One day I had woken up and my life had fallen into pieces. I was only 4 when I first saw my dad lay hands on my mother. Never once did my dad abuse me my mentally I was traumatized. Growing up it got worse because no one really knew what I was going through at home. At the age of 8 I got taken from my parents and was sent to live with a relative because my dad had overdosed and my mom was divorcing him. At the age of 12 my dad got sent to Utah for rehab and at this moment I lost it. I lost my dad but not only that I lost my mother to a crippling depression all I remember is her sleeping all hours of the day and always taking her anger out on me and my sister. Soon I became depressed and started self harming when I was just at the age 13. All my friends had their mom and dad and a house full of happiness and I had nothing but myself. Soon my mom would see my scars and tell me I just wanted attention which made me feel worse. Now I'm attending 8th grade and I'm now 15 and at this point I hadn't self harmed in a year. At this point I meet a boy who tells me I'm beautiful and I had never gotten attention from a boy before. This ended in my nudes getting passed around the school. I was scared and hurt and angry and sad all in one. A couple days passed and I'd get looks in the halls and I would get called a whore and a slut so I started to self harm again but this time not only my wrists but I'd also cut my hips and my thighs so no one could see. I tried committing suicide by taking sleeping aid and i slept for two days before I woke up. When I awoke my mom took me to a counselor and I only went about two times and then we stopped because we couldn't afford it so I kept a journal and started writing in there every time I had a bad thought come across. My two best friends got me through this period. Now I'm a senior and I survived high school but it isn't highschool with out being called ugly or fat or a slut. Now here's my senior year and I've come to grow to love myself and if it wasn't for my bestfriend who stuck by my side through this I wouldn't of survived
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In 6th grade, I wasn’t worried about what “normal” middle-schoolers were worried about. Learning the newest gossip, the mean sub, whether my crush liked me back, what to do to get my mom to let me finally put on make-up. No. Starting my first year in middle school, I worried whether or not I was going to survive a back surgery. As you can see, I did. That surgery changed my life, it not only saved me, but it also killed me in a way. I was never the same. Many activities I loved to participate in, I couldn’t anymore. But I tried to stay strong. Time passed, and as I withdrew more into myself, my loved ones failed to notice the silent scream for help in my eyes. More time passed, and I found myself slowly trying to stitch the broken pieces of myself back together. I was “fine”. I wasn’t “great” anymore, to everyone, I was “just fine, thank you”.
Two years later, I was hopeful to regain the stride I’d once had. I was ready to take on the world and say, “Bring it on! I’m strong because I have faith, I can do it!” That was the year we rushed my dad to the nearest hospital at two in the morning because of severe abdominal pain. You know how we’re all particularly close to one parent? Don’t deny it, it’s perfectly normal. Well, that was me and my dad. We were inseparable. We were partners in crime, best friends, I was the princess to his overprotective dragon from boys. He was my nurse when I fell ill, my shoulder to cry on, my support when I fought with my mom, my cheerleader, he screamed so hard when I would accept my A-honor roll trophies at the end of each year. I swear, the old man was my everything. To say I was scared that morning sitting in the ER was an understatement. I went to school hours later, still no news from the hospital. After a week in the hospital, I got pulled out of my class by my mom. She said to me in the parking lot outside of the hospital, “Genesis, the results came in today. Dad has cancer.” Pancreatic cancer that was detected too late. It had spread to his colon, stomach, liver, prostate, lungs, and heart. My mom wasn’t going to tell him how bad it was, it would’ve scared him too much. And I didn’t have the heart to either. Because the man I loved so much, whom I thought was immortal, the biggest, strongest man there ever was- because isn’t a girl’s daddy her biggest hero? I know mine was. That amazing, dad-joke loving, kind, God-fearing man had a month to live. I didn’t cope well. To my dad, I was his ray of sunshine. If anyone made him listen, it was me. I did something I had never done before- I lied to my dad. I told him he had to go back to Mexico City to receive chemo because his insurance wouldn’t cover it here. In reality, I sent him there to make up with his other kids from his past marriage. They held a grudge against him for never being there for them. For divorcing their mother because he worked too much, and for moving to the US and marrying my mom. Most importantly, they were mad at him because he loved me, a child that wasn’t his own flesh and blood. I did what I thought was right- I sent him back on that excuse so he could make amends with his children before he passed. I did what I thought was right, even though all I wanted to do was grab him and keep him until the end- to spend every last possible second with him and tell him every single day how much I loved him. But I didn’t, I let him go. He called me the day after he landed, they threw a big party in his honor, and that everyone thanked me for convincing him to go back. They knew why I’d sent him back, they told me that he was still practicing our waltz for my 15. Two days after that, my wonderful dad went back home to Heaven. He didn’t even make it to the first round of chemo. You know that horrible feeling you get when you’re in a roller coaster? That God-awful, stomach-dropping feeling? Multiply that times a hundred. You won’t even come to a fourth of what I felt. I’d have rather take the back surgery a thousand times again. Take it, and been grateful. The pain was never-ending. It took me a week to eat again. And even longer to talk. Depression had always lingered around me, but since that day, it consumed my very being. I couldn’t go anywhere without being hit with memories of him, and that would trigger sobs choking me and rendering me a weak, grief-stricken mess. It’s taken me time to admit this, but I got pretty bad. I cut myself every day to try to lower that pain, and when it didn’t work, I’d cut again. And again. And again. It got to the point where I lay there, on the bathroom floor, wearing my dad’s old shirt, arms bleeding, and an entire bottle’s worth of strong narcotic pain medicine strictly used for my severe back pain post-surgery. As you can see, I didn’t take them, or I wouldn’t be here today. I never told anyone, and no one knew this until I finally had the courage to speak up about my depression. I lived with this for too long, and no one knew. I’m here to tell you that people, even your best friends, aren’t mind-readers. Even MOMS aren’t mind-readers. My mom never caught onto my suffering. I hid the scars, hid the dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping because I would dream of my dad, weak on his knees, throwing up his own blood when he thought no one knew. The happy Genesis my dad knew and loved was gone. She’d died the day he did, and no one had any idea. Everyone thought I’d moved on. They didn’t see that I was falling deeper and deeper into the scary black hole many people around the world suffer in silence from. Depression is a huge thing, it’s not a mentality, it’s not a “phase”, it’s a thing that makes people sick. It eats you away from the inside. Slowly, but surely, it paints a façade of “I’m fine”, “I’m okay” over the rotting inside of your soul. It’s something that should never be ignored, and should never be left alone to deal with. I’m witness to the fact that it can, and that it WILL get better. Amare Outreach can give you the help and support you need. The kind that I needed, but never got. You know, it wasn’t until now, in my Junior year- about two weeks ago actually- that I had an outcry. My choir director learned about the cutting, the pain, and she took me to where I could get the help I needed. There are people who care. People who know and understand that what you’re going through is real, and it’s a hell of a journey to take on alone. The road to getting better starts with you. Speak out, it can save your life like it did for me. And if you know of anyone who’s going through this alone, tell for them. Save a life, give them the love and support they need. I knew it would have saved me sooner if I had someone there for me. And daddy, I hope that wherever you are, looking after me, I make you proud. I hope that, with time, the little girl you once loved can live again. I miss you a little bit more each and every day, and I will always “love you more.” a lot of my friends said that 2016 was a great year for them. it was good for me, at some points. it all started in 8th grade though. i remember being sad in my room, for no reason. i didn't ever know why. i told my mom, and she said "well you have nothing to be sad about, you have a great life. you have two nice homes and parents who love you and have many friends." and i knew that, it was all true. (my mom has depression too.) and it became worse, but i hid it. i was to scared to tell anyone. i knew that people cut their wrists as a relief from the pain. i tried it. i used to scape my wrists with a safety pin. nobody really noticed, i wore long sleeves for a while. in the locker room though, my friend asked me what is that? (i ALWAYS smile when something bad happens or something goes wrong. i can't control it.) i smiled a little and turned my head the other way. smiling is my way of being like a "uh oh" moment. i just can't help it. idk why. i said "nothing." and she stood up and pulled up my sleeve so fast i couldn't stop her. she looked at me as if her eyes were heartbroken. i said "please don't tell anyone." she said "i won't, as long as you stop." she didn't know that she should have told someone, we were so young. i kept doing it though, and one day at my jr high an event happened where the police came. i told my mom what happened and she was shocked. i finally decided to tell my mom. she was in the kitchen and i walked in and said "mom, i need to talk to you." she looked at me and said, "it had nothing to do with what happened at your school right?" and i said "no, not at all." i told her, and her eyes started to water up. mine did too. i got a little better after that, and my depression started to fade away for a little bit. but in 2016, my freshman year, it became awful. i felt as if i had no friends. nobody invited me anywhere or included me. i used to have melt downs every night. nobody would have ever expected to be like this. i was a happy, bouncy outgoing but also shy girl who was innocent. i sat in the library everyday, moving to a high school was hard at the time. i eventually made friends. one of mine was very close to me. we got into our first fight, and she shut me out. i was invisible. there aren't any people who i want to impress, but she was one. i wanted to please her and make her proud to be my friend. i remember at practice one day, nobody talked to me as we waited for the coaches to come. i was desperate for friends. but she had broke my heart, it may seem dramatic, but to me, this was a hurricane. i walked into the bathroom sobbing and i turned on the blow dryer so nobody could hear me. i went into the stall and sat on the ground on my knees and just prayed that i could leave. i was in so much pain. we eventually made up again later on. i was still depressed though. it got worse. from crying myself to sleep to starting to want to hurt myself. one day at school, i saw a sign. it said "what would you do if you weren't afraid?" i thought that that was my last day. i looked at all my friends and told them i loved them and i possibly wouldn't be at school tomorrow. i went home, and overdosed. i stopped short, i was in fear. i went to bed and cried myself to sleep. i wanted to die. i felt so lonely, i still do. i told my friend the next day. she made me go to the counselor with her. i told my school counselor. she called my mom and i went to the hospital to get tested the next day, it was the worst day. now, 2017, i'm better. i'm starting to go to counseling pretty soon, and i'm in anti depressants. after all i've been through, i'm strong. i know i want to give up sometimes, but i can't quit. i won't. you can get through this too. you matter. you are loved and wanted, i promise.
