would spend most of his time on our front porch, drink in hand, music on. Sometimes I’d see him passed out in the chairs on the porch. Sometimes I’d look out the back window of our house and see him passed out on our trampoline. Sometimes he would leave on his motorcycle for most of the night. He hated all of us, my mother especially. Even though my father terrifed us, hated us, and alienated us, she refused to leave him. Most children break at the thought of their parents separating. I often hoped and wished for it.
Finally it happened. The summer before my Sophmore year he told my mother he wanted a divorce. He had been seeing another woman for months. My mother, sister, and I left the home I grew up in, the home that had become a living Hell.
MY SELF DESTRUCTION
On top of my mother working, dealing with my father, and taking care of my siblings, she had me to suffer from. My mother decided to try and seek out professional help. She took me to see dozens of therapists and psychiatrists throughout my middle school and high school years. I was diagnosed with depression by some, bipolar by others, borderline personality disorder by a few. Over the years I had tried at least over ten different types of anti depressants and anti psychotic medications, which I honestly think just fucked me up even more. I was hospitilized several times for experimenting with self harm and having psychotic breaks. I hated it, I hated being tested, I hated taking medication. I hated feeling like there was something wrong with me. I hated being forced into that world. I felt isolated, alone, frustrated, guilt ridden, and full of shame. I became known as “crazy” and “psycho” to the kids at school. The bullying only progressed as the years went on. The feelings of self hate, low self esteem, and worthlessness took over my life.
At fifteen I began smoking weed, cigarettes, and drinking. This new, exciting, dangerous environment intrigued me. It kept me distracted from the horrors at home and school. I befriended plenty of other troubled kids, mostly older than myself. They introduced me to petty theft from stores which I only enjoyed for a short time. I loved getting high and drunk with my friends and being reckless. After I lost my virginity at fourteen, I didn’t get sexually involved again until after I experimented with drugs and alcohol. I carelessly fooled around with guys, usually friends, sometimes friends of friends. Sometimes i’d hook up with multiple different people within the same week. I had come to enjoy self sabotage. I had learned not to care. I liked knowing that I was using them. I liked sex in general, infact, I loved it. I first discovered pornography online at about ten years old. I understood what sex was. I was facinated. My mother saw it on my computer once and screamed and cried in horror, claiming that i’m corrupted because of what I saw. My father stared me down, said some harsh words and sent me to my room. As I think back on it now, I think that their reaction was over the top. If I had been a boy, I wonder if their reaction would have been any different..?
Since my father was no longer participating as a parent, my mother had complete responsibility. She didn’t have the time or energy to keep a leash on my sister and I. We had a lot more freedom as teenagers than some parents deem acceptable. Therefore we had an easier time doing the things we enjoyed doing. My younger sister had began the rebellious, troubled lifestyle before me. We are only fourteen months apart, my sister and I, and our relationship has gone through phases throughout our lives. During this time we were distant from eachother, for the most part.
My eldest brother is four year older than me. My mother sheltered him during his teen years. He was severely bullied, an outcast, and socially awkward. Most of his life has been spent in his room on his computer. He has always been tech savvy as well as artistic. A smart individual but extrodinarily arrogant. He and I had a wonderful bond as children. We were closer than my sister and I despite the age difference. He introduced me to video games, imagination, and art. When he was about fifteen years old, I noticed that something had changed.
The first time it happened I was in his room, laying on my stomach on his bed. We were playing pokemon together on our gameboys like we usually did. He was next to me when he suddenly slid his body in top of mine casually, as if it was normal. I felt him pushing his groin against me repeatedly. I remember feeling uneasy. I knew what sex was at this age, but I was too young to know about incest, so I felt confusion on top of feeling like something wasn’t right. I remember continuing to play my game despite these feelings, acting like nothing was wrong. After a few minutes he stopped and got off of me. It happened a few other times after that, and then it stopped completely.
