Cut: an Autobiography- Trigger Warning-

Her name was Ally. She was my best guy-friends’ sister. She was older than I was by two years. Ally carried one of those black messenger bags adorned with pins, buttons, and patches. Her jeans were always ripped and her Slipknot shirts were always one size too big. I never spoke to her much. Her brother, Jose, adored her.

Jose and I met in seventh grade in drama class. I was sitting in the second-to-last row and Jose sat directly behind me. Our first day there, all of the students had to whip up a comedic skit and present it that same hour. Jose and I were paired. I forgot what the skit was about, but I do remember it being hilarious. We were friends ever since.

Being the 13-year-olds that we were, we shared secrets, feelings, dreams, and confessions. By this time, I was already being abused and was having an understandably hard time with life. I told him one day on the swing set that I wished, more than anything, to find a way to make the pain stop. He held my hand and thought very hard for a few minutes. Then, gently, he offered a possible solution.

“Ally cuts herself.”

Surprisingly, I had never heard of such a thing. I had self-mutilated my body before in different fashions, but I never knew that there was a name-not only a name, but an entire subculture. I looked at him inquisitively.

“I don’t know. She says it helps her go numb or some shit. She uses a razor blade.”

And just like that, I had found my solution.

That same night after our long talk on the swing set, I retreated to the safety of my bathroom. My grandma was sound asleep in her room and my grandpa was watching telenovelas. I carefully pulled out a razor blade from the medicine cabinet. Sitting on the toilet seat, I raised the left sleeve of my pajamas. My hands were clammy. I rested my arm on the porcelain, pressed the blade against my skin, and pulled. At first, I had only made cat scratches. But as I went on, the deeper the cuts became. My pajama bottoms became stained from the droplets of blood.

I felt an empyreal high. Jose was right. It had brought me great relief. I washed the blade off, and tucked it in a lock tin box I had, where I later kept an arrangement of blades, gauze, a small pair of scissors, and tape.

Now, I know how awfully clichéd this story is. I get it. Half the school, it seemed, listened to My Chemical Romance and wore black and pink checkered wristbands. The campus was full of them: emo kids flipping their bangs out of their face just enough to be able to see the dark poetry they would be scribbling on their hands. For a period of time, I was one of them. I purchased a God-awful amount of merchandise from Hot Topic. Chokers, black and green striped knee-high socks, black bracelets, safety pin earrings.

Cutting was a thing. It was subculture that quickly bloomed like red plush beneath an Exacto-knife. It gave people a sense of community. Misery loves company, I suppose.

I admit at first that I had felt some pride about being a “cutter.” As the scars developed, I was satisfied with myself. It wasn’t until my cousin draped my body over the bed that I realized I had a problem.

It was just like all the other nights. It was 12am. My grandparents were asleep. My cousin, who worked from home nocturnally, took a break. I had done this several times before. I knew exactly what to do. I escaped my body momentarily and watched us from the ceiling. Watched numbingly as he peeled articles of clothing off of me. Off came my pants. A gasp escaped from his lips and he pulled back. I was jolted back into my body. His face softened and I felt a lump in my throat. I had missed this tenderness.

“Baby, what did you do?”

It had been fine before. The cutting, I mean. I never thought it as dangerous. He ran his fingers over hours-old welts. He was shocked. I had at least 300 cuts on my body… my thighs, arms, hips, stomach, chest, anywhere I could reach. “Why did you do this?” I had no words for him. I knew he knew why. He wasn’t stupid. He’s a rapist, a pedophile, and a destroyer- but not a stupid man. He pulled me into his chest and I could hear him begin to cry.

A seemingly juvenile coping mechanism had turned into a ten year addiction.

Despite the countless nights of enduring my cousin, I had missed and longed for this paternal part of him. Perhaps it was Stockholm Syndrome. I let him cradle me and I felt safe. Little did I know that this act in itself was potentially more dangerous for me then the abuse; I quickly learned that my self-inflicted wounds served as a protective shield. The cuts bought me time. With each gash, he took on the paternal, caring role. Now, I realize that this was HIS game. I would take my clothes off willingly, because I was under the notion that he would check me every night out of concern. I thought that he cared. I often look back on my very visible scars on my thighs and remember that night on my bed, as my cousin held me, weeping.