5 days ago: I was the same person I've been for the past 16 years. I hated myself. I hated my hair, hated my nose, I hated my body, but those things I could change. The thing I hated the most, the thing that I could not change, the thing that separated me from everyone else...I hated being black. I hated the way it made me feel separate from everybody. I hated the way boys would just overlook me when I had "the hottest friends in school". I was always just...there. I've liked white boys my whole entire life. People always told me that "you're too black, you could never get a white boy". Which hurt. It made me think this way for my entire life. Whenever a white guy says "you're cute" it's been installed in my mind that they are just joking or just saying it to be nice. I hid my insecurities with a charismattic personality that used to please everyone. I was a people pleaser. But that all changed. It all changed when 2015 rolled around and ppl started calling my "charismatic personality" as annoying. And ever since then I've been called annoying. My one shield from all my insecurities was broken. I had nothing to hide behind, nothing to do. So I started pushing people away. I started being mean to people that cared for me. I turned into a gossip, a backstabber, and a liar. I turned into my worst self. And this grew and grew; surrounding myself with fake friends and fake love. Letting my grades slip and letting go of everything I ever cared about. But that all changed 5 days ago. 5 days ago something inside sparked me to FaceTime an old friend. We talked for a bit and she (who was also black) was telling me about societal norms and the beauty inside of us. She used to straighten her hair every day just like me. She wanted to fit in with everyone else in Gilbert, Az, but it all changed when she moved out of the state and saw that long, straight hair, a big butt and big boobs didn't make you "the most beautiful". I was shocked to learned that someone that I looked up to, someone that I prayed everyday freshman year I wish I could be, was having the same problems as me. So she decided to do what I couldn't do, she cut off all her hair. She explained to me that beauty is within the inside, not the out. That moment will be in my heart forever. She showed me that how natural beauty & the beauty within is the most important. And the most beautiful thing I learned at that moment: was the beauty of loving myself. So i want to apologize, I want to apologize to my friends and family how rude I've been the last 2 years. I'm sorry to all the people I've pushed away, backstabbed, and lied to. There's no excuse for it. And I don't have the right words for it, but I truly am sorry. And I finally understand that God makes no mistakes, he made me perfectly in his image. I've learned that a stupid girl's bracket doesn't define my beauty. I do.
I have been struggling with being sad for as long as I can remember. It's not that I am unable to experience happiness, but I do feel like even when I am happy there is something in the back of my mind that weighs me down and makes me numb. When I went to high school I moved school districts and left the tiny school that was my bubble of comfort and moved to a large high school where I was greeted with an I.D. and schedule but was left without any friends. That year in ninth grade my sadness decided to manifest itself self harm. My urge to hurt myself grew more as my self confidence dwindled. I found myself wearing a mask that projected I was fine despite the fact that you could find me daily purging in the bathroom after cross country practice. I told myself it was the running that it made me sick. In the back of my mind I knew that it wasn't normal but as the pounds dropped the complements poured in. "You should be a model," they said. "Wow I wish I had your body." But in reality I looked at all of the girls around me and envied them for what I didn't have. The purging continued and the weight continued to drop. I began drinking at least three cups of coffee to keep myself going. This lasted for at least a year and a half. Sophomore year rolled around and I was lost. The sadness had won and I could no longer think of a reason to live. I got home on March 22, 2015 and I decided I wanted to die. I stared at the knife I got out of the kitchen drawer for at least an hour and cried. I wondered why I was like this inside and I searched for a reason not to hurt myself. Luckily something in the back of my mind told me to stop. I am now a Junior and the sadness isn't gone but I have learned to love myself. I have realized that thoughts that I have are not true. As corny as it sounds I am beautiful just the way I am. I hope that anyone who reads this a similar experience will know they are not alone because I sure feel like I am sometimes. Find people you can talk to, that helped me a lot. Even try getting involved in something that will help you make new friends. Being on the Cross Country team has really helped me. Although I am not necessarily close with everyone on the team it has given me purpose and something to look foreword to.
I used to think that not being able to breathe because there wasn't a place to sit at the lunch table was normal. I thought considering if anyone would notice if you all of sudden were gone was normal. I thought having to pray every night for His protection and a restful night's sleep was normal. I was told "it's just a phase", "you're fine", "you'll be okay", "it's normal". So I played along in the game of life, did my best, and acted normal. I watched how other people acted; when they were happy, and sad, and angry. I learned to become "normal" because that's how you survive. I learned how to become everyone else around me, how to camouflage myself just enough to be normal, be excepted. And it worked. "Fake it till you make it" they said. This soon became my best talent. Putting on a happy face, going through the motions. Years later. Still playing the same game, by this time I knew how it worked, the rules, the tricks. How to get by, how to blend in with the people around me, accommodate them, be there for them, support them. Hiding whoever I was, for someone a little bit more normal. Of course every person has their story. Mine is one of those tragic pity stories that makes people look at you and say "wow, you're so strong". But they couldn't be more wrong. All I was, was a scared kid inside the body of someone who appeared to "have it all together". I choose not focus on my story here, but rather how it affected me. I was convinced my happiness was worth nothing, so I did everything I could for those who surrounded me. I thought my life was worth nothing, but maybe it could be if I could help better the ones around me. I was so ashamed of who and what I was that I latched on little bits of those around me, to cover everything I hated. With every bit I grabbed, I let go of a little piece of me. To every story there is a tipping point, here is mine. One day I met a boy, who I quickly fell for. We dated for 2 1/2 years. He was my entire life. He was the biggest piece I picked up, and he cost me the biggest piece of myself. Eventually, we graduated, and made promises we couldn't keep. "We are too different", he would say, "we want different things now". While he wasn't wrong, I couldn't imagine letting such a big part of who I became go. But I didn't have a choice. He left me anyway, for another girl. I broke. I didn't know who I was without him. I didn't know what to do with myself. So many years of losing myself in other people. So many years of hiding and covering myself to appear normal, I could no longer find the girl who used to be. This what we call rock bottom. The anxiety and depression grew stronger, it began to swallow me, spiral around me. Again I thought this was normal. Finally one day I couldn't stand it anymore, I knew there had to be something truly wrong. After years of faking normalcy I started seeing someone. I learned there was a reasons to all the things I spent years being ashamed of, years covering up. Real, validating, medical reasons. Slowly I fought to find the person I had my whole life smothering. Slowly gaining back pieces of myself I had given up over the years, learning that my voice deserved to be heard, the feelings were valid, and my emotions mattered just as much as those surrounding me. I learned relationship of all kinds are a two way street. I am not saying that I am fully better, or that it was an easy journey I am not saying that I don't have bad days, or every once in a while break down and have a panic attack. Recovery is not linear. It is something you gradually works towards each day, it is something that requires a bigger picture perspective. Please know I have not got this far on my own. I have had help from my friends and doctors each step along the way. And that doesn't make me weak. What I needed was someone to tell me I was worth fighting for, that I deserved to love myself enough to value my own life. I am slowly becoming myself again, unpacking the pieces I have collected along the way. What I hope you gain from my story is knowing you don't have to be "normal". It is okay. And you don't have to be perfect, and put together. It is okay to fall apart sometimes. You don't have to fight these battles on your own. It is okay to ask for help. You don't have to give up everything for those around you. It is okay you can still love them, and take care of yourself too. You are worth fighting for, you deserve to be heard, you don't have to hide any part if yourself to be "normal". Everything you feel is valid, and there is nothing weak or wrong about asking for help.