Until I reached the age of fourteen. My brother and I were spending the night at my grandmothers house, playing video games in the living room. It was late, my grandparents had been sleeping for awhile. We decide to make some english muffins. When I got up to get them from the toaster, I felt his hands come up from behind me and grab my chest. I immediately stop what I am doing. My heart fell into my stomach, my stomach twisted and churned. I felt an incredible force of fear. I asked him what he was doing, and he proceeded to ask me if I had ever thought about it. I pushed him away, frantically responded with a no, and stared at him in horror. Tears were streaming down my face when he picked me up and cradled me on his lap, telling me how he has fanticized about sex with his own sister for years and that he had hopes I would be willing to try. After I heard more than I could stomach I got on my feet and told him that I wanted to go to bed. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and buried myself under the covers, trembling, sick, and in absolute disbelief of what had just happened. He texted me several times asking me to please come back down, in which I ignored and turned off my phone. I cried myself to sleep that night. Several years later he confessed to my sister and I that he would come into our room at night and touch us while we slept. Our relationship has never been the same again.
THE PIT OF POISONOUS RELATIONSHIPS
Romantic relationships didn’t interest me at first. I preferred being wild and promiscuous. I felt safer that way. Sometimes I wish I had held onto that preference had I known it would lead me into a destructive obessesion.
The first time I thought I experienced feelings of “love” was several months after the start of my new world of highs and thrills. He was a high school dropout, a big, husky guy with an ugly face, a seemingfully charming and friendly persona. He loved weed, he loved to drink, he loved to steal and lie. He was the definition of a piece of shit. Being young, naive, and completely reckless, I ignored these obvious red flags and decided to value his positives, which there were very few of. We were only together a few months, but nearly everyday we spent with eachother. Towards the end our relationship had become sour. We fought constantly. He was the first to abuse me and surely not the last. He threatened to cut my throat with a knife, pressed it against my skin while glaring wildly into my eyes. Another time he choked me so hard that I vomitted. Even though he was a terrible person, after we had broken up I remember sobbing for days on the couch. I think back now and I can only shake me head. Wasted energy. Wasted time.
After that I didn’t date again until I was seventeen and starting my senior year of high school. At this point in my life I was the happiest I had felt in many, many years. I was excercising daily and eating healthy. I had lost forty pounds, I was in the best shape I had ever been in my life. I had aquired my first job which I enjoyed and loved. My relationships with my mother and sister had been better than ever. Although I still smoked and drank, it was drastically cut down. I was taking medication reguarily that was working. I felt in control. I had reconnected with friends from my middle school days, whom introduced me to new friends. One of those being the man who changed my life forever.
His name is Justin Frost. He is your typical tall, dark and handsome male. Slender, smart, charming, mature for twenty one. When I laid eyes on him for the first time I was already won over. Me being the shy, naturally quiet person that I am, I didn’t approach him or speak to him directly. We were in a large group of friends, hanging out in the parking lot of a grungy apartment complex, smoking weed and cracking jokes. A few days later I happened to find him on Facebook through mutual friends, and I sent him a friend request.
If I could just go back to that moment.
Soon enough we developed a relationship. He told me that he had been honorably discharged from the military, he had been on his own since he was 16, he had lived in multiple states, and was married at 18 to a woman whom he met in Florida. He told me that this woman had been caught cheating on him, persuading him to return home to New York to stay with his great Aunt and Uncle and take care of them. He later told me that he had not yet been officially divorced from his wife.
I remember the way he would talk about himself, stating how he is smarter than most, how he can see and hear what others can’t. I remember feeling almost pressured and threatened in a sense by the way he was telling me this. I figured that would make sense considering what he had told me about his wife, so I shrugged it off. He would claim that he was NOT an egotistical person, which in all reality was far from the truth. I recall how highly he felt of himself, how he seemed to think that he could get away with anything, that he could tolerate anything. One prime example of this being that he would drink while he drove. Constantly. I remember expressing to him how that made me feel uncomfortable. Of course my feelings were not at all considered. He only tried to reassure me that he can drive perfectly fine. Humorously for me, after we had broken up, he was pulled over for driving while intoxicated. He was so adament on being “perfect” that he blamed it on me because I had asked him to pick me up. Not the fact that he chose to be intoxicated while driving, no. Why take responsibility for yourself when you can just blame it on someone else? Unfortuantely, it gets much worse.
