A story

A Look Into A Strangers Life





I can only imagine what people think when they look at me. I hear the whispers, but I can never be sure what people are saying. I’ve been called “Gothic”, “Punk”, “Emo”, and every other stereotype you can label a person who dresses in black all the time. I know to some people it’s hard to understand why I dress this why or why I dye my hair, to others they understand completely. My mission in life is not to get attention or freak people out, it’s to be different, maybe stick out a bit from your normal everyday crowd. I am different, but I’m not so different that I’m not human. I bleed and cry and hurt just like everyone else, and it hurts me to hear the whispers behind my back just as much as it would bother anyone else. Though my style hasn’t changed much the past three years, I’ve changed a lot. Together we’ll begin to understand who I was, and I’ll do my best to explain…
I was born a blessing; my mother always wanted a baby girl. It was hard for her my parents, we moved a lot and my dad was in and out of prison a lot for various reasons. I’ll never forget when I was about three, watching the police take my daddy away from me, I was devastated. A few months later, when he was back, and I went to see him again I was so happy that I cried, looking back, I think it was then that I started to grow up. My father was always a hero in my eyes, he was strong and brave and nothing could hurt him, he was the perfect hero to every story, and the perfect villain as well, but I didn’t find that out until much later in life.
When I was younger, I never really understood what was going on right in front of me. I would stay up late listening to the sound of my parents yelling and glass breaking against the thin walls. As I got older I started to realize that my dad had a problem, he was an alcoholic. I remember when I first realized it, I’ll never forget it. I was about twelve which made my brother about thirteen or fourteen. We were standing in our kitchen and I kept look out as he dumped half of my dad alcohol down the sink and filled it back up with beer instead.
“He won’t drink it if it doesn’t taste good,” he told me “I’ll make everything okay.” I think that was the last time my brother ever hugged me.
After that night he and my dad got into a big fight and Jarret pretty much gave up. He buried himself in his school work and focused solely on being smart enough to move out as soon as he possibly could, I never felt so alone. Now that he gave up, I had to be the oldest, I had nobody to talk to when I was scared so I put up a wall and I was strong for everyone, I didn’t want to give up on my younger brothers the way Jarret did, I couldn’t. He was so far gone it was like he was never there at all, and I missed him for a long time.
The older I got the more aware I was of my fathers problem. We moved three times between my third grade year and my seventh grade year and that’s when I put on a lot of weight and felt more alone than ever. Since I bottled everything up inside I only sank deeper and deeper into a depression that I feared I’d never be able to get over. The stress of my home life and school life only made me worse. Then, in seventh grade, I hit a point I had feared for years. I don’t know what made me do it but I took a razor and slid it across my wrist. That was the beginning of a problem that lasted for almost 5 years.
For three years I kept my secret from my parents, finally, my freshman year I broke down and I had to tell someone. My mom was upset, we both were, I was ashamed and she was terrified. I never got help then because I promised my mom that I would stop, I wanted to, but after 3 years it was too hard.
I continued cutting, it never got too bad until last year, I cut my wrists and my legs deeper than I ever had before and the cutting wasn’t suffocating the pain anymore, so I took it to the next level. I took a bottle of aspirin and 10 to 15 sleeping pills. I went to sleep that day praying that I wouldn’t wake up. Six hours later I woke to myself throwing up. I was extremely sick and I hated myself for not taking enough to follow through. I tormented myself, calling myself weak and pitiful. At that moment there was nothing more in the world that I wanted then to be gone.
That night, my parents got into a really big argument. Justin and Jacob went to there room as usual, and Jesse hid under the table, his hears covered, and rocking back and fourth. It broke my heart to see him that way. I hated my parents for putting us through that ever since we were young… I hated them for doing that to Jesse and I hated myself for almost not being there for him. I yelled at my parents and told them it was all there fault, I told them it was entirely their fault Jesse was terrified and that I was vomiting because I wanted to die so badly. They stared at me blankly and my mom began to cry. My father went to his room and shut the door; he always did that when he didn’t want to deal with reality.
Two days later my parents searched my room. They found some things they weren’t happy with and before I knew it I was on my way to St. Joes Psychiatric Ward. I was there for six hours before they transferred me to an impatient program. That’s when I heard it, Hawthorn, the worst place I’ve ever been in my entire life, my experience there will haunt me forever.
After coming home I was in Zombie mode for about a month because of the pills they put me on. I felt dead, but I was still alive, there’s nothing worse than feeling dead, but being alive. I hated myself. After months of counseling I finally stopped cutting, I think it was mostly out of fear of going back to Hawthorn.
July 14, 2006, Olivia Christine was born. She saved my life. Seeing my baby sisters smile everyday makes me realize why I was so strong to begin with my family needs me, and I need them. Thanks to Olivia, I know that there’s someone out there looking over me, and I’m looking over her. My dads in the process of quitting drinking and I haven’t cut myself in months. They say it’ll take years before it’s safe to say I’m beyond that point in life, but I know when it gets hard I’ll have Olivia there to listen.
So maybe I am “Emo” “Goth” or “Punk” but I’ve been through my share of hard times. Before you go to judge someone or whisper something behind there back, think about what they do when they go home.