I have social anxiety. It's not something you choose to get, and when you have it, it completely takes over your life. It's as if there is a dark cloud lingering over you constantly. You feel as if people are looking and judging you 24/7. You stay shy, because you're too afraid to speak to strangers. You're considered "weird", or "anti social", to your friends when you don't go out, when really you just can't conquer leaving your house, and avoid instead. But you can't tell them. So you remain "the bad friend". But the part that hurts the most is that you secretly wish people knew, and hope they would care. But at the end of the day no one does. We constantly search for validation from our peers. And telling them should feel relieving, but truthfully they wouldn't show the validation you seek (that being support), and it would hurt you even more. I wish people didn't assume I'm a bad person for never leaving my house, or not meeting them somewhere because I didn't have the courage to ask someone how to get there. It's painful being called "uncaring", when you actually do care. Especially coming from someone you love. Social anxiety builds a wall, and I have been trying to break it down but it's so hard.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the leaves were changing color on the trees, and there was a crisp, fall breeze. Everything was normal. We had just finished a cross country meet and were returning to the bus when I jogged into the park to get something out of my car. As I was walking across the lot, everything changed.
When I turned the corner, I could hear someone screaming "get away from me" and "you can't do this." Assuming it was a child throwing a tantrum, I proceeded to my car until a sight I never expected made me stop short. I saw a man beating his girlfriend. He had her by the collar and kept forcing her onto the pavement. My heart was pounding out of my chest while I contemplated what to do. Then, she made eye contact with me. I was the only person around, so I began to go towards her to help. He hadn't seen me yet, so I continued at a brisk pace to make my presence known, hoping that he would stop. I yelled "hey!" and he turned to face me. His eyes were dark and cold. I stopped, couldn't move, and couldn't think. This was probably the first time in my life I experienced genuine fear. My heart was pounding, my skin was burning, and I could not move. I broke his gaze and looked at the woman. Her eyes were pleading for help. I took another step towards her when the man began to approach me. I looked at him and felt a burning pain in my chest. In fear, I ran. I left and kept running. The next thing I remember, I was collapsed in my friend's arms yelling for help. He ran ahead to the parking lot and by the time we got there, the man and the woman were walking away together. Together, after all of that. This was something I could not fathom at the time. I knew that she was walking right back into an abusive relationship. Looking back, she probably felt she was dependent on him and couldn't break away-relied on a toxic relationship because she felt there was no other way. Afterwards, I left my friend and sat in my car for hours. All I could think about was the look she had in her eyes. The look of fear and desperation. I was the only person around and I froze. I replayed the event over and over and could not forgive myself for freezing. "I could have helped her," I thought. A while later, the same friend called me and I burst into tears. In the month following, what happened that evening followed me everywhere. I hated myself for getting scared and running away in fear. The word "coward" played over and over in my mind. Fear for my own safety stopped me from stepping in and helping her. I dreamt about it every night and woke up shaking uncontrollably. At school, I would be okay one second, and then I would remember what happened the next. Wherever I was, I would freeze and my heart would start pounding again. I would hide in a restroom or go to my car and cry, hating myself for what I wasn't able to do. One day, I was sitting with a friend after practice. We were having a normal conversation when I broke down and began to sob. That day, she brought me to a counselor to get help. I sat in his office and told him my story through tears and anger. He asked me how I felt and I finally let it all go. What had been going on, the nightmares, my thoughts, and memories of that woman. After letting go, speaking out, and hearing my own story out loud, I felt a little weight come off of my shoulders. With every session, I began to feel like myself again. The counselor told me over and over that I was a teenager, alone in a park with a violent man approaching me. He repeated that it would have been more dangerous if I had gone any closer, It would take me a long time to forgive myself, but talking about everything truly saved me. Day by day, the nightmares began to go away and the episodes subsided. After about a month, I was given an opportunity to use my experience to enact change. I was given a position on a board that interviewed and funded nonprofit organizations in my county. On my first day, I was sent to visit a women's shelter that was in need a funds for a new safe house. It seemed as if it was meant to be. Upon my arrival, I met with the board of directors and a few of the founders of the organization. Their goal was to give victims and their children a new life. I was truly inspired by the program and set out to get them the money they needed. For months, I prepared my presentation. At the time, 10 other organizations were being considered for a grant, but I wanted the board to understand the importance of advocating for abuse victims. Finally, the time came for me to present. I stood up and began to point out statistics and logistics of funding a new safe house. I noticed people were zoning out, as they tend to do in meetings, so I took a deep breath and told my story and stressed the importance of a project like that one. This was the first time I had opened up to people other than my counselor. When I was finished, everyone agreed to give the grant to the shelter. Within a month, they were given the money they needed to complete their project. On this day, I learned the importance of opening up to others and how powerful personal stories can be. At that moment in the park, I was petrified and angry, but months later, I was able to use that anger and hardship to do good. No matter how dark and alone you may feel, know there is someone out there who is experiencing hardship as you are. You are not alone. Speak out and use your personal experiences for good. You will be surprised what kind of a difference you can make. Stay strong, ask for help when you need it, and share your story. My step mother had been in my life as long as I can remember. She was my mother. Then I started high school. I was going out with friends, getting good grades and being an all around good kid. Or so I thought. My step mom turned into a monster who would constantly scream at me because I wasn't her ideal kid. Soon after yelling escalated to hitting, which one day even escalated to me being yelled at for crying, and being ripped off my bed by my hair and chipping my tooth. I had no friends and I felt so alone. I wish I had a group, or someone who understood what I was going through. I thought I deserved the abuse and I didn't think I was worthy. I joined my high schools jrotc and they became my real family. Now I'm waiting until I'm eighteen so I can leave the house I'm in and actually find a home. If I could tell someone in a situation where a parent is abusing them in anyway, it would be that they are good enough. And they don't deserve the abuse. And that sometimes you can find the biggest heart in the least expected place. And to everyone else. Think before you do. One simple nice gesture saved my life. And you never know how you affect other people. Life is Precious And should always be treated as such. Stay strong. Life WILL get better.
