Basically the story of my life. It’s almost 2000 words. Sorry, thank you all.

I’ve never not been ill.

When I was a kid other kids took advantage of me. I’ve always been weak and lonely. Some kids bullied and manipulated me, some used me for their sexual gratification. One person in particular, a relative of similar age to me, regularly did all.

My dad was an alcoholic and would spend drunken nights berating me for being stupid like my mother, and when I cried I was pathetic like my sister. I’d never be as smart as him, I’d never be as good as him. His house was filthy. I had to wear shoes everywhere, the carpets were caked with dirt. I never bathed there, the tub was filthy. I, on a few occasions, wet myself in my room rather than having to leave my room, put my shoes on, and use the stinking urine and feces stained toilet. I’d cook for him when he was too drunk to sit up, and he’d berate me for any mistake I made. Often I wouldn’t eat anything myself, as most of the items in his house were rancid. Sometimes I’d eat the fish flakes instead if I was really hungry. My dad was terribly depressed, and shortly before I stopped seeing him at 16, all the fish had died because he had stopped caring for them. I lived with my mum most of the time, and he’d often bait me over with animals. I always loved animals. We got a beautiful white rabbit named pearl. She disappeared while I was away, supposedly ran off. We got a sweet timid cat named blackberry, same story. Most of my memories with my dad are sitting on a barstool surrounded by old men and booze. I was very young, once I was old enough to be unsupervised I would stay in the house alone. I played a lot of video games as a kid, it was my escapism. The rabbit was called pearl after my favourite game at the time: pokemon pearl. When I was young, I preferred being at his house to my mum’s. Just because he would pay attention to me more than anything else.

When I was at my mother’s house, I would often go outside. I used to love looking for all kinds of bugs and animals. I would find newts and slugs and snails. I’d take them home, try to feed them plants, and take them back vaguely where I found them. My mum never really paid me any heed. I don’t have many memories of or with her. We’d argue a lot, over nothing. She’d call me a child, even when I was one. Having no parental support is probably what made me so vulnerable and lonely, but I found my happiness in little squishy animals.

I guess my vulnerability was stamped on my forehead, because everyone could sniff it out. I was bullied often by older kids on the street. Small teasing was common, like taking my games from me and deleting save files, taking advantage of my gullibility to poke fun at me. But what I remember the most is the awful stuff. One day, I found a frog. This was the first time I ever found one, I was so happy. I put him in my little tub, and I took him to my garden. An older kid was there. I was maybe 6/7 at the time, and this kid was around 11. I was looking around for leaves that I thought the frog might want when this kid said he wanted to take a look, I said sure he can and let him have the frog while I kept looking. He had decided to stab the frog with a twig, told me to look because he was dissecting it. I started crying, begging him to please stop, the poor thing was screaming. I can’t remember so clearly, but that day upset me so much, because I couldn’t do anything to save the poor frog, who I was so excited to find. I understand that to some people this may seem insignificant in comparison, but as a child I considered these animals to be precious companions in the place of any friends or family.

The same child, when I was older and he had just began to hit puberty (I remember the tone of his voice. I believe I was 8/9 while he was around 13), once led me into our neighbours shed. He turned out the light and began beating me around the head with a metal lamp. Everything was pain, I was stumbling in the cluttered shed trying to avoid each blow.  I was dizzy and crying and terrified, but I got out and ran home. Once I pushed the door open, he stopped hitting me. He just stayed in the shed, I ran home. I ran through the front door and went straight into my mother’s lap, I was crying and shaking terrified, I tried to tell her everything that happened. She was so unperturbed, it still disturbs me. She just hushed me, told me to shush crying. I did, quite easily. Still to this day, that kind of rejection seems to move all emotions from my body. I just went to my room. I still have light scars on my head from that day.