I’ve read somewhere that the victim of incest and early sexual abuse can become wildly sexually confused and could essentially muddle compassion with arousal, so on so forth. I am ashamed to say this, for multiple reasons. However, I will say it in hopes that A) I’m not alone and B) maybe someone could know THEY’RE not alone. During some of these nights of check-ups, cuddling and “therapy” talks, I became aroused.

The cutting continued. Slowly, my family members began to notice the scars and long sleeves. Multiple interventions were held in my living room in efforts to get me to consider going to a adolescent rehab facility. While each person read words of concern from tiny sheets of paper, my cousin sat next to me, hand on my knee, making sure the family knew that he was my foundation. And no one suspected a thing.

This post was inspired by this Tumblr pic:

It made me think. I had never seen a self-harm picture that resonated with me like this one.

I am still addicted to cutting. The blade, ironically enough, has saved my life on many occasions. I struggle with it nearly every day. It does bother me that cutting has been equated to a fashion trend. It’s not. It’s cunning, dangerous, and destructive.

If you’re reading this and you also struggle with self-harm, I’d like to personally let you know that you are worth more than this addiction, and I love you.


Princess of Wales

I had a small nervous breakdown yesterday while at work. It seemed that the flashbacks came on unexpectedly. I was unable to hold onto myself. The walls begun to cave in and I was left pushing the trap away from my body. Unfortunately, the way I currently know how to protect myself is through self harm.

I numbingly hacked away at my thighs, my hips, my stomach, my ribs, some of my wrist and throat. All the while, I was not feeling anything- no pain. Just absurdity at one point. 250 scrapes, scratches, and welts.

(The night before that, I had experienced my first full-force panic attack. I thought I was going to either have a heart attack or stroke. My chest tightened, my body went numb, my eyes went black and I couldn’t breathe. I could barely stand.)

Without going into too much detail, I’m constantly recalling fractions and filaments of my molestation. Now the images are unfamiliar and very, very fucking frightening. Fingers pushing through until I see red. Pressure. “Don’t resist. It hurts more when you resist.”

My ever-wonderful girlfriend took us to a beginner’s pottery class last night. She is well-seasoned in the clay craft. I am not. However, I had tons of fun and it got my mind off of the inevitable suffering that is my mind.

I have another therapy appointment on Thursday. I feel that I have been shooting down the rabbit hole with such ferocity lately. My mind has decided to split into more unattainable pieces. I know that the only way out is through. I’m just having a really, ridiculously difficult time sitting with the pain. A large part of me wishes that I could package this all up again and tuck it away some place that I wouldn’t find it again.

Then, I wonder why I had spun out of control last year to begin with. I remember the day where my girlfriend plucked me from my bathtub, naked and partly lost in psychosis. I remember the several days where I would stay home from work; I’d pull the curtains shut, drink, shoot, crush and inhale until I was floating in my own delirium. I would lie curled on the tear-soaked carpet for hours, staring so intensely into the wall ahead of me, I swear I’ve drilled a hole in it.

DBSA and a Glass of Moscato

Well, something absolutely incredible happened.

I decided to take myself to a Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) group last night. I’m very happy I did. Everyone was so welcoming and they LISTENED. The group leader used to be in the Church of Scientology, which I found to be quite amazing. I felt like I truly belonged in that group. 

2 hours later, I left group therapy and returned home. My grandmother and aunt were home as usual. I happily sat at the dining room table (mostly because the air conditioning was blowing right now me) and I picked up my DID book. 

After about an hour or so after I got home, my aunt began to iron some of her clothes next to the table. We were on the topic of Scientology for some reason. I told her about the guy I had met in group therapy earlier that afternoon. She perked up and asked me, “Why are you in group therapy?”

Just a reminder- I have not talked to my aunt in YEARS. Sure, we exchange polite hellos and awkward smiles. We have NEVER had an in depth conversation; never mind that she’s my godmother. 