Being hurt in life is very real thing for me.To begin this chapter we will begin with my Five year old self. It started when my parents had someone babysit me.I never really did have a clear mind as to why or where they were going because of the trauma that follows. I will not say names as to keep them private. My first encounter of depleting my self image and worth, began the day I was made to perform sexual acts with a sibling. We were made to watch pornography and do things a child should never have to do. This continued throughout my childhood until the age of about eleven. I was made to be touched all over made to take my clothes off. Countless times I was told I wasn't enough. I knew something was wrong with what was going on , I lived a super sheltered life and really didn't even know much of anything about the world.I despised the person I was. We grew up going to church twice on Sunday and on Wednesdays. Those days don't include youth functions. And private school, which meant I saw my molester pretty much daily. I felt angry at a young age. I felt very secluded and like I had no voice. I was told that if I were to speak up about this I would be spanked. Of course as a child your going to listen, because that was the way we lived. love didn't feel like a word in my life or verb in vocabulary. I would often be in such a fog I barely knew what was going on. Most of my childhood is a blur for me. There are moments I remember and all I can seem to recall is the trauma. There were a few moments that someone was guiding me which I will speak of in the chapters to come. Not only did the sexual abuse affect me. What went on at home was very frustrating. As a little girl going to church I held on to faith or at least tried. I thought I deserved what happened to me because I felt so dirty and like I was sinning. If your not saved at a young age it is impelled in you to receive God. I remember wondering if God was real? All I knew growing up was God shoved down my throat. Hurt was where i was drowning. I thought being baptized would wash away my "Sins" so to speak. When I got baptized at eight I thought all the hurt would change and my life would never be the same. I was so wrong. It never stopped. From as long as I was young we were home schooled. Some days were fun and my mom would have the neighbors over and church friends and we would all have school together. I lived in a very imaginary world as a girl. I questioned everything.had a vivid imagination. some days I was the meanest little girl to my playmates. Even in a skirt Id roller skate, bike ride,anything the boys were doing I was better at! I was so bossy. The Only times I felt happy was when I was imagining and playing in another world away from reality. I started feeling so sad every night when Id lay in bed crying. Never understood why I wasn't "Normal" Hurt was all I knew. for this time in my life, Id obsess over anything I was doing. Was I doing anything correct. It was like my childhood was just a panic. I couldn't connect to the kids my age I was so disconnected. In fact for the most part I would boss them around. Looking back I despised their happiness.I wanted approval from my parents. I never felt like they truly loved me just felt I was despised by them. I needed approval. coping for me was acting shy. When I was really little I was super outspoken. I started internally hurting , doing this by closing off people in my mind. Every thing I was told to do I just started doing. Not knowing when the next time my parents would discipline me over anything. My mom would break plastic spoons over my back. constantly most days I cant even remember what they were for. Being lectured for hours about one thing I may have done wrong. I would try to black out the whole thing. II started at a young age hating men. I honestly could barely even stand my dad. I felt rejected by him. Times he was at work I didn't want him to come home. My parents argued a lot. neighbors told me that they almost called the cops a couple of times. I was panicking and become hateful from the inside of my heart. Keep in mind this is around the age of five. All of me was sad and angry. I want to be able to remember the good moments. I know that sometimes there were. trauma plays so many tricks on the mind. Hurt made a residual wall in my life. And this carried on through young childhood friendships and my adult life. Until I began to heal was when I started to reflect. This book is mainly to help people who may have felt in my situation. I want to travel with you through my life and through my experiences on overcoming. Its not an easy process I have survived so many things while as an adult it lingers today. This part of my life I want to say hurt is real for so many people today. Healing from hurt isn't an overnight thing you cannot put a band- Aid over a wound and expect it to be healed in the morning. As young as I was I never knew how much hurt I had felt It kept building through time. Id brush it off an add one more bandage. The bandages trapped me in cages. Cages of denial and fear. these next couple of chapters I am going to be reflecting on so many issues. by the end we will talk about how we overcome issues and resolve these things in our lives. Our lives make up so many different outcomes and life lessons we may have never thought about or reflected on. I am grateful Of hurt. I do not condone what happened to me. or how it depleted my self worth. but hurt has made me stronger it has taught me so many things. It wasn't my fault I was molested, without knowing hurt ; I would have kept blaming myself. Without hurt I wouldn't have understood healing.
First off I am a father of two wonderful children I hold so dear and care for with all my heart, and soul. I grew up basically fatherless, and my childhood was filled with struggles, and poverty.
Reflecting on that experience I want the very best for my children as they grew up. The truth about, God, the bible and the right church. I had all good intentions, and strived to provide for family. I worked three to four jobs to pay bills and give them what they needed. We went to church, served God and taught bible studies while my children were very young. We trusted a family in the church to babysit our children. We were so cautious, strict with them and we would not let them sleep over at anyone's home. However, we made an exception for them to be watched by a family in the church with older children. So now jumping the timeline to five years later, one of children tells us the boy at their home they were baby sat lifted up her clothing. That's all we were told at the time. I was very angry, and wanted to to get to the bottom of this story ( not to mention beat him and maim him). However, vengeance belongs to the Lord. I have had to work through forgiveness, of others, myself, and healing over this. The other party was extremely upset, in denial, and even threatened us in a way, so our trust level began to drop. Years following this situation, we were accused of picking on their son, and he told his mom that we bullied him in our Sunday school classes. My children would not talk anymore about what happened to my grief. Years later, when my children were adults they told me some of what happened them, but not the full story. My heart is very broken and my trust in others has definitely plunged. My children were very confused, their innocence and trust stolen. You see this evil boy told them that we would spank them if they told, and that no one would believe them. I still do not know the whole story, and honestly I am at a loss as what to since it happened about 18 years ago. I am angry with myself, and have so much regret for not knowing what happened to them. The hardest part is how I feel about not knowing the truth, because then it could've been dealt with, talked about, healed, and justice could've been brought to the table so to speak. My children are no longer minors, they are haunted by this abuse. This predator, molester, evil man is still around. What he did has destroyed the relationship with my children. He destroyed their trust in their parents, church, God, and people that truly love them. I don't know how to fix any of this in the past, but I want to apologize to my children, I was so ignorant, and stupid not knowing the horrors, pain, and broken self esteem they went through. I pray daily for this to just pass, but the pain of it all is often overwhelming. As a father knowing how much my children hurt. I had no idea what was happening to them, and yet thinking back if I did. I would just be getting released from prison for a moment of blind insane rage. I don't blame my church, God, or my children. My children were humiliated, and their precious trust they had for us and others is destroyed. I am so sorry, children please forgive me...I really would have done more if I had known the whole truth, the whole story. Both of my children are so traumatized, their memory is damaged, they have symptoms of PTSD, nightmares, and someone has convinced one of them that we (her parents) knew the whole story, and did nothing. I have no idea what to do. I am not the victim...but this hurts me, because it hurts my children! I would have never of let this happen to them, and if I would've known. God help me! One of my children told me they were molested when they turned 18, and my other child has not told me officially, but I found out from their sibling. Pressed charges would've been the first thing to do. However, its destroyed the relationship with I had with my kids, and I don't know if they will trust me again, because I was so ignorant, and blind. How do I build trust again? How can they get closure, or justices this late, so far after the fact? Since the age of 8 I struggled with the way I looked. I was bullied for how I dressed, the way I did my hair, and how my body looked in a dance costume. I spent years hating myself. Wondering why I didn't fit in. Was I fat? Was I annoying? Was I not worthy enough to be alive? It was a constant stream of penetrating thoughts that swallowed me whole. I eventually just shut down. I didn't talk to anyone. I locked myself in my room. I cried going to dance. I cried going to school in the morning. Every waking minute I feared that someone would judge me for being me and I just wanted to disappear into a ball of nothing. I searched for answers to ways of not hating myself until I was offered a hand. I turned to food constantly bingeing and purging because I thought food would cure my problems but only after I felt guilty and needed to rid myself of the poison I had put in me( food). My dad noticed how I cried when I looked at myself in the mirror. How I locked myself away from society and how I became a vigorous bulimic he offered me an escape. He started to take me to the gym, to help me eat healthier, to take me to participate in social situations. He gave me a helping hand, that quickly turned evil. Little did he know he has unleashed the beast named Ana. Who almost took my life.