I remember one night we were both talking in the garage at the house he was staying. The conversation had turned into past relationships and sex. He asked me one of the most inappropriate questions you could possibly ask another person. “How many people have you slept with?” Well, I wasn’t going to lie to him. That isn’t who I am. I looked him directly in his eyes and told him the number. There was complete silence, as if someone had passed and we were giving our respects. Finally he spoke, and he was astounded and clearly appalled. I immediately started to cry. He made me feel dirty and putrid, as if I was a BAD person. He made it seem like he was going to leave me. I was panicking and growing hysterical. As if that has any real importance. As if it is any of his fucking business. I was put in a deliberate trap. After what seemed like hours of crying and apologizing he decided to comfort me, and that was the end of that.
Sex with him wasn’t as great as I portrayed it to be back then. Once he had learned how many people i’d slept with he refused to preform oral sex on me again. That really hurt my self esteem and self worth. It took me months to build those up. After that psychologically abusive conversation I was now afraid to be honest with him. I couldn’t tell him that I have never had an orgasm from penetration alone, so I faked it. If he was as smart as he claimed and knew, I doubt he cared at all. He preferred anal sex over vaginal. I had attempted anal sex once before and it was excruciating for me. It was the least pleasurable act I have ever tried. He continued to pressure me into giving in, which to my dismay, I did because I thought I loved him. I was so devoted to him that I was willing to put myself through explicable pain just to please him. One night he told me to address him by “Sir” and to do as he said. I had never been dominated that way before. Even as I type the memory I feel sick to my stomach. I absolutely hated it. It made me feel like I was an object, it made me feel so uncomfortable. He didn’t even propose the idea or ask me if I would be okay with trying. He just did it.
If I could just go back to that moment.
I’ll never forget when he accused me of cheating. He had somehow hacked into my facebook and told me that he could see my messages. He claimed he had seen some from another man. I was genuinely confused because I had never read such messages. I went to my inbox to see it empty. He then pointed out that it was in the “other” section (back when Facebook did not notify you of messages from people not on your friends list) So I clicked on it and read two very long messages from a guy that I had hooked up with a couple times before I had known Justin. I said this to him of course. I had to reassure him several times that I wasn’t aware of those messages, nor were they of any importance to me considering that I am with him and not interested in anyone else. Despite my clear dedication, loyalty, and love, he felt entitled to invade my personal privacy to feed his ever apparent insecurities.
Through all the manipulation, controlling, psychological torture, mindfucking behavior, there is one thing that I deeply am sorry for. During our relationship we would hangout with friends on weekends and drink a considerable amount. I was taking Burproprion and Abilify then. I would purposely not take my medication if I knew I’d be drinking. I knew it wasn’t good to drink on that medication but I also didn’t know that not taking it would be worse. There were a handful of nights where I would become so beligerant that I would act vicious and violent. Sometimes I would completely black out. I attacked him and hit him, I cursed nonsense. Maybe it wasn’t actually nonsense though. Maybe it was my pent up concious spewing out my frustrations. As they say, the truth comes out when you are drunk. Perhaps the truth of how he made me feel was just imploding everywhere all at once in a fiery rage. I knew when he was fucking with me, but I would continuously brush it aside. I was in straight denial. Still, if that was the core of my violence it doesn’t make it excusable. From what I recall he never hit me. I think he would push me to the ground in order to get me away. One morning I woke and my right eye was swollen and bruised. I don’t know how that was possible from a fall to the ground, but regardless. I knew then I was wrong, and I know now that I was wrong.
There is a night that I think back on every time a thought of him flutters through my brain. It was the night that I saw him for what he truly is. He had drank quite heavily that night, the most intoxicated I had ever seen him. We were standing outside in the parking lot of the apartment complex I lived in with my mom and sister. He had two shot sized liquor bottles in his hands. He takes one, a few moments later downs the other. He gets sick instantly after. He then walks down to the entrance of the parking lot, and in the dusk I can barely see him fall to his knees. I decided to stay put, assuming that he was probably vomitting again, and I knew how precious his ego was. Some time goes by and he returns, staggering, sloppy, a drunk mess. I start to coax him inside, letting him lean on me for support. We didnt even make it halfway up the stairs before he collasped on me. I position his head into my lap, and as I am looking down at him trying to encourage him to get up, he begins to whisper the same thing again and again. “This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be invincible.” ….
If I could just go back to that moment.