Just hours before this moment, I had been sitting in a room with fellow bipolarneers, spilling out all of my hurt because I felt like a prisoner at home. I had to keep my mental health under wraps because no one has ever cared to listen to me in the family. No one has ever validated my depression. They had just summed it up to angst and poor behaviour. At least, in my own opinion.

I’ve never seen my aunt perk up this excitedly. I told her I was in group therapy to manage my depression and bipolar disorder. She stopped ironing, actually LOOKED at me and said, “Yeah, I have major depressive disorder.” 

I knew my aunt was depressed and I knew she was on medication. I suppose that A) it was never talked about and B) WE especially didn’t talk about it ever because we didn’t talk in general.

I told her about my outpatient treatment I received not too long ago. She asked me if I have ever considered medication. I told her I’m on Lithium. She hurried off to the bedroom and brought back a pill bottle with her.

Celexa. She’s also taking tranquilizers.

We talked a little bit more about our depression, and my grandma also listened…which was a big deal for me. There was no judgement. No one made it this huge deal. My grandma said, “Well, for me, prayer is my therapy…and my father always told me that sometimes people talk to themselves because there isn’t anyone more intelligent around them. So I talk to myself all the time.” We all shared in a laugh.

Then, my aunt scurried to the kitchen. She called me to come open her wine bottle. I poured her a usual glass, small. She laughed and said, “Well I’m going to need more than that!” 

She was actually talking to me. It was as if the veil of bullshit lifted off and we both understood and empathized with one another. Sure, there’s a lot more to absolve and work out. But this was a HUGE breakthrough. 

Even my grandma had a glass of wine, which is completely out of her character. It was surreal. But I loved it. What a wonderful relief it was.

I had finished reading my DID sourcebook. Today, I’m planning on bringing some ideas to the system. There were some awesome, workable tips I read about, and I’m looking forward to implenting them. 

On a sidenote, I barely slept at all last night. I’m feeling alright. I think it was just a bit of insomnia.

The Child’s Ten Year Suicide 

I spent yesterday packing boxes from my former apartment, meticulously studying my memories, my items. It’s then that I came across a blue binder full of poetry, short stories, drawings I had written throughout my younger years.

The letters begin from 2004. I was 12-years-old. The topics of my stories were sexually explicit, contained suicide ideation, physical abuse, and mental health. So much of my poetry revolved around “the voices.”

I don’t even remember drawing and writing these things. It’s chilling.

My heart aches for my younger self. I truly was hurting, I was trapped and the signs were all there. At least to my knowledge, no one noticed the suicide letters I had used as bookmarks. No one noticed the doodles I’d made of a girl hanging from a tree.

The first time that there was widespread alarm for my mental stability was when I was 13, in 7th grade. I had written a short story, 6 pages long, titled, “Find Me, Anthony.” The story revolves around the main character, Lark, who narrates from within a mental institution. She’s a sex addict, mute for 11 months, a witness to her mother’s battery and abuse, an observer to the casual world encompassing her. She has never felt love. Finally, in the end, she finally speaks to her therapist. This was written just months after I was raped by my cousin.

A lot of those words seem to have held true all these years. Looking back, I want so badly to sit there with my young self, hold her, love her. Life continued to spin around me, yet in the midst of it all, I stood there feeling absolutely neglected. I remember thinking, “If only my Dad were alive, he wouldn’t let this happen to me. He would protect me.” That’s where Allie filled the void; all I wanted was love. I wanted someone to hold me and love me, accept me. It breaks my heart to look back on the little girl who would flee to the bathroom when her grandfather was belligerently screaming, only finding solace and desperately seeking love from her imaginary friend.

It’s hard to admit that a lot of my hurt and depression stemmed from the basic desire of just wanting my mom to brush my hair at bedtime, but being so fucking helpless. She was gone. And my dad, I wanted nothing more than to throw a baseball and have him catch it. How is it fair that at 4-years-old, instead of him teaching me how to read, I was throwing small fistfuls of dirt over his casket at his funeral? I still miss him. I hold on to my memories of him. I never talk about them, in order to keep them sacred. But now, I want him here with me. I wanted to share my first car with him. I want him to teach me things about mechanics, about tools, anything…. about life. I want him to worry about me on my drive home. I want him to just be a phone call away when I need him.