One late summer afternoon I made the decision to only eat healthy. Within one week I was down 3lbs. That wasn't good enough. I ate less the next week and was then down a total of 10. It wasn't good enough either. This viscous restriction cycle continued till I went to a weight of 140lbs to 108lbs in one month. I was hospitalized because my heart was giving up but that wasn't enough to stop me. I thought I was fine. I was getting attention. The smaller I got the better I felt. I finally had a sense of control in my life. I wasn't going to let it go. Towards the end of sophomore year I was participating in a dance show and my doctor didn't want to let me perform. I was at a shockingly low 82lbs for a 5ft. 3 16 year old girl. I was dying, but Ana didn't care. I fought to perform, willing myself through the pain and again of the room spinning around me. The cold air penetrating into my frail bones. I passed out a total of 3 times that week. But no matter how bad it got I still felt good. I was losing weight, so Didn't that make a better person? I was achieving what most teenage girls dream of, a miracle weight loss. As the school year ended people were constantly voicing there concerns, from friends to teachers. All wanted me to get help. I went on a 2 1/2 month vacation to see if that would help me take my mind of this mental disease and I only came back 10lbs less and having thrown myself into the depths of my bulimia once again. It was only on the plane ride home I realized I needed help. The next week I was on a plane to a treatment center where I fought hard for over 6 months to get over this disease. I came back 30lbs heavier and 1000000x happier. If I was to give advice to someone going through this I would say to NOT KEEP IT A SECRET!!! The strength of an Eating disorder comes from secrecy! Reach out for help! Tell a friend! Tell a parent! At least if one person knows the burden isn't all sitting on your shoulders! This is a serious disease, it almost took my life several times. Eating disorders have THE HIGHEST MORTALITY RATE OF ALL MENTAL ILLNESSES. They are not just an innocent diet. They are a illness. They affect millions of people of each year, and no time is a better time then now to get help "A firey soul" I'm not your average girl. I didn't play soccer, I don't have blonde hair, I'm not model perfect, and I wasn't some insanely smart student. I was known as the girl who rode horses and likes to workout. I was severely bullied throughout high school and as a result I was diagnosed with severe depression and mild anxiety. For years girls would torment me for my hair being red, my curvy body, and for my interests. They would make up rumors about me, call me a slut, gang up on me, push me and do so many other awful things to me. I was constantly isolated and I only ever had a few true friends. I remember going into the bathroom calling my mom crying saying I couldn't do it anymore. I could feel my soul leaving my body as I tried to force myself to go to hell also known as "high school". It wasn't until the end of my junior year when I was told we were moving to another state and I remembered thinking that meant a fresh start for me. But that summer I had a tragic accident which changed my life forever... I was riding an off track thoroughbred when he and a loose horse had gotten into a fight whilst I was on the other one's back. My only memory was my skull impacting the ground and hearing my friend scream. Everything was black and peaceful. I was unconscious for 15 minutes until my dad and friend found my lifeless body in a pile of rocks and cacti. I woke up and I didn't know my name or anything. I was rushed to the walk in clinic where I had my blood drawn and some tests done. The nurse's face turned white as she asked to speak to my dad in another room privately. My dad came in a few short minutes after and told me that I had to be transported to the ICU trauma unit because my brain was bleeding. And that's when I blacked out again.. An ambulance was called and I remember waking up on the white board with a crowd of people taking pictures and gawking at my bloody face and torn up body. My dad carried my helmet and my riding gloves. I stared at my half chaps and boots which were brown from the dirt and rocks that I was thrown into to try and forget about the crowd of people pointing and staring at me. The EMS scowled at the crowd of people to go away as it was an emergency. They loaded me up and on went the lights. The EMS in the back tried to stabilize my head and keep me conscious but I blacked out once again. I remembered thinking I can finally die and just forget all the pain I've been put through. But then I could hear the EMS' voice. "I know you want to give up right now.. But your dad looks pretty scared to me. And I can tell you're a strong young woman with a firey soul. God really was watching over you and I know you can pull through this." I wasn't one to really think about God as I had religion shoved down my throat for 16+ years of my life making me shy away from it.. But this EMS had a point. I woke up in the ICU to meet a nurse who quickly stripped me down to my underware and dressed me in a gown since I could not move due to impacting the ground so hard. I had bright lights shown into my eyes every hour and needles prodding my arms. A machine watched my brainwaves and I was constantly being observed. I wasn't allowed to sleep or eat or drink. I hadn't had anything in over 15 hours and the pain killers they gave me made me throw up like a dog. The EMS held my hair back and talked me through the pain. He even let me sneak in a nap for 15 minutes. But what really stuck to me is that he prayed over me while i did. He asked for God to spare my life and to keep me alive. The next day I was pronounced a medical miracle. I had a subdural hematoma which is swelling and bleeding of your brain and only 20% of those who receive this injury survive it. I came out of the accident with a slight case of a PTSD as I had reoccurring night mares of my skull and face impacting the ground (and I still do to this day) and short term memory loss. I would attend my first public co-Ed school and I remembered how nervous I was because Of my accident and memory loss and I didn't know what to wear, say or how to make friends because I grew up wearing a strict uniform, going to catholic schools and eventually attending two Catholic all girls schools. Moving down south was definitely different from where I had grown up. Sports were everything and academics came last... Two things that were backwards to me. I grew up putting my academics first and my sports second because that was my school's rules. "You don't play unless you have A's and B's" I could hear the echo of my former coaches voices in my head. The grading scale was vastly lower than what I was used to and so was the work load. I remember meeting who I thought was my true love. He was tall, sweet and admitted to one of my new friends that he was interested in me. I came to realize we had two classes together and eventually we started talking. We went on a date and hung out on multiple occasions before he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was so happy! This guy was sweet, protective and everything I THOUGHT I could of wanted and needed. things were great between us! We held hands, talked everyday, he walked me to class, and everyone referred to us as "relationship goals". It wasn't until after we graduated that he would show his true colors. We decided on attending different colleges and at first I was hesitant but we swore to visit eachother and FaceTime so eventually I got over it.. I noticed that he didn't like me going out with the cheer team and he didn't like me wearing crop tops or short shorts. He didn't like that I had guy friends in my classes and he would constantly go through my phone and made me stop talking to any guy even if they weren't straight. He would constantly give my friends dirty looks and was constantly asking where I was or what I was doing. I wasn't happy anymore but how could I leave someone who I loved? Who helped me through my senior year of high school? Who helped me through my darkest times? I ignored all my friends who told me he was abusing me and he was toxic. I didn't want to believe them.. My heart told me that they were just trying to get the single part of me to party with while my mind told me they were right and it wasn't healthy anymore. It wasn't until October that our relationship crumbled. It was our anniversary and I had drove 3 hours to see him. His fraternity let him slip out of an event for me and we met up. As we were at dinner I saw his lab partner text him.. I thought it was odd she was texting him on a weekend but i told myself it could be for homework. I stared at the iPhone until I brought myself to unlock it and read the message. My heart sunk. My eyes began to water as I read through their conversations... He had been cheating on me. I got up and I left crying. I felt so embarrassed as I could feel my makeup pour down my face and I brushed my long straightend red hair out of my face. Other couples were whispering and gave me a sad look.. And that's when he saw me and ran after me. We argued for a good 45 minutes which resulted in us both crying and I told him to take me to my car and that we were over. I had seen his conversation with his lab partner. What made it worse was he didn't even try to say anything. He just stood there blankly staring at me because he knew i saw the flirting. "Why the fuck would you go through my phone?" He screamed at me and got in my face. I shoved him back and I told him it didn't matter that he was caught and that I was ending our relationship. He referred to me as a slut and bitch to his fraternity brothers and would try to make himself look better for a while to cover up the fact he cheated on his girlfriend of a year and a half. For months I fell back into that black hole that once swallowed me years ago. I could hear the demons in my head laugh at me and I could feel that light inside of me dim once more. I became thin as I once weighted a healthy and muscular 140 lbs to a skinny 120 lbs. my ribs showed, my face was thin, bags formed under my eyes, I stopped putting on makeup, I stopped dressing nice and I fell silent in my classes and I left my invite texts to events un-opened. It wasn't until some of my good friends noticed I wasn't myself and they talked me through that dark period and lead me out to the light once again. They would stay with me to make sure I was okay, force me to be social and make new friends, teach me to be strong on my own and teach me that I was going to be okay. Months went by and I was back to being myself. I wasn't super thin anymore, I was dressing up and doing my make up once again, I was confident and I was smiling! Genuinely smiling and laughing! and my close friend urged me to create a tinder. "Girl you'll be fine! You've been talking about getting back out there! Why not try this? If it doesn't go well you can always deactivate it!" Damn, my friends got me there....I felt stupid and a little embarrassed but I was ready to try and talk to someone again and I sure as hell wasn't going to be able to just walk up to someone on campus so I figured this was more in my comfort zone(thanks anxiety!) I remembered getting a lot of attention and messages on the app until one man was really appealing to me. We hit it off instantly and he soon asked for my number. I remembered feeling butterflies again but my mind told me to stop to protect myself from getting hurt again. We would text constantly and we told each other everything about us. Back stories and all! We had our first FaceTime date then eventually met each other. We found out we both had birthdays in November and a lot in common. He constantly made me feel safe and he always helped me through my anxiety and doubts because of my past. And now this wonderful man is my boyfriend and I'm proud to say that he will never harm me like my ex did. The one thing that will always get to me is how he looked me in the eyes and told me "your fiery soul is what keeps me going. I truly believe everything happens for a reason and i was supposed to meet you." Each and everyone of you who goes through some sort of trauma or abuse has that fire! It NEVER left! Don't ever let someone dim your shine! And please take the time to listen to your friends and your gut feeling about a toxic or un-healthy relationships! I was able to overcome so much and you can to. From the girl with a firey soul to you.
