Spill my life like ink on a warn out parchment

I don’t really know the purpose of spilling ones thoughts, concerns, and troubles in a public media like an online journal, but I need to rant and this is as good a way as any other. I doubt many people will actually be bothered to read this anyway, why would they waste their time on such a mundane and uninteresting thing as reading about my issues?1

Pointless.2

Someone once said that when God closes a door he opens a window, well, I want to know where the hell my window is, because every door has been slammed in my face and no matter how much I scour these walls there are no windows. I’m starting to think that saying is as false as the other popular ones, like God has a plan, or there’s always hope. If there is a God, I don’t think he has a plan. I think he created this world, realized how much he had fucked up, and abandoned us. As for hope, its superficial, children and naive adults have hope, and the lucky few who have had the dice roll out in their favor.3

An ex-roommate of mine once said that things are bound to turn themselves around eventually. She was determined that there was a plan, a scheme to everything. I laughed at her, she makes me look sane with that kind of thinking. There are somewhere in the vesinety of 6 billion people on this water covered rock we call Earth and people can actually think that there is a plan, that He gives a damn about what happens to each and every one of his children? I don’t buy it. If he cares than why does he make them suffer? Freewill, indurance of faith... there are thousands of excuses, but I don’t believe a one of them. Did you know that three children a day die of child abuse in the United States alone and that statistic if rising. What the hell is his plan for them? What about all the people who die of starvation, in war, in violent crimes?4

Don’t get me wrong, I use to believe in God. I was born into an Atheist family, but I still believed in God. I use to pray all the time, I prayed that my parents would stop arguing, that my mother would come back, that my brother would stop hurting... I prayed and prayed and prayed, I begged, I pleaded. I prayed that my father would stop being an ass, that my mother would stop crying, that the voices would get out of my nine-year-old brother’s head. I even kept praying after I was raped, after I was pinned down, scared, threatened, and raped by someone no older than I am now. I prayed even though my father made fun of me for it, called me stupid, ignorant, superficial. I prayed for happiness, that we wouldn’t move anymore, that people would stop treating me like I was nothing, abusing me. I never blamed God for the fact that I was born nearly blind, that my parents were unhappy, that my brother suffered, I never said a bad thing about him. Then one day I just couldn’t pray anymore. One day it became too much and just broke down and gave up. I cursed him, yelled at him, threatened him, questioned him, than let him slip away from me and out of my life.5

Where was God? Where was he when I had nightmares, when I sat up in the dark afraid that someone was going to grab me, cover my face, restrain me, and fucking rape me again? Where the hell was he! Where is he now? Things still haven’t improved, I still can’t sleep, I still have nightmares, I’m still alone, my family is still in shambles. Where is he? Doesn’t he love me? I though he loved all his children. I guess I was wrong.6

My faith in God was the first thing to go, my faith in people wasn’t long to follow. That’s the problem, ever since I was a small child I’ve had issues with people. Maybe it was all the bad experiences I had, maybe it was how my father’s bitch of a girlfriend use to terrorize me and my little brother, or how we had to deal with bad babysitter after bad babysitter, constantly dumped on the cheapest care giver my folks could fine. Maybe it was a thousand different things, but it was.7

I became distant in elementary school, I use to hide all the time, never smiled, and cried too much. I was afraid of the other children, edgy around adults and teens (guys more than girls), and constantly ready to run at the drop of a pin. In the first grade I’d fake sick to get out of recess, in the third I’d hide in the bathroom, in middle school I’d stay in the cafeteria, I had a thousand and one ways to avoid people. I also learned how to hide in my own head, how to completely disconnect my mind from my body. That was my greatest strength, the ability to separate myself from reality and hide from the real world. It also helped that we moved every couple years so no one ever got to know me well enough to figure anything out.8

It didn’t really get bad tell high school. I had managed to make the occasional friend up until the ninth friend. Usually they turned around and bullied me, or abandoned me, I don’t know which was worse. Then in the ninth grade I broke, I shut down completely. That’s when my mother took an interest in my life, because she was afraid I’d kill myself. A chasm began to develop between me and world, a deep, psychological chasm. I had always had problems connecting with people but they began to become ‘them’ or ‘it’ not ‘her’ or ‘him.’ I began to lose the ability to socialize at all, I just locked myself away and refused to have anything to do with anything. Eventually my mother had to pull me from public school and tried to home school me, but she couldn’t be bothered to correct my work or help me and eventually I had to go back into the public school system. That was the breaking point. One night in November when I was fifteen-years-old I took a knife from the kitchen drawer, wrote a suicide note, and pressed the blade against my wrist. I was already a cutter, the pain didn’t scare me, and I didn’t believe in an afterlife, I didn’t have anything to lose, there was nothing stopping me except... my mother’s damn mind games. All the times she had broken down, all the times she had told me how ungrateful I was, how spoiled, how pathetic. I remembered when she had left us when I was just a child, how she had shut herself off to us, how she had snapped, guilted, and screwed with my head until I was so guilty that stealing a piece of my brother’s Halloween candy had been enough to make me vomit for days. That same guilt hit me, hard. I dropped the knife, grabbed my hair, and yanked at it until the pain became numbing, I cried, shook, and rocked until I passed out. That was the breaking point, that was all I could take.9