God this hurts. I’m 23 and this still hurts like it happened yesterday.

Anyways, I rambled. The point is, it’s painful looking back on that child, and I realize that I’m hurting just the same, and I’m desperate just the same for release.

Lesson Learned, Take Your Meds

Good morning everyone, good afternoon for some. I am tired, yet in a much better mood! This weekend was difficult. As my recent posts have indicated, I have been feeling rather floopered and suicidal. This weekend was no exception. Friday night….I don’t even want to discuss Friday.

Saturday, I woke up on my sofa, still drunk from the night before- I hadn’t taken my medication (or the night before) and I decided it would be a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine instead.
I had been throwing up hours prior to this. Every 15 minutes I would wake up, disappointed that I was even in existence. After I woke up, I tried to pull myself together and drank some water. My ex came out of the bedroom, already dressed, and said, “I’m staying at my mom’s for the weekend.” Off he went.

I was alone. I flew into panic mode. Separation anxiety I suppose. I closed all of the blinds in the house, threw sheets over them to make it darker, and listened to the saddest damn music I could find. I sobbed and paced circles in my living room clutching scissors in my fist, pausing periodically to etch bits into my wrists and thighs. I crumbled into a ball on the floor, shivering with depression, really thinking, “Why can’t I just kill myself already?”

My girlfriend continued to text me throughout the day. Half of me felt bad and I didn’t want her to know that I was once again so close to placing my head in the oven. The other half of me believed she was angry and really didn’t give a flying fuck what the hell I was doing- which made me feel worse.
I was home alone, felt to deal with my suicidal thoughts and the hallucinations. How the hell did I survive that…?

She came to my house later in the afternoon on Saturday. I felt better with her there. It took a while for my insides to stop feeling so tormented, but sure enough, I began to feel more stable.
Sunday morning was much better. I felt more grounded and actually felt motivated to do something. The morning was a little tough, physically. I hadn’t eaten in two days nor had I been on my meds. I took 300 mg of lithium in the morning and my body freaked out, shaking hard and involuntarily. After a few minutes it passed. I was also sweating through the night on Saturday, even though I was freezing.

But- Sunday got better. And I felt happier in the end. We did some laundry, and she helped me find a pill container to help me take my meds! Hooray! I also wrote down some affirmations to counter the negative, “you are so worthless, nobody loves you” thoughts.

I really do want to get better. I want to be able to be me again, to feel strong and secure in myself, even through muck. I think I can do it!

The Black Wooly Bear

Last night, I had a dream about lots of caterpillars in my house and in my bed specifically. I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt of caterpillars at all…

This morning, while I was walking my dogs in the morning, a black, wooly caterpillar was laying in my path. I’ve never seen this kind of caterpillar in my area- I’ve only seen them in New Mexico. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one at all at home. Coincidence?

So, I wet searching for symbolism information like I usually do, because the universe has a cool way of dropping encouragement my way when I need it the most.

Here’s what I found:

Caterpillars are associated with good luck and new birth.  In the second stage of metamorphosis the caterpillar feeds to gain strength and build a foundation before the cocooning stage begins.  The caterpillar represents new birth and new foundation and is a symbol of good luck in the early phase of life-changing actions.

Caterpillars herald a time of good news, new birth, and creative inspiration, signaling a time to get ready to start a new project or initiate a new endeavors.

The appearance of the caterpillar reminds us to be cautious in starting our new endeavors.  We should protect and disguise them as much as possible as we pursue them. If we do so, we will see rapid growth and we will experience the birth of a new foundation.

Caterpillars can also indicate obstacles within our path. They may even indicate that a person or persons are blocking our growth or serve as a reminder that we must look at things and people around us realistically at this time. Failure to do so will slow down our progress.

And caterpillar also reminds us that new growth cannot occur unless the old is shed as the caterpillar grows quickly and must replace its skills with some caterpillars shedding their skins every few days to make room for a bigger body. A caterpillar showing up may indicate that we are refusing to shed the old that we have outgrown.