I used to think he only abused me if he ever laid a hand on me. But that's not the case, abuse comes in all forms. Physical, emotional, verbal, upon many others. I was a freshman in high school and he was a junior. It was my first real relationship and I thought he was my first true love. Obviously, I felt on top of the world in the beginning, showered with gifts and love and my family adored him. But with those gifts came being called a slut and dumb. And with the love came arguments, and being screamed at about things that seemed so small and ridiculous. Overtime, he began to control my life. And I let him. I didn't talk to the friends I had always talked to before, because he told me I couldn't, I didn't go out anymore because he told me I couldn't. He told me I couldn't..... In the meantime he'd manipulate me into thinking I owed him things. Things I hate myself for. My self-confidence was broken down. I had nothing anymore. I stopped trying to reach my life-long goals. I thought I couldn't tell anyone because it would just make things worse. I was lost, and I tried to find myself in bad things, things I'll regret for the rest of my life. I don't even know why I stayed as long as I did. Maybe it was because I was young and naive or maybe it was because if I broke up with him I'd have no one. Or maybe it was because I thought he loved me.
"You never know how toxic something is until you get a breath of fresh air". A good friend told me that after me and my year long boyfriend broke up. I had never felt more free than once I was done with him. Finally being able to tell my family the truth, instead of trying to wipe my tears before I walked into the house was unbelievably relieving. I don't regret the relationship. Some people think I'm crazy for saying that, but I wouldn't be as strong and as happy as I am today if I hadn't gone through that relationship. He had taken such big pieces of me, pieces I'll never get back. And I have to live with that. But what matters most now is that I'm free, and I'm happy, so unbelievably happy. During the relationship, I didn't even know there was such a thing as emotional abuse. He was emotionally abusing me and I didn't even know that was possible. If I had known sooner, I would have been out of the relationship much earlier. But everything happens for a reason. So what I want people to get out of my story is that, emotional abuse is very real, and it's very scary and it's just as deafening as being physically abused. Being aware of abuse is so important. But ultimately you are not alone in your battle, and being afraid to say something will just make things so much worse. Always remember you are never alone and that the sun always rises no matter how dark the night gets. mental illness can blind you. it can take away your perspective, your beliefs, your faith, your vision. it makes it so that you can't see a reason to get out of bed in the morning. it's not beautiful, or romantic- it's life threatening.
personally, I suffer from severe depression, with a moderate anxiety component. I also have a genetic mutation called the MTHFR gene. this means that genetically, my brain doesn't produce enough folic acid, and even if it did, I wouldn't be able to process it in the right ways to make it into serotonin (the happiness neurotransmitter.) I was diagnosed in October of my sophomore year, and I've been hospitalized twice due to severe suicidal thoughts and tendencies- basically to keep me safe from myself during some hard times. I've torn through 7 (SEVEN) different SSRIs, and if you've never been on a significant medication, you can't begin to know how difficult it is to change between meds so frequently. I had to quit playing both club and school volleyball due to significant panic episodes that hit me on and off the court, and the depressive episodes that followed. I've had to drop out of first, the International Baccalaureate program at my school, then my AP classes, and finally my classes all together. I've been homeschooled on and off since my first hospitalization during sophomore year, and then was taken out of school completely in November of my junior year. Depression and anxiety have taken away my drive to make new friends, and the effort to keep the ones I have. I've lost so much due to mental illness. but this is not a sob story. I have chosen to take my experience and turn it into something positive. I've taken every opportunity to reach out, including this one, and support those who are also struggling, or have family/friends who are struggling. I've spoken to countless people about my story, and made connections with people because of shared experiences. I'm planning to take my journey and become a therapist, specializing in depression and PTSD. I am fighting, and after almost two years of struggle with suicide and self harm, I am so proud to be sitting here typing this today. if I could say one thing to myself two years ago, or to someone who's struggling in silence now, I'd say that asking for help is the brave thing to do. I'd tell them that it takes so much more strength to ask for help than it does to keep it hidden. it doesn't matter how far gone you feel, you are not beyond repair. I'd say that I am so proud of you for trying to handle this on your own, but you don't have to. mental illness is just that, an illness. you should treat it just like if you broke your leg. you wouldn't limp around on a broken leg, pretending you were fine, telling everyone "no really, it's just all in my head! I'm good." no! you'd get help from people who know how to fix broken legs. you'd get crutches and a wheelchair and some ice and some Advil and maybe even get surgery. it's the same thing. fix your leg, kid. find someone, anyone, and tell them your story and ask them to listen. if you're on this website, you've got a good start. there are so many people surrounding you who would be willing to help if you'd just give them the chance. you don't have to fight this war alone. I had no sense of control, and started with eating nothing and ended with eating everything. In a matter of 36 months I went from 98 pounds to 145 pounds. It was my own form of self harm. Starving myself because the hunger pains felt like a punishment, or stuffing myself until I wanted to vomit. Either way it helped distract me from the real problem. Maybe both were also a desire to control something, everything else in my life had been decided for me, and no was never an answer I could give. But I could say “no you can’t have any more food” or “no you’re not done eating yet”. Either way I was ashamed of my habits, knowing something was wrong on both ends of the spectrum. But most of all I think I was wanting someone to see I was hurting. That bigger problems lied a little bit deeper than anyone cared to look.
I am a happy kid. A near perfect kid. I make good grades. I take AP classes. I have a job. I work hard in everything I do. I wake myself up to make it to early morning practices. I hold multiple titles in my sport, and trained hard for each of them. But my family never seems to be satisfied with what I do. They don’t care about me they care about results. They never noticed that I was sick, or that I needed help. I was in a horrible situation and struggling with depression. I thought change would help. I decided to start over. I met a boy. A wonderful, compassionate, patient boy; who little did know would change my entire life. I fell for him fast, but I hated being touched. The first time he kissed me I began to cry. I didn’t know how to explain what was going on, only that I felt completely and utterly terrified. I simply did not know what to do in that situation. I knew rationally it was him, but my mind was somewhere else. I flashed back to a time in my childhood. I was young. I had no idea what was happening. I should have been loved. I should have been taken care of. I trusted him. I had no idea that it was wrong. That he wasn’t suppose to talk to me like that, touch me like that, make me do those things. I was too young. It wasn’t once. And it wasn’t twice. That was what my life became. It was day after day, week after week, for three years. And no one noticed. No one stopped him. No one fought for me. I was a child. An innocent child and I deserved to be fought for. But no one did. I had been taught by him, my voice was better unheard. I never thought about it again. My mind never even went to that place. When I was 11 years old I told finally told someone. I was then forced to talk about something I couldn’t, and forced into a treatment regime I was not ready for. I was told I was lying about my story. And not a single time was I told if I spoke up I wouldn’t get in trouble, and not a single time was I told that it was not my fault. I hated that place. The following summer was when the anorexia began. I dropped to a low weight of 95 pounds, from an original 128. Again no one noticed. No one cared. I eventually put the weight back on and recovered slowly. It got worse before it got better. I fell asleep in class because I couldn’t sleep at home. I liked doors closed so I could hear someone new walking in. I liked to sit with my back against a wall so no one could sneak up behind me. I couldn’t stand being touched because it made my heart jump and my lungs stop working. When I fell in love with the boy we started doing things that “normal” high school couples do. But for me it wasn’t normal. It was a trigger. He was my trigger. When we did things it didn’t make me feel happy and special like it did other girls. It made me terrified. I would break down into panic attacks, sobbing and not being able to do anything. I was experiencing flashback, this was when it got really bad. He didn’t know that I had triggers. He didn’t know that I physically couldn’t say no when I didn’t want to do something. He didn’t know that simply looking at me the wrong way, or not looking at me at all could trigger something to snap. He didn’t know what was going on or what to do. He didn’t know if he just left after us doing things without holding me that I would breakdown and/or have nightmares that night. It began to snowball. I lost control. I was no one longer the one driving the car of my life, my PTSD was. It controlled my thoughts, my sleep, my relationships, and my perception on the world and myself. I couldn’t focus because it of this I began binge eating putting on almost 20 pounds in 8 months, trying to grab control anyway I could. But still tried to keep it together the very best I could. Keeping my grades up, continuing to work, to train, to compete. But there’s only so much one person can handle. Once the results began to slip I began to fight more and more with my family. I was slipping. I was losing it. And the fight in me was gone. I can honestly say on my darkest days there was times where simply ending things seemed better than having to fight through another day. But rationally I knew it couldn’t rain forever and the sun had to eventually shine again. There had to be hope. My loving boyfriend remained patient and compassionate with me. Helping me through my panic attacks, and learn to cope better with my PTSD. He saved my life and probably didn’t even know it. He encouraged me to attend therapy and since then my life has improved immensely. I wish someone would have told me it was not my fault, and I was not in trouble. So I am telling you no matter what your story, or what your past it was not your fault. And you are not in trouble. You are strong enough to fight this. You are strong enough to step forward and ask for help. It will get better. Remember, it can't rain forever. "It will not be beautiful but the truth never is."