When he left me after 8 months, I was completely devastated. Shattered. Broken. My world had come crashing down. I was so infatuated, so obsessed, emotionally attached and psychologically damaged, all the progress I had made, the happiness I had felt after so long turned to sand between my fingers. During the last few months that lead up up to it I had been missing school again. I had gained back at least 15 pounds. I felt the agony slipping back into my soul. I lost control of my body and mind. I abrubtly stopped taking my medication, which fucked me up even worse. I felt responsible, I felt that it was all my fault, that I had this coming, that I deserved this. I thought I had lost it all when really I had the opportunity to to take it all back. I chose to be weak. I chose to give up. I learned from my father that it is okay to give up. About a month later I lost the job I loved because I couldn’t get myself out of bed. I could see my mom dreading again, knowing that I have fallen back into my slope. Knowing that she would have to struggle with me again. I felt sick with guilt. My poor mother had finally picked herself up after years of mistreatment and balancing so many responsibilities. I couldn’t bare put her through it again. I didn’t want to drag her down into my blackhole of misery and chaos. So I moved back home.
Barely a month had gone by when I reconnected with a hookup from the past. I was weak, vulnerable, impulsive, and extremely unstable. I decided to use this guy in attempts to distract myself and move on from the intolerbale pain I felt. He would bring me to school, buy me food, be encouraging and kind. If it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have graduated. It’s quite a mircale that I did.
A relationship quickly bloomed once again. I introduced him to a few of my friends with whom they got along well with. Before long summer had arrived and the long nights consisting of drugs, alchohol, music, and friends began. My father would leave nightly to sleep at his girlfriends house, so I would have the house to myself. I threw dozens of house parties, invited friends and their friends. For awhile I was alright. But I wasn’t happy, and far from sane.
This new guy got a kick out of antagonizing me and instigating fights as he got more comfortable. He would purposely do and say things he knew would upset me when we were in an argument instead of acting like a mature adult. Mocking, faces, insults, all the like. I did my best to not feed into it because I knew what he wanted was a reaction. On nights of heavy intoxication it was utterly impossible for me to ignore. To my regrets I lost control of myself and would punch him, smack him, kick him. My anger and frustrations would erupt like a volcano and I became rabid once again. This one did not choose to push me away. This one hit back, and hard. Since it began and for the rest of our relationship, both of us would be covered in bruises, cuts, and welts. It was the most physically toxic relationhip I have ever been in. I took full responsibility for each time I made the first act of violence. I recognized it as unacceptable even if I was being purposely pushed. For the times he struck first, it was still my fault. Always. The friends I had introduced him to turned against me. He would openly trash me to people who supposedly loved me, leaving out his part of course. No one bothered to speak with me or ask me what happened. After two years I finally had enough and cut him off.
Almost immediately after I became involved with someone else. This time I felt no shame, the wreckage from the previous relationship was far easier to forget. I reconnected with a girl whom I have known for over ten years. We had been on again, off again best friends throughout my school years. The guy I began seeing was her fiances best friend. Her fiance was a sociopath, a class A narcissist. We never got along due to the fact that he tried to control her and accused her of fucking around on him with no liable reason. For the sake of her, we tolerated eachother. His best friend was a good person. He wasn’t smart. He was quite illiterate, and a severe alcoholic, but he was a generous, kind person, and quite sensitive. He treated me well, and despite that I was abusive to him, phsyically and verbally. He didn’t deserve an ounce of the mistreatment I gave him. He didn’t mind fuck me, he didn’t purposely aggravate me. Our relationship made me realize and recognize that I was officially a domestic abuser. I am sincerely sorry and ashamed to have allowed myself to hurt him. I’ve become a monster that I never thought I would be. Thankfully he left me and has moved on. We lived together in an apartment for a very short time before that. Again, I moved back home.