That last paragraph really got me. “New growth cannot occur unless the old is shed…”

Today, I’m going to talk to my Senior Vice President about going on disability. I’m nervous as hell, but I’ll take my wooly friend as a good omen.


Rapid Cycling, a Guest Writer, and PNES


I am cycling faster than an Olympic Triathlete. And I’m tired of it.

I am depleted, depressed, deranged, and desperate. I want to say the hallucinations are better, but with the influx of anxiety at work, I am still swimming through teeming auditory hallucinations. I’m frustrated. I am not a fun person to be around right now. Every little thing sets me off either into a fuming rage, or into a morose melancholy in which I sit in to ponder my existential purpose.

On top of this, I want a drink. OH I want a tequila shot. Or a glass of wine. I’m itching and I cannot remedy the cravings with grape juice anymore.

On another note, I’d like to introduce a guest writer- my girlfriend. I wanted her to recall what happened on Thursday night, since I feel it’s important.

Without much further ado, COME ON DOWWWWWNNNNNNNN

 In regards to what happened last night, there was a certain familiarity to the situation. There was a loss of touch with reality, a sense of fear (mostly emanating from me), and what I would describe as a kind of takeover.

Simply enough, she and I were laying in bed. She sat up and blankly stared ahead. I asked what was wrong, and she told me she didn’t feel too well – that she felt a bit hypoglycemic. So off I went into the kitchen to get a glass of whatever I could find which ended up being some flat soda. After drinking it, her hands stopped shaking and she just laid back down. No more than 10 minutes had passed after this incident when I got up to get dressed. I stood at the edge of the bed while she began to sit up and addressed me. She looked at me mischievously, and in the most tauntingly devious, callous tone of voice she began to talk. This was the dialogue:

“Oh, you don’t want to fuck me first?”


“I fucked you, why wouldn’t you fuck me?”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Come here baby, *makes kissy noises* OH, I loooove you.”

At this, she began to slyly grin. Her hand was reaching out for me – she wanted me to come sit down next to her. She dropped her gaze, bowed her head, with her hand still in the air, she got really quiet and began to cry. I sat down and looked at her and asked her to come back to me, since she was far gone at this point. When she stopped crying, she looked up with a manic grin behind her eyes, and I realized she was dripping blood from her mouth. She looked at me in the same way she had just moments before, and said “You’re sure you don’t want to fuck me now? Come on babe, I’m right here.” This is when she began to have what appeared to be a seizure. It was a slow onset; she began shaking lightly, then more and more violently. This lasted for about a minute and half. As she shook, blood dripped from her mouth, down her chin, and onto her thigh. I wiped it up with my hands and went to go get a towel or something in the bathroom. I was gone less than ten seconds, and when I came back her head was back down and she was no longer ‘seizing’. Her voice changed to the voice I’m most familiar with, and a meek “I don’t feel well, babe” escaped her lips.

I pulled her towards me, and she was confused. I asked her to get dressed, to put her pants on. She kept coming back to me. Her eyes slowly unglazed and she came back to reality. I guided her to the bathroom and when she saw herself in the mirror she asked why she was bleeding. We then realized that she had bitten and chewed the inside of her lip and that’s where the blood was coming from (this to much a relief for me, since my first thought was that she had been back to using drugs without my knowledge; this wouldn’t be the first time she bled from her mouth in that manner).

She, for a couple of minutes, had completely dissociated and removed herself from present time. She had no recollection of what had happened. She remembered laying down after drinking the flat cola, then coming to, when I was asking her to put her pants on.

All I could do was lay back down with her, assuring her everything was okay, that I loved her and that I was here for her.

Also, because she cares so much for me, or maybe she was just scared out of her mind (because who wouldn’t be), she did a little research and learned about Psychogenic NonEpileptic Seizures (PNES). According this website:

“PNES are attacks that may look like epileptic seizures, but are not caused by abnormal brain electrical discharges. They are a manifestation of psychological distress. Frequently, patients with PNES may look like they are experiencing generalized convulsions similar to tonic clonic seizures with falling and shaking. Less frequently, PNES may mimic absence seizures or complex partial seizures with temporary loss of attention or staring.