When I was 15 years old I got my first boyfriend. I had been with boys before, but never ones who loved me, and never as a relationship. After 15 months, after love, and pain, and verbal abuse, I left for good. Leaving was hard. But not as hard as what came after. I started my first year in one of the hardest and most elite programs in the country, and as if that wasn't enough, high schoolers- to put it simply- are assholes. Luckily, I had good friends who kept me grounded, and new friendships which grew stronger as the first few months progressed. Also within those first few month, I started making poor decisions regarding boys and drugs. It never became anything serious, but it was a major distraction from my schoolwork. I started having sex with people who didn't care about me. I'm not sure why. Maybe they made me feel wanted. Maybe they helped me forget. Maybe getting high and having sex was what I wanted at the time. Whatever I told myself was just a lie- the truth is, I was running. Running from the pain of my breakup, the pressure of my program, the fear of inadequacy. But I very quickly learned everything catches up to you eventually. I was fired from the first job I ever had about the same time my depression and anxiety began to escalate. My mother was struggling with her family life as I struggled with my personal one. By October my anxiety became so bad I went to the doctor to get medication. I had know about my disorder for years now, but I decided I couldn't do it alone. I needed help. And at first, the medication did. But the loss of support from my mother combined with all the other pressures around me proved too much, and I began self harming around Thanksgiving. Over the next month things stayed the same. My brother was in and out of jail for the past several months, and he ended up incarcerated for Christmas- which also happens to be my birthday. Losing him among other people and things was probably the hardest. He had been my best friend and my partner in crime. It was an impossibility I could hardly bear. Fast forward to April and my brother had been in and out again within one month of getting probation. I had stopped self harming and seemed to getting a grip of the stressful program I was in. But my mother only collapsed further and became so overwhelmed by her own depression- which yes, I had inherited from her- she had become a shell of herself. She was barely eating and sleeping constantly. She worked out quite often and lost around 30 pounds. I'm still not sure if she starved herself or was too barred out to eat, but she lost the weight either way. I, however, since the year started gained around 30 pounds, something she constantly reminded me of. School prom was in April, and that's where the 17 year olds being assholes thing really comes full circle. People were excluded, bullied, and drama had stirred within a friend group which I had thought I had been apart of. Besides the belittlement and embarrassment I felt for allowing myself to believe I had friends I hadn't, my best friend decided she would rather spend her time with them than me. With so many family things spiraling out of control in my life, I had hardly noticed her fading out of the picture. But 8 months was a long time to make mistake after mistake. Maybe I hadn't been a good enough friend, or maybe I just hadn't been there, but she slipped away when I needed her most. That was the last straw. The last three months of my junior year in high school I was suicidal and completely checked out. I stopped washing my hair, stopped wearing make up, stopped going out. Everyday became a battle. I got up, finished the school day, and fought off the demons who told me to end it. Medication had turned into a nightmare over the past few months- I was late everyday from over sleeping, missed classes and full days of school, and was napping constantly. I was a full blown mess. And I was alone. Most of the friendships I had made I had somehow severed. I felt worthless, and purposeless. I had trips planned for summer I had no excitement for. Life had lost any sense of hope or happiness. I'm not actually sure why I never did it. Everyday for three months all I could think about was taking my own life. But I guess I had found enough courage to remember the people who would miss me. I reminded myself that there was a life past the one I was living right now. In June I went to Costa Rica and found meaning in life again. I had never seen a place so beautiful. The people who so humbled and happy and kind. And I decided that's how I wanted to live. They had a saying there which meant happiness and oneness with the world. "Pura Vida." Pure life. What a wonderful outlook on living. Today I am seeing a therapist twice a month who helps me fight my depression. I surround myself with people who support and love me, and I talk to my brother as often as possible. I focus on my purpose in the world, whatever that may be. It kills me to see the world so full of cruelty, and pain. So I've decided to be good to people, and do what I can today. Because I know tomorrow will be better. As far as boys and drugs, I must remind myself that growing is a process. We do not become who we want to be all at once. But everyday I have a choice to make decisions which will help me grow into someone better. I am no where near perfect. I may have come to peace with my mistakes but the damage is far done. I ruined my GPA, irreparably damaged many relationships, and grew a reputation with many I am not proud of. My depression and anxiety still win some days. I'm not through the hard parts, I still struggle with my relationship with my mom and I miss my brother everyday. But this life is too wonderful and this world is too big to not want to live. And so I choose to remember the good, and always try to stay good to people. Because you never know what they're struggling with. You never know what it's like the fight demons until you've fought your own. "Superheroes always have broken hearts and tragic backstories, so maybe I'm doing ok." I was 4 years old when my cousin touched me and made me touch him. My parents were working and I needed a babysitter. I remember wanting him to read me a story before bed (that's the only way I could fall asleep.) He told me that he wouldn't do it unless I touched him. I was only a child I had no idea what he meant or what I was doing, I didn't even know if it was a bad thing to do. He started reading the story to me, after a while he stopped and said if I didn't let him touch me, I couldn't hear how the story ended. i don't remember much after that, however, my mom told me when she picked me up I wouldn't go anywhere near my cousin. Shortly after that I ended up telling her what had happened. When I was 13 he tried to reach out to me, my mom thought I was old enough to hear the whole situation. Honestly, I still get flashbacks. I haven't seen him since. About a year ago my cousin was sentenced for 6 years in prison for violating another innocent girl. I was asked to speak at the court hearing but just didn't have it in me. I want everyone to know that you can't let things like that define you. It's NOT your fault, self blame is a common thing and it's not true. You can't let it hold you back from any type of relationship. Lastly, never be afraid to ask for help or even just ask someone to listen.
It started out as innocently as most high school relationships begin. I was 14, almost 15, quiet, studious, insecure and growing up poor in a mostly middle-class small town. He was 15, almost 16, athletic, funny and he smiled at me when I walked past him on my way to my seat in World History class. It started out as innocently as a few notes passed between our friends, stolen glances and smiles when he turned around, small talk between classes. It started out as innocently as it could, but it didn’t end like a fairy tale, or even like a high school relationship that just grew apart. It ended with silence at the other end of the phone, a broken engagement and ultimately ended 3 years of abuse, control and manipulation.
