High School Year 1

My freshman year of high school…I go through the orientation, I try to behave the way everyone keeps telling me. I’m surrounded by tons of giggling teenage girls and I am miserable. Wearing my dark t-shirts and my genko jeans, listening to heavy metal, rock, and trance. Watching as everyone else starts to get into their little cliques. I act like I don’t care, my thoughts along the lines of what do I care, these people are nothing. But it was hurting so much, I didn’t want to be hurt anymore. So I became a bitch, pushing people away, acting like I took joy in being alone. I pulled into myself further, lies would fall from my mouth. I didn’t want anyone to know anything, I started finding ways of hurting myself while at school. Now almost 12 years later my upper arms are cover with scars from peeling my skin off my arms with my nails. I could fall into the pain during class with everyone around, I could escape from everything. I read and wrote avidly, often begging the gods to have some terrible accident to me. Asking them to let me die, I would get into fights hoping to get hurt. I would purposefully put myself in dangerous situations daring fate and the gods.

I fell into drugs hard core. What another wonderful way to escape everything. I would smoke a joint before coming to school. There was an alley way about halfway down the block, go down the alley, turn right into a small space between two houses. There I would toke up, letting myself fall away into the high. A couple of drops of visine into my eyes, finish the joint, smoke a ciggarette to cover up the pot smell, and go to class. Often late for class, but I didn’t care.

That year I got diagnosed again with ADD, and they prescribed me adderal. That was amazing.  After my morning joint, about half way through morning classes I’d pop and adderal and let that high take me into energetic something. Calm in the morning, speeding through the after noon, then a joint after school to chill me out. I would find places to have break downs in school. The ladys locker room during 4th, 6th, and 7th period were free. I could sneak in, there was a space between the wall and the lockers. I would squeeze myself into that tiny space, curl up in a ball, and lose it. I couldn’t take the pressure of people around. Once in a while someone would find me, my upper arms bleeding. The teachers at my school were very accommodating. My music teacher, the health teacher, and often the principal would find me. They would send me to the nurse, let whatever class I was in know where I was, and I would just be there. Often I can’t remember what happened in high school. I wanted nothing more than to disintegrate into nothingness. I wanted to be catatonic…I wanted to just not exist…but I couldn’t. I still don’t know why, I guess it’s because I’m a stubborn person. Sooner or later I’d pull myself togeather, and I hated myself even more for that.

I think in school I may have been a taboo subject, I don’t think my class mates were so dense as to not notice something going on. But it wasn’t something anyone approached me about. Spiraling down and down, however I definitely know that I was into my own world.

Another bit of History

I haven’t cut myself in a while.  Even tho it has occurred to me that maybe it would make life a tiny bit more simple. Yet it never solves any of the issues and often creates more.

My life through out looking at it shows me that something obviously was happening. When I was in 8th grade one morning while driving to school I looked at my dad and asked “Dad is mom an alcoholic?” he replied “No sweetheart she just has a drinking problem.” Even then that didn’t make sense to me. However I never questioned my dad…he always seemed like a hero to me, until I began to realize that he wasn’t at all. Usually when your in the situation you don’t see the issues that arise, but once your out you do. That’s what has happened to me.

However in 8th grade I had a saving grace. I met this girl on line…she was a lot like me. Imaginative, inventive, smart, funny, and deeply religious. However, her religion was very different from what my parents taught. She handed me a book called “The Mists of Avalon” by Mirriam Zimmer Bradley. It opened up a different religious world to me. I threw myself head long into learning about the Goddess.  It felt right, so right. I began to go to library find books about Paganism, Wiccan, Spirituality, Druidism, anything I could get my hands on. I began to learn…and this girl and I began to date. It was the first time in a long time that I was happy. I had someone who understood me, but I was again self focused…about me. Not on purpose mind you…but because I didn’t know how else to be.