A specific traumatic event, such as physical or sexual abuse, incest, divorce, death of a loved one, or other great loss or sudden change, can be identified in many patients with PNES.”

I’m not self diagnosing. I will bring this up to my doctor, however, does anyone out there have feedback, and/or experience with PNES, or dissociation? I want to know I’m not alone here.

I wrote this to my girlfriend yesterday and it describes how I feel:

I feel as if the dust of my childhood had settled for years and years on the attic floor, untouched and unbothered by light or a footstep. Now, I’ve let people into the attic- doors and windows splayed open. The wind is tossing all of the dust into a flurry, illuminated by bright sunlight. And I’m in the middle of it all, gazing at the floor, remembering that the wood panels below had etchings and designs. My lungs are contracting, wheezing, and coughing from all of the dust. All the while, everyone else around me is well equipped with masks.

I think that through group, I have been rustling up my past memories. Yesterday I actually had a flashback to my molestation. As I ran to the restroom at work, I kept thinking over and over, there’s nowhere for me to hide. Not a crease, nor crack. There is no place where the pain won’t reach me. So, I cried in the stall and cut my wrist to quiet it down.

My girlfriend made a great point (again. She’s great). In regards to me telling her that I don’t think I’m getting better- I mean I WAS feeling better, but I crashed again. She said that when I was first admitted, I handled the immediate situation. I got meds, I was in therapy, I talked out my immediate issues and felt better. However, we all now that mental illness isn’t cured by wiping the superficial grime off of ourselves; I began digging deeper and finally hit the center of my earth. My childhood and past. It’s hitting me like a truck now.

I know I’ll be alright, though. I need to keep thanking those around me for simply being there for me. I’m a wreck right now.

Goldie and Micah’s Anathema

I haven’t been on in a few days- I have lots of comments to answer to!

Firstly, thank you for the birthday wishes, everyone! I had a fantastic day. I binged on Netflix whilst wearing my PJs and snacking. Allie hung out with me on my birthday throughout the day. Then, I went to my girlfriend’s house and spent much needed quality time with her. It was absolutely the perfect ending to my birthday.

On Sunday…I didn’t do much. Allie was chattery and all over the place. I felt as if she was pin balling everywhere, with all kinds of ideas and thoughts. I couldn’t contain her. Then, she reminded me of Micah’s foreboding anathema, and my stomach cramped. He had so graciously given me “50 days left,” and now those 50 days are done on March 26th.

Therefore, my anxiety has been all over the boards.

I’ve been queasy, sometimes unable to hold even water down. Last night, I hardly slept, being awoken by my own nightmares, then another episode startled me. I’ll get to that in one second.

Monday I had group. It was a bit emotionally arduous- not only for myself, but because I’ve developed an empathetic connection to these people and when they hurt, I hurt. It sounds selfish to say it, but I relate to one of the girls so well, I lost myself to my own painful memories yesterday.

During group, my therapist asked me if I heard voices. I said yes. Then, she asked me if they were ever religious- which was relevant to the group conversation. I said yes and proceeded to tell her about this one very awful entity. This is a story for another time. All you need to know is his initial begins with H, and he is one million times worse than M. He manifested from an obsession I had with the ouija board. I swore to myself I would never say his name aloud. Yet, I did. And he appeared. He’s with me now, draining my life force away from me.

Also, something else happened over the weekend that kind of hit a nerve. A very sensitive, touchy nerve and it sent me spinning through my own head. So, during group, I processed about how I felt as if I am unloveable “forever.” In my personal opinion, I think people fall in love with me quickly because I’m interesting. They’re fascinated with my fucked up mentality…but soon they realize that I’m batshit, and that I’m work. I’m hard work. Whether or not this statement is true is irrelevant, because due to said circumstance, a little piece of my heart irreparably scintillated and seared on Sunday.

And surprise, a new one introduced herself to me. Her name is Goldie. She’s a tough cookie. Allie brought her in as a reinforcement, because she’s worried. Allie has also brought back Celia as my “emotional accountant.”

Last night, through my nightmares and all, I woke up, and realized I was standing in front of my body mirror, conversing with Goldie. She spoke through me in her badass Jersey accent. She put me to bed when she realized I was awake, and told me not to worry about it anymore.