From the age of maybe 5 or 6, my relative would behave sexually with me. It started when he saw his mom and dad together, and said if we wanted to be adults we had to do the same. We would always fight, he would always try to prove he was better than me, and this was another competition. I didn’t want to play along. Its hard to even write about. It’s the worst part of everything. Because I could’ve stopped it, but I didn’t want him to never play with me again. He’d force me into things I was uncomfortable with, he’d involve his friends, involve the dog. The only time I ever tried to stop things was when his baby brother walked in. His little darling baby brother who I cared for so much. Who I sat with trying to cheer him up while his parents argued downstairs, his golden hair sticky with orange juice because his dad had thrown a glass over his mums head. This was when I was maybe 9, he walked in and I was terrified because I didn’t want him to ever be witness to any of this stuff that made me feel so disgusted and guilty. I said please stop please stop stop your brother is here. He just said, he’s a baby, he doesn’t know. I couldn’t stop him, I was so ashamed I could die. The last time it happened, I was so scared, it reached the pinnacle of intensity. I don’t want to write anything, I’ve told the story to myself too many times. But what sticks the most is the countless nights I spent awake disgusted with myself and crying, crying and thinking about how maybe one day I could tell someone, maybe one day someone would help me come to terms with how I felt. But that day has come so many times, with so many qualified people, and I still don’t feel any better. I just feel worse, I just feel worse. It stopped when I was 11, but dealing with it barely begun. I still have huge eyebags, dark circles, I’ve had them since I was a kid. Because no one took care of me, least of all me. Because I could barely ever sleep.

My next first time was with a girl. It was sweet and exciting , until it wasn’t anymore. Until she would do things even when I didn’t want it. We were both young, 13. I had victim printed on my forehead and let anything happen despite how scared I was. My next first time, happened to overlap. Because I am, was, and always will be, a filthy little attention whore who only knows how to make people like her by being a slut. It was with a boy, and I don’t even think I cared about anything other than being wanted. Even when I didn’t want it. I tried to break up with him many times, and he would just take advantage of the gaps in my memory to make it seem like nothing was ever wrong. Later, after I did manage to break up, he would sexually assault me in public. By this time I had a voice, a quiet and scared one, asking him to please stop because I didn’t want it. But it made no difference, and I had to just accept it, squished between him and a window.

There’s so much I haven’t mentioned, especially more recent things. There’s a lot I’ve just passed over and ignored, because it makes me feel too sick to type. I don’t know what to do. I’m 18 now, in uni. I moved away from my family. My ex boyfriend told them about the abuse and they all started telling me how selfish I was and how bad it made them feel. I can’t spend a Christmas with Him, knowing that the unspoken was finally said.

And my ex just today had broken up with me, and what’s more told me that I was too sick for him to even speak to, and we can’t be friends because I’m too childish. Because I broke down terrified because he was yelling at me when I was playing a game with him. I understand that me being so scared isn’t normal, but I’d told him I didn’t want to play because that would happen.

Regardless, I’m glad it’s over. It was painful and I was so scared of him. But I can’t deny that I thought of us as family. I was going to spend Christmas at his house. I’ve lent him over £700.

I understand it’s my fault, for ending up in situations like this, and putting too much faith into people who are obviously not good for me. But it still hurts. I still didn’t want to be left alone.

I don’t know what to do. I know I’m sick. I have no desires, everything scares me. I wander off and get lost, I forget so much so often, and weeks just seem to disappear. Everything I’ve written here is pretty much all I can remember of my life, except of course the most recent stuff and painful stuff I skipped over.

I don’t know what to do. I have a Dr’s appointment Tuesday to try different anti depressants. I have a counselling appointment the day after. But, I’ve been in this position before and nothing got resolved.

I don’t want to kill myself guys, if I did I’d be dead by now, I keep telling myself. But I don’t know how long I can bear it. I don’t know if I can stay at uni, I don’t know if I can survive at all. I feel so awful. If just one person reads this, I’m so grateful. Thank you so. Much. You’re here, you’re troubled, and you take your time to care for another. You are so special. Thank you so much.