Abuse - My Story

I just spent an hour writing this fucking suicide letter/post BEGGING for help and then pouring my fucking soul out to my fucking counselors, and the whole fucking page just POOF and CLOSED.

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.

FUCK THIS.

FUCK THIS FUCK THIS FUCK THIS.

I NEED TO CALL YOU.

I NEED TO GET OVER THE FACT THAT PEREZ WILL THROW A FIT, AND FUCKING CALL YOU. BECAUSE IF NOT, I WILL BE DEAD BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS AGAIN.

I NEED TO SAY MY GOODBYES.

I NEED TO TELL YOU ALL OF THESE FEELINGS I HAVE.

I NEED TO THANK YOU.

I NEED TO TELL YOU THAT ALL OF THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT IN ANY WAY.

THERE IS NOTHING YOU COULD HAVE DONE.

THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO.

I just needed a mom. You were my mom (s) until I realized I couldn’t ask that of you. I couldn’t ask you to care anymore. I could not ask Perez to look the other way. I could not ask for you to put your job in jeopardy for me, or my life. I could not ask you to take me out of my house. I could not ask you to incorporate me into yours. I cannot ask for you to love me or care for me or want to protect me. But I know deep down that you do, atleast, care for me and would protect me in ways my own mother could not. I needed you, and I loved you. I loved you like the mother(s) I never had. Both of you, Shelley and Jen. I trusted you, and you never let me down. Thank you, and I am so sorry for what I will do. 

I’ll try and call or see you before this all happens. A final goodbye or something. I need to see you and hear your voices one more time. Facebook, school pictures, and your work voicemail won’t do anymore. I’m too close. I’m too far gone.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE BY THE GREAT POWER OF FUCKING GOD COULD THIS SOMEHOW GET TO YOU. COULD THIS PLEASE MAKE IT’S WAY TO YOU BY THE CYBERSPACE GODS AND COULD YOU PLEASE READ IT. I just want to know that you heard me for what could be the last typo afflicted time.

I’d put my usual disclaimer, but it doesn’t apply. It doesn’t apply by any of those three standards. 

The hospital is not doing anything for me when I have to come back home to this.

The counseling is not working when I have to come home to this.

The medication is not working in fucking general anyways. 

NOTHING is working, and I wanted it to work so fucking badly.

I WANTED YOU TO NOTICE.

I WANTED TO BE ABLE TO SAY SOMETHING.

I WANTED TO NOT HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE OKAY.

I WANTED TO BE SAFE.

My mom is not  hurting me or my brother, please do not think that. She would never do that. I am not safe here because of me and my inability to move on.

Thank you Jennifer Bekins and Shelley Bateman for being the most amazing people anyone could ever ask to have in their life. Thank you for being amazing, and for always being supportive and understanding. That you for validating my anger, and for doing more to protect me than anyone else ever has. You are angels. You are miracles. You are beautiful in every single way. Please do not hate me or become angry with me. There was a choice, and this is the one I made. I do not blame anyone and I will not make excuses or say “I didn’t have any other choice” because I did. And I am sorry.

I know, I know, I know that it’s a choice, that some how I only feel this way because I choose to. But I’m so fucking far into this fucking delusion that this is my LAST cry for help. I know that I don’t want to go through with it, but I’ve written more good-bye letters in the last month than in my entire life. I just don’t want to lose or destroy this “potential” they say I have, because I know I have it, somewhere, and something good is going to come out of it one day, I’m sure of it, but right now I’m looking at my life and I’m seriously fucking stuck between completely turning it around and being the best I can be, or just ending it… and this wouldn’t bother me so much if I wasn’t already on the other side of the fence, trying to climb back over. 

What bothers me, if the fact that when I used to write these notes, or think about suicide, I got really scared, and now I don’t know what this feeling is, but I’m not scared. Sad, a little, and I feel like I’d really fuck up a lot of things for other people, but I am not scared.

G.A basically said today that suicide was the worst thing you could fucking do, and it was extremely selfish, the most selfish thing anyone could do, and it ruined peoples lives, and people who commit suicide will go to hell. And I don’t even know anymore. I just don’t know.

I’m just so tired of waking up every single day and looking in the mirror and seeing all of these men, all over me, ruining me. Destroying me. I’m tired of feeling used, and like trash, and unloved and unwanted.

I need GA, or HS, or Katy or Ana to look and me, and to get me to shut the fuck up, and I just want them to look at me and tell me that I’m not that same little girl. I need her to tell me that I deserve to live, and that it was not my fault. It was not my fault. it was not my fault. It was not my fault in any way. It wasn’t my fault that I was put in to those situations, and it’s not my fault that I feel this way, because I fucking crying right now, like actually fucking crying, just screaming in my head for GA or HS to call me, right fucking now, and for them to just say that they know that I’m not okay, but I feel like they don’t believe me, or don’t think I’m serious, or something. Because I’m scared. I am extremely fucking scared now, because I don’t want to do something stupid and have them hate me, actually fucking hate me for it. Whether or not I live, I don’t want them to hate me. GA and HS are my angels, and I will stand by this fucking statement that they are my angels, and that somehow, someway, God sent them to me, or sent me to them, or however that would work out, because he knew. He knew I’d need them, and I just don’t know if he knew that I’d get to this point.