My girlfriend was scared because the other night, Allie spoke to her for a split second through me. I think I just let her slip out.

She’s been talking to me a lot, along with Allie, and now Celia is here, asking questions. I feel that I am losing my grip on reality, slowly. Which is fucked up because tomorrow is my LAST day at the hospital. I’m not ready. I need help. I’m slipping and I don’t want to admit because c’mon: all this time, after the meds, after therapy, I’m still not better?

I know this sounds stupid, but I feel possessed. I hate it.

Dissecting Fear- Trigger Warning- Rape and Abuse

WARNING- Sexually explicit content. Readers’ discretion advised.
Trigger warning: sexual abuse, rape

I’m sitting here, trying to dissect my fears regarding sex, sex with men. This is a personally therapeutic post. You don’t even need to read it. I’m going to disclose information I’ve never disclosed..

For the purpose of channeling my inner fucked up innocence, this song brings out the worst in me: 

I think things really went south when my 38 year old cousin decided to fuck me when I was 12 years old. This went on for 6 months. He would threaten me not to tell anyone. I was held against a wall at knifepoint when I was 13 because I asked him, “What happens if I get pregnant?” When I told my grandfather that I was raped (I didn’t say by who), he responded with, “It’s the woman’s fault.”

When I was 14, I was kidnapped from my middle school in broad daylight. I was taken into a van, given a pill, and was forced to give oral sex. There were two men, I’d guess 18-22 in the van wearing bandanas. After blacking out half way through, I came to my senses, stumbling in the back alley of a dangerous neighborhood. Fortunately and unfortunately, I don’t remember much from the incident, and they got away with it. I never saw the van again.

When I was 18, I was gang raped by 4 men during a frat party in college. I woke up in a strange bed next to some 35 year old man named Manny. He proceeded to give me a high-five and told me that I had the best ass he’s ever had.

The years in between are filled by several cat-calls, gropes and grabs, and name calling.

Through all this abuse, I’ve taken on sex as something I could use against men. It sounds odd, I’m obsessively flirtatious with men. I think it’s my subconscious’ way of taking power of the situation. Although, it’s the wrong way to do it.

In my early adulthood, I learned to sell my body for heroin, alcohol, coke, and anything else I needed at the time. I’ve been so numb to it all these years, I hadn’t thought about the real pain I’ve been carrying around from the first moment of abuse.

Sorry for the upsetting post. Any kind of support would be welcomed, however. This therapy shit is hard. I’m definitely in a vulnerable state of mind.

Thanks for reading

Washing Down My Feelings with a 2005 Dry Rose

Morning came and went, passing, crawling. Vodka, sip, sip. Norco crack, split in half. Small scissors scratch, scratch, in the stalls I push more plush from my wrists. Dark, caved-in eyes, darting from the light fixtures on the ceiling, desperately answering back to chimerical chatter.

Then, the high is gone, the vodka wears off. I’m empty, emptier, emptiest.

Well, not so empty. It’s not so bad. Although the thought I want to kill myself flew by more than once against the wallpaper of my corneas.

She took me to my favorite store ever, World Market. They have everything. Anyways, I broke my own heart. I was looking around at items, things I really wanted, little things like tea. And I had the thought, “What’s the point of acquiring more physical items? It just means more clean up for people when I die. It’ll just take up space.” Then, I stepped back for a second because I had scared myself so badly. I know I have this sick, perverted love lust for suicide, but I think it really shook me up inside actually planning and thinking about the aftermath of my death.

So, I bought some Hello Panda chocolate just to hold onto life a little bit longer. I don’t really want to die…I just really, really don’t want to feel this pain anymore. I don’t want to be the cause for anyone’s heartbreak.

Now, I’m going to purge because I feel sick with anxiety. I’m going to lay in bed, and I’m going to try to not think about being stupid and taking another hydrocodone.

Thanks for reading through my morose soliloquies. I know it’s a bummer. This depressive episode has been a rocky, sticky one to say the least.

And thanks for everyone that has been supporting me, commenting and such. It helps. Just knowing someone is reading this and cares enough to comment back helps my heart. It really does!