It's caught up with me
So here is me. To all who read it and bath in the joy of my pain to hell with you. To those who care...please read and know that I know now I'm lost.
Saturday night I went to the movies. My parents tell me to call them
when I get somewhere and when I leave. I always forget no matter what.
Well I came home after the movies and sat in the driveway with a friend of mine. We listened to music and joked around. I was oblivious to the amount of time that had passed since we got there. I finally remembered I dind't call my parents when I went to leave and freaked out. SO I said goodbye and hopped out of my friends car.
I was in a rush but in the midst of it all the stars still caught my attention. They made me stop dead in my tracks. I was drawn to them like I had never been before and was really really happy for some odd reason. I stood for a few minutes just stareing until the light in my garage turned on. I ran to the front doot exepecting my parents to be slightly upset. However my step-dad (whos a very intimidating person when hes mad) stormed up to me, and three inches from my face screamed about me being a selfish insignificant little bitch. He yelled at me and backed me into a corner.
At this point I was shakin in fear because my step-dad does not control himself when he gets mad. I was mad at myself for making my mom worry that something coul've happened. I'm so forgetful and stupid, and I understood that. Howevere I also feel that my parents should've heard the music in the driveway and may have been intelligent enough to take the time to glance out the window and see where the pulsing beat was coming from.
Anyhow, my dad screamed at me to "give him my fucking cell phone". I threw my purse on the ground and huddled in the corner shaking. I was yelling "I'm sorry, I'm Sorry" over and over agian. He took the cell phone and sat down in the living room. They ignored me for about 10 minutes while I sat sobbing in teh corner scared. My mom came donstairs and told me to go upstairs and go to bed.
Honestly I was so empty at that point. I had no emotion, no desire, no want, no need, only pure emptyness. I was void of all purpose. I gathered my purse (the contents of which had spilled all over the floor) and quietly walked up the stairs to my room.
Once in my room I sat on the floor and grabbed my Bible. I flipped open that book letting the pages grace my fingertips. I hoped that maybe I could find an answer in the book that I had been raised on by my Grandparents. I remember all Saturday night wanting moer then ever for the spirit of my Grandfather to come and hold me. I wanted the one man that had loved me wholly and truly to comfort me. He never came. And as I paryed that I could open the Bible to a page that might help me in my struggle....I found my parayers unanswered. I opened to a page of meaningless scripture. I grabbed a pair of scissors laying by my nightstand. I scratched my forearm in an effort to remind myself that I was a bad person, that I will never make anyone happy, and that I was full of inperfections that will never go away.
I had no intent of killing myself. I never have. There is this void in my mind whenever I think about death. The massive blank between concivable and unknown. Death has always struck me as an untouchable place. I myself do not have the power to bring about my own death. I dont deserve to think of myself so special that I can kill myself. In all reality I'm scared of death, because no one knows what truly happens when one passes.
My mom walked into my room, the words "Fuck off!" came out of my mouth before I even thought about them. She was trying to tell me someting about them caring about me but anger was still tainting her voice. Tears ran down my cheeks as I screamed "Fuck off!!!!" one more time and she ran out of my room. I threw my scissors down and huddled in a ball. Sobbing uncontrollably. My step-dad stormed into the room then. For some unknown reason I grabbed my scissors...its as if I felt they were my only comfort. Thats when I was hit. My step-dad lashed out smacking me in the face. I suppose he thought mayeb I was trying to hurt him. I wasn't though. It was all about me...not about neone else. I remember saying "you hit me! You fucking hit me!". I had never hated someone so much withing those next minutes.
He dragged me down the stairs to the kitchen and threw me in a chair. "If you dont fucking kill yourself, I'll do it for yoU!" he screamed. I sobbed more and more and continued parying for my grandpa to just help me. I wanted so much to be seven again and play in my grandparents yard. I wanted that innocnence and ignorance of being a child that I had tried so hard to get away from as a pre-teen.
We sat for hours into the morning I cried the whole time. There was various conversation about sending me to a mental institute...that eventually turned into my step-dad feeling horrible for hitting me. I recall him saying "please dont make me do it again", although i dont see as how i MADE him hit me in the first time.
I truly feel horrible for my mom. I love her with all of my being. No matter what. SHe had to grow up witha bipolar/suicidal mother and all of her siblings have turned into druggies who have 3 kids with different fathers. Watching her cry that night was painful because I didn't mean to make her upset with me. The last ting I wanted was for her to want me out of her life. When she said "I can't live like this again Rachel" my heart broke. A part of her wanted me out of her life.
I was sick of making people unhappy. My entire life I've struggle to be perfect to everyone. I battle with the mirror everyday...and going to school and being surrounded by 110 lb girls doesn't help at all. Especially when they start calling themselves "fat". I feel pressure to live up to so many different standards. I suppose I simply want to be loved. In my mind being loved involved meeting the requirments of every person I met. Me being angry at myself that night once again caused someone to be angry with me. It was a never ending cycle and I was stuck in a cyclone of hate.
The next morning I remembered everything as I looked in the mirror at the gash above my left eye. The bruise was huge and it hurt me to know that my first black eye was givin to me by my step-father.
Now my mom has decided to put me in therapy. I'm told my outlook on life is negetive and the way I view things isn't healthy. The part I dont understand is that if MY view is bad...and it needs to be changed....does that mean I"M bad? If they change my view...they're ultimetly changing me and the way I've learned everything. will I exist anymore? Will I still be me? Does anyone really want me to be me...if I am so imperfect. Yet I will ahve to change. They'll make me. And so are the memoirs of the night that it all caught up with me.