But I began to get suicidal, the cutting wasn’t enough anymore. More pain, more anger, more depression. Nothing was working, I’d tried to fix everything.  Nothing worked, I was just as miserable as before. My life was falling fast, and I was rushing to pull things together. I started changing my appearance, flip flopping with weight. Thats when the food bingeing began. I would starve myself for days, then I would stuff my face. The cycle went on and on. As soon as I stuffed my face I’d throw up. I was miserable. I hated myself, the more I hurt myself, the more I hurt myself, the more disgusted I was…until one day I was standing in the bathroom at school. I envisioned myself breaking the huge mirror in the bathroom and using the glass to slit my throat…and I got scared. I called my mom and begged her to pick me up. Not only did she pick me up, but rushed me to my first psychologists appointment.  I was broken…my first time spent under a constant watch. And my mom was completely wasted while she sat with me on suicide watch. Not very helpful…but then I started to think the drinking was my fault. So stupid I see that now, but at 13 almost 14 what did I know? But I still pursued my path of following the Goddess. It brought a bit of light into my life

I started making active changes in my life. I began to dress in clothes I liked, not what my parents wanted. That didn’t go over well. There was more than once I found my room had been raided and all my goth clothes were thrown out in the trash. Only the preppy clothes my parents liked remained. This only made me more determined. I didn’t want to be what my parents wanted, I didn’t want to fit in their mold…I HATED IT.

Freshman year starts, I’m stuck in a all girls Catholic School, and am completely miserable. This new change didn’t fix anything like my parents said. I should have fought harder to go to public school, but I don’t think that would have helped. My parents had this ideal daughter picked out. Your typical preppy brainless cheerleader. Instead they got a moody, goth theater junkie. I was never happy in school, I drove my religion teachers nuts. I fought tooth and nail every inch of my high school career. Music and theater were my only outlets. When I was doing music and theater my grades got better and I felt better. But I still had a temper. Having a extreme temper doesn’t really help much with making friends. I stuck to myself, I think there were people out there who honestly tried to be my friend…but I didn’t make it easy for any of them. I felt as tho I was an outcast even to the outcasts. All I wanted to do was spend my time reading or writing.  Something that nobody really appreciated..but I was also bored to tears in school. When I’m bored I don’t see the point in working, unfourtunately that is something that has carried over.

Well am going to pause this post until tomorrow

Stay tuned.

And Forward We Go

Hello Again,

Today I told a friend of mine who is working on his degree as a  psychologist what I was doing. He encouraged me to continue writing my blog. I thought about stopping today, that maybe it was all to personal; maybe no one wanted to even hear about it. Then I remembered this is for me, and for those who want to learn through my experience, strength, and hope.

This blog is going to be about not only my journey but my path to recovery. My path to finding in myself and those I love in my life the healing I so desperately seek and need.

As a child I never wanted for much in my life. If I wanted to do something my parents always found a way for me to do it. Swimming lessons, dance lessons, piano lessons, horseback riding lessons, singing lessons, and acting lessons. It never satisfied the aching in my soul.

My first memory that something was wrong happened around the age of two or three. I was getting panicked because I couldn’t find my mom. I remember calling out for her and looking over the whole house and just couldn’t find her. I then opened the closet in her bedroom. I’m not sure why I did, but I did. There I found my mom, curled up in a ball crying. I remeber being very confused about why mom was crying, adults don’t cry. Then upset and angry because someone hurt my mommy and I had to fix it. Instead I asked “Mommy why are you crying?” In response she pulled her down and cuddled me. Rather I cuddled her, comforting my sobbing mother at a very young age. I think I grew up some then, and something in me knew I wasn’t going to be a normal child.

I indeed was not a normal child. I was given into fits of rage that shame me to this day. I broke a teachers toe in 5th grade, threw a desk at a teacher in 1st grade, ran out of the school in 3rd grade, and continued to fall down and down quickly. I was also given to fits of depression as a child. Where I just would be completely lethargic and not do anything. Not school work, not play, nothing. Then I was diagnosed with ADD, the new diagnoses of the day. If a child had a problem obviously it was ADD. I was put and Ritalin and stayed on it up until 8th grade when I realized it wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do.