It started out with behaviors that I thought were sweet, at first. He walked me to class, to the bus, to band practice. He put his arm around my shoulder, or held my hand tightly when we were in crowded hallways. He gave me his letterman and his class ring to wear. I wore that jacket no matter what the temperature was outside, and his ring was too big for me so I wore it on a chain around my neck. I loved to smell his cologne and feel close to him and be reminded that I was “his girl.” He was fiercely protective of me, always asking me if I was okay, if anyone was bothering me, always keeping me in sight and checking in with me. We wrote notes to each other every class period and exchanged them at our lockers. We talked on the phone every night, sometimes for hours, usually about routine things and little jokes we had, or music or movies, or school. The same things most teenagers talk about with their friends or boyfriends. We had some intimate moments, but I had very little experience with boys touching me or kissing me, so I was very careful not to let things go further than I was comfortable with. I was not used to attention being lavished on me, being told I was beautiful or gorgeous every day, being valued and held above others. He made me feel like I was so special. It changed subtly. He slowly and surely began to control things about my life even though at times it made me feel unsettled or unhappy. He asked me to wear my hair in a ponytail, because he liked to see my neck and shoulders. He asked me not to wear makeup, because I was beautiful without it. He asked me not to talk to boys in my classes, because he trusted me, but he didn’t trust their intentions. He didn’t like it when I wore v-neck shirts or shorts because he said guys were looking at me like I was a “piece of meat.” He wanted me to be “only his to look at.” He said he knew what they were thinking because all guys are the same, except him of course, because he loved me. He asked, at first. And then, as time went on, he told. He demanded. We argued. I gave in. I did what he wanted, most of the time. And he cried – tears streaming down his face – if I resisted. He said he didn’t want to lose me, that he’d be so lost if someone took me away from him. He isolated me from my friends. I was in band and he wasn’t, and we had been the same friend group of girls since middle school. We ate lunch in the band hall every day, we hung out after band practice, we had inside jokes about rehearsal or the music or something that happened at morning sectionals. When I was a junior, my director made a rule that no one outside of band could be in the band hall. That meant he wasn’t allowed in there, which by definition meant I couldn’t be either. My friends were angry, they felt betrayed. He was always nice to them to their faces, but he told me repeatedly that they were “whores” and they “didn’t really like me,” or they “felt sorry for me.” He convinced me that they were flirting with him behind my back, that they were plotting against me, that they were trying to break us up. I believed he was my only true friend, the only one who understood me. He knew every deep, dark secret in my life. He knew family secrets. He knew things that, if anyone found out about my family, would get them into trouble and I’d lose them. He had built a wall around us, an impenetrable wall that no one could breach. I trusted his every word, believed his every statement, had faith in him and that he wanted only to take care of me. I was also terrified that if I did leave, he’d tell everyone in our town everything he knew, or that he’d make good on threats to make things up that were even worse than the truth. He didn’t lay a hand on me, didn’t hit me, didn’t even raise his voice. Until I became friends with someone forbidden. The band had a concert performance trip to Florida during Spring Break. I was packing, and he had become completely unreasonable in the days leading up to the trip, had started yelling at me, cornering me in my bedroom and threatening me that I had better not go on the trip “or else he didn’t know what he’d do to himself.” But my father had paid hundreds of dollars to help me go on the trip, my director expected me to go, and I wasn’t missing it. So I did the ultimate betrayal in his eyes – I went anyway. So he broke up with me, right there in the parking lot when he dropped me off. He said I was never going to find anyone who loved me like he did, and if he did something to himself while I was gone, it was my fault. I cried and cried. I was scared he’d hurt himself, and I couldn’t live with myself if he did. I genuinely loved him, wanted to protect him, to go back to the way it was in the beginning. But I was also so tired of the control, the accusations, the jealousy and isolation from other people. In the space of about 5 minutes, I went from heartbroken to extremely angry. I got out of the truck, told him to go to hell, and went on my way into the band hall. And – somewhat out of spite – I sat with a boy on the bus. A guy in my section, a year younger than me, sat beside me on the charter bus for 18 hours. He was kind, had a gentle smile, and he listened when I spoke. He laughed at my silly jokes. I felt myself relax for the first time in months. During the 5 days we were in Florida, I talked to him about a lot of things, and I opened up about a few of the issues I was having. He said I deserved to be treated like a queen, and that if I wanted to get back with my boyfriend, I needed to tell him how I felt. When we got home, he was there, waiting to pick me up in the parking lot. I was skeptical, but I got in the truck. We sat in silence, and he drove to a local park. He parked, turned to me, and he was crying. He said he thought a lot about me when I was gone, that he was so sorry, that things would be different. He said he wanted to be together, that he’d make it right, that he’d change. He held my hands, looked into my eyes, pleaded and begged me to give him another chance. He looked so broken, so lost. I couldn’t turn him away. I made him promise he’d change. I made him swear it. And he did. And it went back to the way it was at first. The sweet notes, the kind gestures, laughing and joking. He eased up on what I wore or where I went. He didn’t stop me from seeing my friends. We really didn’t argue. Until a friend of mine saw him at his job, and they talked about our breakup briefly and she mentioned how I’d become “close” to a guy on the band trip. I was at work, handling an order in the drive thru. He got off work early, came and sat at the end of the counter where I was serving people. He didn’t speak. He stared at me, watched my every move. I was terrified. I had seen the face of his anger before, but he was stone faced and red. He sat like that until we closed, and then he waited in his car. I still don’t know why I got in the truck that night. But I did. When I got in the truck, he was crying. He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. And then, he hit me. Full force, closed fist, right across my mouth. My lip split open and I felt like I’d been slammed to the ground. I was about to reach for the door handle, and he grabbed my arm, held it down and drove off, and stopped at the park. I stopped resisting because I knew it was futile. He was so much stronger than I was. My head was pounding and I was so scared. We sat in silence and I could barely breathe. He got out, went around the truck, opened the door and dragged me out. He kicked me in the stomach, pushed me down and hauled me back up again repeatedly, pulled my hair, spit on me. In silence. He picked me up and held my limp body against the side of the truck, smeared dirt all over my mouth and face. He told me he was going to “ruin” me. He said he was going to make it so no one would ever want to even look at me, let alone touch me. He called me every filthy name he could think of, and then he dropped me on the ground. Then he got in the truck, and called for me to get in. I was so upset but terrified to be left alone at night in the middle of a forest so I got in. He drove me home. As I got out of the truck, he came up behind me and picked me up, cradling me in his arms, and he cried, and cried more. He was coughing he was crying so hard. He kept saying he was sorry, that he couldn’t believe he’d hurt me. He begged me and begged me to forgive him, to please say I was okay. I hurt all over, but I knew that if I fought back or tried to run or told anyone, he’d do worse. So I said it was going to be okay. I let him take me in the house and clean me up, bandage my cuts, hold me and stroke my hair. He promised it would be better. He just got so mad, and he couldn’t control it. He couldn’t lose me. He hadn’t told me about what my friend had told him. I didn’t know for weeks what had led up to the beating. He never hit me in the face again after that. Too much evidence, he’d say later. He knew – the moment I slumped into his arms and allowed him to come into my house and stay in my life – that he had me right where he wanted me. He knew he could do whatever he wanted to me, and so he did. He had complete control over me, so he went back to the physical and emotional manipulation, the isolation, the constant control. He never left a mark where someone could see it. He would pinch me on my upper thighs, slap the back of my legs, punch me between the shoulder blades. He would force me to overeat, then punch me in the stomach until I threw up. I began chewing my fingernails, pulling out my hair, stabbing myself with needles in my armpits. Anything I did to myself hurt less than what he was doing to me. He repeatedly sexually assaulted me. He told me that every time I’d let him touch me before gave him the right to do whatever he wanted to me. He held me down, put his knees on my chest, pinned me against walls, pulled my arms behind my back so I couldn’t fight back. This went on for over 9 months, my entire senior year. In that amount of time, I kept my job, held up a 4.0 GPA, applied for college, was a newspaper editor at school, and a leader in the band. No one – not one single person – knew any of it had ever happened. He proposed to me three weeks after we graduated from high school, and I accepted. I honestly, truly loved him, and I wanted to help him, to be enough for him to change. I wanted to save him – I knew his childhood had been horrifying and he had been abused himself. I knew his secrets too, the same way he knew mine. And I wanted to save him. He enlisted in the Air Force, and I went to college orientation. I saw him graduate from basic training, and I went to my first day of being a college freshman with a ring on my finger and wedding plans in my mind. I was 18. He was 19. He’d been my entire existence for four years, and hiding the truth from everyone had been my daily work. After 6 months in college, with more freedom than I knew what to do with, I made the decision to end our relationship. I called him on a January morning, 2 weeks before what would’ve been our 5 year anniversary. A girl answered the phone. In his apartment. In the morning. I asked if she was his roommate’s girl and she said she was his girl. I asked to speak with him, and when she asked who I was, I said I was his fiancée. He picked up the phone, and I told him it was clear that he’d moved on, and there was no way that he could take care of two women since he’d never been able to take care of one. Silence. And it ended. I saw him once more about 3 years later, sitting in the bleachers of our hometown football game, and I was with that sweet guy from the charter bus, the man who would become my husband. And even though the physical contact and the tumultuous relationship ended on the surface, the effects of it rippled through my life and my relationships for years. I wish I’d known so many things when I was going through this. I wish I’d known I was NOT alone. I wish I’d known I was NOT to blame. It was NOT my fault, I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t even really allow it. I didn’t know any better. No one had ever told me that love could hurt. I wish I had known that control, manipulation and isolation are not signs of love and protection but are the early warning signs of abuse. I wish I’d known that I could tell someone, anyone. No one who loved me would’ve let it go on the way it did. But they didn’t know. I was an expert at protecting him instead of myself. I wish I’d known that there is professional help available. Counselors, police, teachers. Someone could’ve stopped it. I wish I’d trusted my family with the truth. They would have helped. I wish I had been more self-confident, more true to myself. I wish I had known my own self-worth. I wish I had the strength to tell people I needed help, and that I did not to see myself as weak.It started out as innocently as most high school relationships begin. I was 14, almost 15, quiet, studious, insecure and growing up poor in a mostly middle-class small town. He was 15, almost 16, athletic, funny and he smiled at me when I walked past him on my way to my seat in World History class. It started out as innocently as a few notes passed between our friends, stolen glances and smiles when he turned around, small talk between classes. It started out as innocently as it could, but it didn’t end like a fairy tale, or even like a high school relationship that just grew apart. It ended with silence at the other end of the phone, a broken engagement and ultimately ended 3 years of abuse, control and manipulation. |
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