Saturday night I went to the movies. My parents tell me to call them
when I get somewhere and when I leave. I always forget no matter what.
Well I came home after the movies and sat in the driveway with a friend of mine. We listened to music and joked around. I was oblivious to the amount of time that had passed since we got there. I finally remembered I dind't call my parents when I went to leave and freaked out. SO I said goodbye and hopped out of my friends car.
I was in a rush but in the midst of it all the stars still caught my attention. They made me stop dead in my tracks. I was drawn to them like I had never been before and was really really happy for some odd reason. I stood for a few minutes just stareing until the light in my garage turned on. I ran to the front doot exepecting my parents to be slightly upset. However my step-dad (whos a very intimidating person when hes mad) stormed up to me, and three inches from my face screamed about me being a selfish insignificant little bitch. He yelled at me and backed me into a corner.
At this point I was shakin in fear because my step-dad does not control himself when he gets mad. I was mad at myself for making my mom worry that something coul've happened. I'm so forgetful and stupid, and I understood that. Howevere I also feel that my parents should've heard the music in the driveway and may have been intelligent enough to take the time to glance out the window and see where the pulsing beat was coming from.
Anyhow, my dad screamed at me to "give him my fucking cell phone". I threw my purse on the ground and huddled in the corner shaking. I was yelling "I'm sorry, I'm Sorry" over and over agian. He took the cell phone and sat down in the living room. They ignored me for about 10 minutes while I sat sobbing in teh corner scared. My mom came donstairs and told me to go upstairs and go to bed.
Honestly I was so empty at that point. I had no emotion, no desire, no want, no need, only pure emptyness. I was void of all purpose. I gathered my purse (the contents of which had spilled all over the floor) and quietly walked up the stairs to my room.
Once in my room I sat on the floor and grabbed my Bible. I flipped open that book letting the pages grace my fingertips. I hoped that maybe I could find an answer in the book that I had been raised on by my Grandparents. I remember all Saturday night wanting moer then ever for the spirit of my Grandfather to come and hold me. I wanted the one man that had loved me wholly and truly to comfort me. He never came. And as I paryed that I could open the Bible to a page that might help me in my struggle....I found my parayers unanswered. I opened to a page of meaningless scripture. I grabbed a pair of scissors laying by my nightstand. I scratched my forearm in an effort to remind myself that I was a bad person, that I will never make anyone happy, and that I was full of inperfections that will never go away.
I had no intent of killing myself. I never have. There is this void in my mind whenever I think about death. The massive blank between concivable and unknown. Death has always struck me as an untouchable place. I myself do not have the power to bring about my own death. I dont deserve to think of myself so special that I can kill myself. In all reality I'm scared of death, because no one knows what truly happens when one passes.
My mom walked into my room, the words "Fuck off!" came out of my mouth before I even thought about them. She was trying to tell me someting about them caring about me but anger was still tainting her voice. Tears ran down my cheeks as I screamed "Fuck off!!!!" one more time and she ran out of my room. I threw my scissors down and huddled in a ball. Sobbing uncontrollably. My step-dad stormed into the room then. For some unknown reason I grabbed my scissors...its as if I felt they were my only comfort. Thats when I was hit. My step-dad lashed out smacking me in the face. I suppose he thought mayeb I was trying to hurt him. I wasn't though. It was all about me...not about neone else. I remember saying "you hit me! You fucking hit me!". I had never hated someone so much withing those next minutes.
He dragged me down the stairs to the kitchen and threw me in a chair. "If you dont fucking kill yourself, I'll do it for yoU!" he screamed. I sobbed more and more and continued parying for my grandpa to just help me. I wanted so much to be seven again and play in my grandparents yard. I wanted that innocnence and ignorance of being a child that I had tried so hard to get away from as a pre-teen.
We sat for hours into the morning I cried the whole time. There was various conversation about sending me to a mental institute...that eventually turned into my step-dad feeling horrible for hitting me. I recall him saying "please dont make me do it again", although i dont see as how i MADE him hit me in the first time.
I truly feel horrible for my mom. I love her with all of my being. No matter what. SHe had to grow up witha bipolar/suicidal mother and all of her siblings have turned into druggies who have 3 kids with different fathers. Watching her cry that night was painful because I didn't mean to make her upset with me. The last ting I wanted was for her to want me out of her life. When she said "I can't live like this again Rachel" my heart broke. A part of her wanted me out of her life.
I was sick of making people unhappy. My entire life I've struggle to be perfect to everyone. I battle with the mirror everyday...and going to school and being surrounded by 110 lb girls doesn't help at all. Especially when they start calling themselves "fat". I feel pressure to live up to so many different standards. I suppose I simply want to be loved. In my mind being loved involved meeting the requirments of every person I met. Me being angry at myself that night once again caused someone to be angry with me. It was a never ending cycle and I was stuck in a cyclone of hate.
The next morning I remembered everything as I looked in the mirror at the gash above my left eye. The bruise was huge and it hurt me to know that my first black eye was givin to me by my step-father.
Now my mom has decided to put me in therapy. I'm told my outlook on life is negetive and the way I view things isn't healthy. The part I dont understand is that if MY view is bad...and it needs to be changed....does that mean I"M bad? If they change my view...they're ultimetly changing me and the way I've learned everything. will I exist anymore? Will I still be me? Does anyone really want me to be me...if I am so imperfect. Yet I will ahve to change. They'll make me. And so are the memoirs of the night that it all caught up with me.