I know there is a lot to contribute to what happened in my life, and many of those events occurred not at home, but under the pool of a neighborhood boy. I remember times of being coerced into taking off my clothes and letting him and his cousin touch me. My brother used to be there, not touching but watching…even encouraging. I wasn’t sure how I felt…I was told not to tell my parents or else something really bad would happen to me and them. I believed it. The touching as I grew got more indepth…worse if you can imagine. I remember crying in the tree fort and the same boys house…begging for them to just leave me alone. But they never did…not until we moved away when I was 11, but the damage was done. I hated myself, was disgusted with myself, and I knew God would punish me for what I had done. I started to punish myself for God. I was 10 when I first injured myself on purpose. My brother had a pocket knife that I remember taking. I was hiding in the closet in my bed room crying. I took the knife and cut my finger. The pain was exquisite. For a brief moment the crying stopped, and the pain replaced every emotion in my body. Thats the moment I knew; I knew that I would recreate this action again and again to get the emotions to go away.

First Post/History Begins

I have never written a blog before, perhaps thats because it slightly terrifies me. Writing your most personal thoughts and memories out there for everyone to see. It’s simply scary. However, I am taking a whack at it. Starting with a little bit of history.

 

I’m not sure what most people see when they look back on their childhoods. I know mine is often filled with anger, frustration, confusions, resentment and sadness. Perhaps that’s because only recently through a lot of therapeutic work have I actually uncovered so many things about my past.

People are constantly telling me I’m such a strong person, to have been what I’ve been through and survived. To not be locked up in some mental institution barely cognitive. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had my fair share of being institutionalized, but I’ve gotten passed it. Also there are days that catatonia just looks so appealing. However, I can’t do it. I refuse. I still don’t see how that makes me strong.

What does an adult say about the abuse they suffered as a child? For some reason it seemed normal to me, I figured it happened to everyone. However, looking back on my life, the sex, the drugs, the out of control emotions, the self mutilation and self destruction; perhaps it all stemmed from my childhood and adolescence. Even now there are days when I struggle with the action of whether or not to hurt myself.

Why? They ask me. Why do you want to hurt yourself? I don’t want to die if that’s what your wondering. Just a cut here or there, just a brief moment of release where all the emotional pain can be replaced with sheer physical pain. It’s an easier burden to carry than that of the emotional tragedy that surrounds my life. And for a brief few minutes the darkness gives way, sure it may only be replaced by red, but that is so much better than the never ending darkness that consumes your mind and your actions. It’s emotional pain that can ruin a person, that can consume them and turn them into someone that loved ones no longer recognize. That is what happens.

I’m moving past that, I’m working through all that, thus said blog you happen to be reading.

A bit of history, I was raised by a father who was extremely controlling towards everyone in his family, and a mother who was too drunk to notice the harm that was caused on her family. I was sexually abused by friends of my brother as I was growing up, I have been raped 3 times, I have attempted suicide and been saved by my higher power, I have fallen into drugs, sex, and self-destruction to escape the pain and insanity inside my brain. I have used self mutilation to escape pain, and still struggle with it now. When the time are really low I put up a fight with myself to not hurt myself. I have also been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia and struggle every day just to get out of bed.

I have felt ugly, unworthy, despised, hated, fat, stupid and so many more I can not name. I have been told over and over by my family that what I do is just to attract attention, and that I don’t really feel this way. I have been told by my family that I’m a failure, and I have believed it. I’ve been told that my Fibro is all in my head, or that I’m making up stories again to get attention.

But this blog is my healer, to help me look back over my life and my current situation and heal. No more bandaids on the wounds, it’s time to stitch them up and let them heal.