And I just need her to sit next to me, and I need to fucking cry, not like this right now, where I’m crying because of what I’m telling myself, but actually cry for the things that have happened, and all of that pain, because I know it happened, and I know I’m not crazy, but that pain hasn’t fully set in yet, and it won’t. I won’t be able to get over it, until I accept it, and I will fucking hurt myself, like nobody can fucking imagine, if I accept all of it alone. And that’s why I even tried to fully accept any of it yet, because I feel so alone, and so suicidal as it is anyways, and I fucking NEED them. I NEED THEM.

I just wish one of them would call me right now, and tell me that they were going to call me out, first thing tomorrow morning, and I could just sit in their office, all day, and just cry and cry and cry without being scared of them getting mad, or pushing me away, or yelling, or screaming, or hating me, because I just need to tell someone about this, someone about all of this in my head, all of this that I keep thinking about, all of these steps I’m taking toward killing myself, and how fucking scared I am. I need to talk to someone I know. Someone I trust, because I need their support. I need them to tell me they will love me no matter what. Because right now I need that. I NEED them.

Six or Seven years old:

Over the course of a year/year and a half, I was raped by an unknown man three times, and once by a man named Guy. During these four rapes I was forced to give oral sex three times, as well as an additional, unrelated time with the unknown man.

Sexual Abuse / Molestation began with my step-father.

Seven or Eight years old:

Two/three houses down (I know, it’s one of those two, because I looked up the street on google maps.) from my grandmothers house, there was a man who lived in the house, and I don’t know how he was related, but there were other children who lived there, but this man forced me to give him oral and (nevermind, it doesn’t matter.) but this happened a few times, less than a dozen, atleast three or four times I can remember fairly clear, and a few others I’m foggy on, the last incident there being when it was him and another man, taking turns like I was some sort of amusement to them. 

This was also when my step dad took an advancement in his sexual abuse techniques, including much more intimate touching.

Nine years old:

Felt up by some old creep, and molested by a close mentor of mine’s husband.

Ten years old:

Moved to California, was fairly safe for almost a year at my step-grandmother’s house, since me, my mom, my brother, and step-dad all shared one tiny room. However, when my mom left town (twice, and a few late nights out) my step-father was not hesitant in showing me that he was not done with me.

Eleven to Thirteen (almost fourteen) :

Molestation from my step-father became increasingly worse, and he was now to penetrating me through a thin (seriously, like, a condom would have been thicker) layer of my clothing. Extremely intimate touching, caressing, kissing, etc.

THEN.

It all stopped, a little over four months before my fourteenth birthday.

I had pushed ALL of this away to some extreme corner of my mind for ever (excluding the abuse with my step-father) , until just a month or so ago, when I felt I could finally trust someone enough to tell them. And she saved my life, literally, just by being there for me.

I wish I could tell her the details, not like graphic details, but something more than , oh well he would do some inappropriate things. I want to be like: I don’t trust men, I’m suicidal, and I slice into my body because I’ve been raped (by legal definition) four times, where there was full penetration, but still something inbetween us, more than a dozen times, forced to give oral sex so many fucking times I don’t even care to count, and molested by numerous men. And they all conveyed the same exact message. “You’re a worthless piece of trash,  a whore, and you deserved it.”

And you know what I dream about?

SERIOUSLY?

I seriously have this dream that one day, out of nowhere, I’ll walk in to her office, be able to actually cry, and have her sit next to me, and put her arm around me, and tell me that I did not deserve it. I did not deserve it. I did not deserve it. And she would just sit there, after that, not saying a word, and I would just cry, collect myself, get up, and leave.

I know it wasn’t my fault, but I need her to tell me I did not deserve it. I need to cry and cry and cry and let all of this anger out, all of this pain, and this feeling that I have lost something so great that, with it, they took a part of my life away from me. I want to tell her how much I wanted to just bolt in front of a car and have the glass shatter and slice through my skin, how I wanted to lay there on the burning asphalt and die a slow, and excruciatingly painful death, because they told me that’s what I deserved.

I’m about to cry right now, and I feel like such a fucking loser for it, like, grow the hell up, you know? I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I see Andrea tomorrow, hopefully, and maybe I’ll be able to talk to her. Bleh. I like her, and all, but she’s not my counselor, she’s not the one I trust. I trust G.A more than I have trusted anyone in the entire world.

Just typing so I don’t cut right now. I know, it’s stupid. 

It’s just a: game, tease, phase.

You said if I was serious, I wouldn’t even ask you for help. That I wouldn’t go through with it if I asked for help, because it means I didn’t want to go through with it to begin with.

I’m trying so hard to get your attention, so hard to get you to understand how fucking bad I feel, and you don’t think I’m serious.  I’ll scream if I have to, but listen to me; you need to hear me. You need to realize how close I am to breaking. I’m just trying to get help, before I shatter. But it’s just me now.

I’d cry out to you, if I thought you were listening; I don’t think that you can hear me anyways. Please, please, please, open your eyes. I know, I know I’m a burden to you, I know I waste your time, but if my life is worth anything, you’d realize how much I need you. I need you right now.

Today might be the last day I have enough strength to even try and ask for help, because I’m losing control of myself, and it’s going to end one way or another.

Some morning run on together,

with a simple smile to

seperate the

moments.

That, without,

would all

die,

together.

shut the fuck up.

shut the fuck up.

shut the fuck up.

leave me alone.

leave me alone.

leave me alone.