Blog Archives

A History

There is nothing I can say that I haven’t already said.

I wasn’t abused, in a way, I wish that I had been so that I at least have the right to feel like I do.

I was used, as a weapon for years, up into my late teens. I was the buffer between two people who claimed to love each other. There was no one for me.

I was made fun of because I didn’t have a dad.

When I was young, I remember strange things happening with the men in my life. I liked when it was just my parents. No men. But I guess things change, you know?

I developed early. I was a rather hefty girl at the age of, what, 10? Already wearing a size B or C bra? I mean, I was kinda large, and gifted in areas. I remember being made fun of for my weight.

I remember, one day during the summer, that I went to get some lemons from my grandparents. We didn’t know that my Granny wasn’t at home. But, he was. We were alone. It was awkward. I don’t like being alone with him. I remember that he made me hug him. And when I did, his hands “fell” on my bottom. He lingered…It was uncomfortable, so I turned to go, but his hands didn’t move. So, that too, became uncomfortable. His hands moved up and rested on my chest. I left as quick as I could. I rode my bike quickly back to the house. I told her. And I want to say that she made a call, but no one believed us.

When I got a little older, family (that I didn’t know was family) moved in with us. There was a man in my house, though there had never been one before. It was weird. He always liked me to sit on his lap, even though there was plenty of room on the couch. His hands would always rest on my thighs. There was one night that he tucked me in, he sat on my bed, his hands traveled up. There was another night that we were playing video games in his room, I fell asleep on the bed. I woke up to her pulling me out of bed. I remember her screaming at me. It was weird, I didn’t know anything was wrong. I had just fell asleep.

You know that feeling you get when you just know someone is watching you? I woke up with that. And there he was. Standing in my doorway. I told him to go away, but he came in. He said that I was uncovered and he was covering me up. The covers had been up all the way. He told me to kiss him. I said no, repeatedly. But he wouldn’t leave. So I had to kiss him…on the lips. He left. Ever since then, I sleep with the door shut.

When I was 14/15, I dated a guy that I really liked. I noticed that he hurt himself. To get him to stop, I hurt myself too. It started with pinching and slapping. I had bruises that I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t feel I had to. No one asked me about them.

I was bullied because of my name.

I was switched lunch periods. I became severely depressed, I’m sure there was other factors. I spent most of my time in the library. I read over 30 books that year. I didn’t eat. I wasn’t hungry.

There came a time, one night, very late, that I grabbed a knife. A little pocket knife that I had kept for years. I couldn’t sleep. So I ran the blade over my wrist. Nothing happened. But I found a way to make it hurt.

Instead of sleeping, I stayed up reading. I would stay up as long as I could because I knew that, as soon as I fell asleep, it would happen. He would die, in my arms, in front of my eyes, or at my own hands. One of the most vivid that I remember, a bridge. It was raining. There was a dark colored car, alone on the bridge. He was there. He was shot. Blood all over the window. He fell over the edge. I watched it all.

I would wake up screaming, crying, and out of breath. So I didn’t sleep. When I would sleep, it would be an hour or two. When I would get up in the mornings for school. I opened my window. There he was, blue hoodie, covered in blood. You couldn’t see his face. But he was there. Dying. Dead. I would go to the bathroom to shower, death was there. In the shower with me, he would touch me. His face concealed with blood. I could feel his hands on my shoulder. Cold, even though the water was excruciatingly hot. He followed me to school, through the halls. He waited outside my class rooms, but he was always there.

My cry for help came when I would write. I found myself starving for attention, so I threatened to harm myself — saying that I was a different person — and I shoved the letter into the locker. I wrote poems describing what I saw. I thought he was in danger. I had no idea that I was the one in trouble.

I got called out of class one day. The counselor, she called down to my classroom and I had to go immediately. I had that sinking feeling, I knew I was in trouble. But he was still there. Following me.

“This raises some flags…” They called my parents. I remember the look in their eyes. Disappointment. Shame. They had never been called to the office because of my behavior before. I was told that we would get help. The help was: You’re grounded.

Things some what settled when we moved. I was back to sleeping. But I kept my secret. I kept it hidden. Until, the new one saw me cutting in class one day. He saw me, I saw that he saw me. I’m fairly sure that he stole my knife to “protect me”.

Things got better. But I was able to lie for a long time. Until he made me promise, no more. I stopped for a long time.

In that time, I tried to get drugs. But he talked to the guy that I had talked to, apparently they worked something out so that he wouldn’t sell to me. I guess that’s a plus.

Things between us got really bad. She had overstepped again, and said that it was him or her. She always did this. She still told me how ugly I dressed, that I looked like a hobo orphan. Told me that I was fat. I needed to do better. I was a disappointment.

So when we started dating, it was better.

Until one stupid day. I didn’t want to let go, so I said ok. We met at our place. Idiot. We were just talking. Until he started touching. It was more. And I said ok, but I didn’t want to. And he knew it. But he undressed me. Before we started, I said no. Repeatedly. But it was too late, he finished. Cleaned me up. Dressed me. Walked me to my bus. I felt, dirty, shamed. He left satisfied.

I told my best friend. She was supportive. But she didn’t know what to say. So I told my boyfriend. He was mad. That’s where the trouble started.

He tried it again. That next spring. It was a testing day. We didn’t have to test, so we were hanging out. In his truck. Stupid… I let myself get talked into it again. He climbed on top of me, hands around me throat. I got scared and started crying. I was able to run away that time. I told everyone who would listen, except who was important. I could have ruined him. I should have. But I didn’t.