At my new school I became known as ‘her’ or ‘it.’ No one talked to me, looked at me, or acknowledged me. I was gone for three weeks once and no one noticed until I came back, they thought I had moved, they hoped I had moved. The abuse in my family also got worse, my father became violent toward my brother and attacked every little thing we did wrong. The house isn’t clean enough, we left the light on, the TV’s up too loud, anything. It was worse for my brother, my father hated him, hates him. His grades weren’t high enough, he’s not trying hard enough, he’s lazy. He told us to get out of his house, that we weren’t welcome, that he wished we were his employees so he could fire us. It just built and built until I wanted to kill him. Until I had dreams of using a knife to slit his throat so that he couldn’t speak anymore. 10

My mother wasn’t any better. She watched the abuse and didn’t do anything. She clung to me, made me do everything with her, go to craft shows, go tot he store, go to the lake... she wanted to turn me into a clone of herself. She continued to play her mind games, she convinced me that everything was my fault, from her not being able to balance the check book to my father’s actions. She said I was just like my father, she screamed at me, threatened me, twisted my already brittle mind until I couldn’t tell the truth from the lies. She broke me down but no one could see what was going on.11

Then, at eighteen I thought I had found a window. I went to college. Everything was supposed to be different, everything was supposed to be right. Things only got worse. I was carrying the scars of my childhood and they only became harder to bear with every day. I couldn’t stand being around all the people. My paranoia peaked, I became scared. Every time a boy would talk to me I’d freeze up, shake, sputter. I had managed to suppress the memories of the rape, of being so completely powerless and scared, of the pain, but they began to come back. I took to hiding again, in my dorm if my roommate wasn’t there, in the library, anywhere where I could go unnoticed. Then in November I broke again, i had a panic attack so severe I had to be taken to the ER via ambulance. I could have handled it except that when my mother showed up she gave me a look of disgust, of complete disappointment. She made me want to die while I lay in the hospital bed on oxygen, barely able to move my arms and legs as my heart be so speraticly that I could hardly force air into my lungs. 12

Then the doctors sent me home for a week. My mother started to demand I collect SSI for disabilities because I was never going to find a job and that hospital visit and ambulance ride was going to cost her a fortune. It was about that time the memories came back and the nightmares began. I began to have living nightmares of the rape, flashbacks of painful childhood memories. If not to add to it my roommate began to act like a bitch, she’d play the guitar at 1 AM during finals week, stay up all night yet get mad at me when I couldn’t sleep. Finally I had enough and turned on her, I screamed at her tell I was hoarse, tell she was wide eyed and trembling. She avoided me after that and we both got new roommates. 13

Second semester people started to take notice that something was wrong. Professors started to tell me to go see a counselor/therapist, so finally I did. And about six sessions in he called Child Protective Services after my father had punched my brother in the side of the head causing him to run away from home. I agreed to talk to the CPS representative, nothing came of it. They showed up and put into action ‘house rules,’ they came two or three times than stopped. 14

At the end of the semester I knew I had to do something, I couldn’t go back there, so I decided to see if any of my extended family would take me. I was only close to my grandmother Cindi as with moving fifteen times by this point in my life I had never really been able to get close to anyone. She was happy to take me, but about a week and a half before finals ended she decided against it. I was left with nowhere to go but home, I thought. A friend, my only friend, Katie, offered to let me stay with her for the summer. She still lived with her parents but her parents seemed happy to have me, and I had nowhere else to go. So I went to live with them. 15

I lived there for three and a half weeks and searched feverishly for a job. Its hard enough to find work in a small town (2500 people) in this economy but even harder when your legally blind and don’t have a degree. I finally had to apply for SSI out of desperation, which I am still working on. One evening Katie’s mother decided she didn’t want me living there anymore and I had to leave, Katie just sat and glared at me from across the room. I left and was forced to move in with my parents again. The chasm had split me from people, and now I can’t care about anyone over the age of ten unless your in a very small minority.16

When my father lost his job and they decided to move to California from Minnesota I was convinced to go with them. Maybe it was the fear of being left alone, maybe it was the guilt of leaving my pathetic mother short a child, or maybe it was my own stupidity, but I agreed to go with them. So now I’m stuck in California, I can’t find a job, there isn’t a day I don’t think about putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger, and I feel trapped. My mother is clinging to me again, the nightmares are unbearable, and I can’t go back to school tell the 2010-11 school year because I can’t afford to pay out of state tuition and I won’t be a resident tell than. 17

I can feel my mind deteriorate, break down, and wash away in the waves of memories. I feel so alone but can’t trust anyone enough to love them. The only person I talk to regularly is one individual online, and every time I hear a child cry I think they are being abused, beaten, traumatized. The chasm is deep and I’ve lost all faith.18

Broken.19

No Idea why I just wrote that. Maybe because I felt like it. Maybe because if I write it down its more real. This is vague, it leaves out a lot of detail, but its proof that I exist, its proof that I’m still collected enough to write something since I haven’t been able to get a story out for awhile. It proves something, even if no one reads it. Even if no one cares.