Tuesday, November 4, 2014

By four my father was touching me.  By five I was throwing my food up, the way my he taught me.  By six I was suicidal.  When I said my prayers at night, I begged god to let me die in my sleep.  By eight I was self injuring.  The first time I used a jagged piece of wood that had broken off from the drawer filled with my Barbie clothes.  I truly don’t remember a time when I was happy, when I felt safe, when I loved myself.  I don’t remember ever feeling okay; that I was just fine as I was.  I don’t remember ever feeling that I deserved love.


“If it weren’t for you, I’d kill myself.”

“I’m going to kill myself.”

“Watch your fucking mouth or I’ll kick you out of the house.”

“He was great before you came along.”

“I wanted a divorce but you wouldn’t let me get one.”

“God I hate you, you’re just like HIM.”

“She’s making it up; she just misunderstood him.”

“You’re so fucking useless.”


“I’m going to kill myself.”

“My life was great before you.”

“Why don’t you just get the fuck out, no one wants you here.”

“Don’t get fat like mom, no one will love you if you’re fat.  I won’t love you if you get fat.”

“Don’t tell mom.”

“I never did that to her.  She’s making it all up.”

“How could anyone ever love you?”


For 20 years I didn’t know a day of not wanting to die.  I didn’t know I was miserable until I wasn’t anymore.  I was taking meds and one day, it was different.  It was like a curtain was pulled back and it hit instantaneously, suddenly the world was sharp and clear.  That didn’t last.  Ups and downs and ups and downs and downs and downs.

But…I’m happy now.  I didn’t see it happening, it just snuck up on me over time.  Slowly but surely, step by step, day by day.

My parent’s words still exist on the tapes in my head but they’re not as loud anymore.  Maybe it’s their deaths that muted them or maybe that I’ve grown and matured and improved.  While I chalk up my current sanity to the meds cocktail I’m on, I know a big part of it is my own work.  Therapy, group, surrounding myself with amazing and honest people, leaving a toxic living situation, pushing forward as hard as I can,…

I can’t say this is forever.  Because bad shit happens and “normal” people get sad.  Because I’ve backslid before.  Many, many times.  My meds stopped working, I isolate, I regress, I spiral.  But when those things happened before, I didn’t have any sort of solid footing to land on.  And, now, maybe I do.

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