When I got older…Things got better. Or so I thought.

I was engaged and happy. That December, I found out the secret. I was hurt and mad, but I wanted to talk about it after I calmed down. But they had already kicked him out.

I went back to school, depressed. I locked myself in my dorm and only came out for food. Until I was invited to dinner with a stranger. It helped me get out, kept my head up a little bit.

Things were better. We got back together. We saw a lot of each other during the summer. It was nice. Things were going great.

Until that one day in October. It was family weekend. I was excited, because they were coming. But I found out that it was only her. And she was late. She was already mad because she wanted her “boyfriend” to show up. The whole game was spent with her on the phone. She didn’t spend anytime caring for what was going on with me. I had hoped that maybe she would enjoy it. That night, she cried.

The next day, she made me come home with her. But I didn’t want to. I already knew what was going on and I didn’t want to be in the middle. When they got into a fight, I was left to stay with her and be her comfort. She told me that I would have to take care of her. “What am I going to do?” Well…I would have to quit school. And she wanted me to. That next morning, she was acting weird. Crying. She tried everything she could to get her to come back. She was so convinced that it would make it better. But it didn’t.

That evening, she kept to her room. She acted drunk when she came out. I was worried. So I got the neighbor. We eventually called the cops. They took her to the hospital. I was pissed. I had never done this before.

I became depressed. I drank. I smoked. I went to see her everyday. It wasn’t enough. She told me, in front of everyone, how she could kill herself and that she planned on harming others. So I told the social worker. They sent her to court, she went to Wichita Falls. She was there from November to January.

I found out that the world knew a secret, everyone but me. I was adopted. And things were a little bit crazy, but I’m better for it. I didn’t want anything to change.

I went and saw her. To let her know that I was getting married. She was mad. I hoped that it would inspire her to get better and come out, but it didn’t. She stayed. I visited after the wedding. We gave her the last of our money. To which, she screamed about. We never went back. She never called. She could have, but she didn’t.

When she got out, she called, two or three times a day. Just to tell me how horrible we had done her. (We packed her home for her, took care of her animals, paid her bills, kept everything up for her, but we were horrible because we left her the truck — which was in her name — and took the cars that were in ours.) I had panic attacks when she called. So I turned off the phone. We had already gotten new phones. Sure enough, she disconnected my line.

We don’t talk anymore.

I’m a little better now. I deal with thoughts of suicide everyday. Some days are more over powering than others. I just feel like death would be easier than dealing with this.

But right now, I’m ok.

That’s my life. Filled with a mess. But there is good things tucked away.


Just Stop

Just stop. Just stop. Just stop.

I’ve been repeating that for several minutes now, and it does no good. I’m panicky today. I’m very anxious. I feel like I’m going to be sick or sit there and cry with no end.

I know that it’s ridiculous for me to feel this way, but this is exactly how I feel. I don’t want to go to work. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t take anymore stress from this place. It’s killing me. A lot faster than I would like to admit. I can’t. I just can’t…


I just don’t feel right today. Which, is odd, seeing as how I’m exactly where I want to be.

I don’t feel right…everywhere.

I want to go home, but I don’t want to be home.

I feel like tomorrow, I have to return to my sad reality. One where I hate my life and most everyone in it, and everything about it. Which, yes, I know, this is a sad thing to be. But that’s how I feel.

Maybe it’s dread. This thing that I feel.

Dread because I have to return to work, return to a life that I don’t want. The one thing that’s good about that life — Hubby is right there. At least in that life, I don’t have to share him. I don’t have to deal with people at my own home that absolutely hate me and everything I stand for. But, I have to deal with a job that I despise more and more each day, on that allows me to think of all the ways I could end it all just to make the temporary pain stop. And, yea, I know…Don’t make a permanent decision for a temporary feeling. But, it allows me time to think, and it lets my mind wander where it obviously shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t hate your job. I keep telling everyone that. I hate my job. So, again, maybe the feeling I have is that I am dreading with week. It will be another two weeks before I can return to a place of sanctuary.

I can’t really talk to anyone right now, I mean, I guess I could talk to my friend…But I think she’s busy, which is fine, I don’t want to burden her with my problems. But I can’t talk to other people. Their solution: Don’t think about it. Even Hubby tried that. If only it were that damn easy. If there was a switch that I could just flick and everything would shut down, I could just be happy, don’t you think that I would have already done that?

Anyhow, It’s a beautiful day here. Maybe I should just try to focus on that, and not that in the next few hours I’ll be dragged away from here. From my peace. I hate it…

I hope and pray that we move. I already have a job in mind, and if I can’t get that, then I can at least work with Mom until I find something else. If we move, I can go back to school. And I think that I’ve decided that I want to go after cosmetology, or at least get my nail tech license. I had thought about nursing, but I honestly cannot see myself in that role like I had originally thought. I want something where I can show off my tattoos and no one can say shit about it. I really think that it would be cool to have my own shop. But that’s still an eternity away. For now, I just need to stay occupied and quiet…

That’s What Happens

So…I’m here and I hear about this kid who admitted himself to Wichita Falls, which is a mental institution. I don’t guess you can call him a kid because he’s the same age as BIL.

Anyhow, so he admits himself, supposedly for homicidal rages. So they place him on a 90 day program. Read the rest of this entry