CONCLUSION: THE LIFE I LIVE TODAY
My father has become the ghostly, sickly shell of the man he used to be so many years ago now. He looks 70 for 56, eyes that are always foggy and half closed, underweight, just a pitiful sight. I used to cry for him. I used to feel sorry for him and keep hope that he would stop drinking and stop abusing his medications to live a normal life. Now I feel not a drop of sadness. Infact when I think of him now I feel a deep aching, burning sensation of pure repulsed hatred creep up into my chest. I dream of killing him. I dream of watching him die and feeling nothing at all, where I used to dream of his death and weep, often waking in a coat of worry. The fact that he can look into my eyes and tell me that he is fine, that he isn’t an alcoholic or drug addict while holding a drink in his hand, high on clonazepam, while I watch him make himself a drink every hour or so throughout the day, while I hear him make himself sick after he eats his once a day meal in the bathroom, all I can feel inside is complete, utter disgust. I had lived with him up until over a month ago. My car had died for the third time and I knew if I had bothered to ask my father for help he would throw a fit. I knew he’d act like helping his child is a huge hassle in his daily alcoholic abusing schedule. I was texting my mom and without my permission she decided to take it upon herself to ask for me. Sure enough, minutes pass and I hear him outside my door, telling me to come out with a despairingly obvious aggravating tone. I denied his request, stating that I did not want his help considering it is very clearly an annoyance for him. He is silent for a moment before sputtering that he doesn’t give a shit. Well, to me that is quite blatant. I got up to close my door after saying, “Yes, I know you don’t.” I guess it was too loud of noise because within seconds he is swinging my door open and slamming it shut 3-4 times, screaming bloody murder about how “he can slam doors too.” His atrocious outbursts of Satan himself did not frighten me as I am sure he had hoped. I’d be damned to give him that satisfaction. I responded by screaming as he was back at him, he proceeded to get right up to my face, and I shoved him away from me. That must have really pissed him off since he then decides to push me down to the ground, get on top of me and being sure to pin me with his weight, punch me, then strike me with a curtain rod, all while I repeatedly hit him in the face as hard as I could until I saw blood. When he was done, he stood up and threw the now bent curtain rod to the ground. I sat up, stared him in the eyes through his shit stained soul, and told him how much I despised him. He said he hated me too and to get the fuck out of his house. I have not seen him or spoken to him since, nor do I EVER plan to as long as I am alive.
Today I sleep on a couch at my mothers. She works three jobs to pay rent for a small apartment on the lake. My brother lives in a rentable home working as a fulltime IT tech. My sister is here as well, soon to move into her own apartment in the city. She works two jobs, she has dozens of friends. She’s always been a snotty, high maintenance, thinks her shit don’t stink kind of person, but now more than ever before she looks at me like i’m a pathetic sack, an embarassment, shamed to call me sister. I suppose I don’t blame her. I’ve been fired from every job i’ve had(which is quite a lot) due to call ins. I am now seventy pounds overweight, hardly showering. I now grow hair on my chin, stomach, and breasts. I have achne on my face and neck. I look in the mirror and see a dead, fat, ugly, worthless waste of life. I have not a single friend, not even an acquaintance to talk to now and then, no one I can feel safe talking to about my feelings. Despite the efforts my mother has made to try and help me, she hasn’t the slightest clue how to communicate with me. She’s very critical, judgemental, and insensitive. She wants me out of her apartment and for that I don’t blame her. I am sore to the eyes to look upon. I am hostile towards her, I don’t look her in the eyes. I weep every. single. day. I can’t sleep, and when I do it’s during the day, which my mother can’t stand. I wake up and lie on the couch or in bed all day. My body aches in pain from lack of movement. I fear going back to work knowing I will fuck it up as I have for each and every one of my jobs. I am also embarassed to be seen. I have thought about applying for disability for severe major depression and personality disorder, but I have overwhelming doubts that I would be accepted. It’s a long shot for anyone who doesn’t have a physical disability as well. I am a young female. I don’t know if the disappointment would be worth trying, but I am running out of options. My mother wants me out and I have no where to go. She asks me if I have a plan. I can only think of one.
I am reaching the end of my tolerance. Every day I think of suicide. I imagine driving my car straight into a tree far from here. I picture ending it all to give the rest of my family peace, knowing that I don’t cause them to feel disgust and annoyance, knowing that they won’t have to take care of me. To give myself some peace. There is no hope for myself left inside my heart anymore. I picture my future and I see a grave. I am so tired. I’m so afraid to die, and yet there isn’t anything I want more. I am 23 years old, and I am ready to be free from suffering.
Thank you for reading my depressing tale of woe.