I haven't posted in a really long time, because I didn't think to. I should have posted sooner. I guess part of me didn't want you lot to know anything was wrong. I'm kind of ashamed that I'm not fully recovered yet, and I feel like a hypocrite.

Good news: My stalker seems to have disappeared after a final, rather painful attack.

Bad news: This is an anniversary time of year for me, and I've been suffering. I've had constant nightmares and I've been cutting almost every day. I cut every day for twelve days straight, stopped for three, (it was supposed to be at least a week, but I didn't make it) and have cut again for the last four days. I want to stop, I NEED to stop, but I can't seem to. This is particularly bad because the blood tends to make me dissociate, so I've been almost constantly dissociated in one form or another for nearly twenty days. I can't keep going like this! So far the only person who really knows is my therapist. I'm terrified that someone else will see, or find out. Can anyone help me please?

At the end of last school year, I suddenly found I had a stalker. It took me a while to figure this out, as I'm not very observant, but after he came up to me and started rubbing my leg one day, I kind of guessed. I had several incidents with this man, most of which fall into the category "the height of creepy" one of which was terrifying. (He was angry at me.) The problem was that I'd freeze up whenever he started doing something, or even just came close to me. However, it was the very end of the school year, so it didn't last very long before I went home.

Then I came back.

Almost immediately I noticed him hanging around my workplace. I have been trying to avoid him, but he keeps following me. I've had two encounters so far, one where he pushed me down a flight of cement stairs (I got lucky, I just have a few bad bruises from that. I thought at first that my arm had broken, but it's just badly bruised.) and then one last night where he cornered me and punched me. Apparently he's upset that I cut my hair over the summer. I had no intention of telling anyone, and made up a story for the bruising on my arm, but the one on my face was harder to hide. Make-up was insufficient, and I was too rattled to come up with a good lie. Long story short, my friend and my roommate noticed almost as soon as I walked into the room, campus security was called, the police were called, and so was my RA.

I feel horrible. I should be glad, I guess that everyone knows, that I don't have to keep lying, that I don't have to hide it. But instead, I think I've done something really really stupid. What if he goes after them? What if he decides he likes them better, so he'd rather stalk them? I feel awful too, because I'm so sick of being "that girl." You know, the one with all the problems. I hate being the reason my friends are called out in the middle of the night. I hate being the problem child. I don't know what to do, I was trying to avoid that this time, but it all exploded in my face. I'm scared too that he'll come back. I mean, historically he always does, but it scares me that it could happen again. I'm scared of being hurt again.

I just feel like such a victim.

i think it's finally driven my insaneI think it's finally gotten to me no not its his not it's hhe's finally driven me insane i can't take this I heard his footsteps to ngight and then his hands on me throwning me down and I felll I fell i feel the hurt through tmy hand my arm my shoulder i feel it it hurts it hurst so much and my eyes water from it from my arm my leg my cheek butg my arm my arm it hurts is it broken I don't know byut it hurts and i have fallen and i lie there and he bends over me and says oops and is gone and it hurts oh it hurts want to scream but already the panic and shock grip my chest and i can'tbreathe i lie there and hje's back and im scared i'm so scared i think i die of the fear pain and oh it hurts i can't move myu hand but i can it just hurts i can handle theis pain i cna and i must because no one canknow oh but it hurts that he's back it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurts it hurts it hurts help me

This was an assignment my therapist gave me--to write a letter to my little self right after I was abused. After I wrote it, I felt that I should post it. I don't care if anyone comments on it, this was for me. It's part of some in-depth work I've been doing in therapy. I don't really have anything else to say. Stay strong everyone!

Dear Little Me,

I'm sorry. I need to start with an apology. I know what's coming for you, and I'm sorry for it. It's not going to be pretty, it's not going to be fun, it's not going to leave you unmarked in many senses of the word. I'm not saying you won't have your good moments, but there won't be as many of them as there should be. There will be nightmares. Worse than you can imagine. Or, more accurately, exactly as bad as you can imagine. There will be times when you would swear that you're there again, with him. Times when you want to die. Times when you expect to die. The fear you felt with him? You're going to feel that many more times before you're done with it. Even I don't know how many more times, but it will be a lot. You will think yourself alone, and in many ways, you will be. Not just because of what he did, but also because of what you will do. You will push everyone away. You won't want to, or mean to, but you will be so convinced of your aloneness, so focused on the past, that you will push away people who want to be close. Who want to help. You will spend years protecting them, needless, hopeless years where you will feel trapped. Even after you release them to what you think will happen, your fear, your paralyzing fear, will keep you from trusting them. From trusting anyone. It will be a very long time before you trust anyone. Even then, part of you will be waiting for them to attack. To hurt you. You will expect pain. You're going to hurt. And because you can't hold that hurt in, you will make it a real, physical pain. You will give yourself scars to bear visibly, because you won't be able to stand feeling the pain that you can't see. You will do stupid things. Things you know you shouldn't, because you will think it doesn't matter anymore. You will do what you think you have to in order to survive. In order to seem normal. In order to not upset anyone. You will go to great lengths. I wish I could tell you not to do these things, not to let them happen, not to feel this way, to be this way, but I can't. You will do most of these things, knowing, even as you do them, that they are not good things to do. That they are not the right things to do. But you will do them anyway. You will, at times, be so caught up in your own pain, that you will fail to notice the pain you are causing others. You will lose yourself. You will try so hard to be who you think you should be, who you think you would have been, that you will lose track of who you are. So much so, that, years later, when you realize your mistake, you will be unable to fix it. You will have to construct who you are from a mixture of who you want to be, and who you have turned into.

I can't protect you from all that. You will go through all of it, but you will will survive. You've already survived so much, and if I could prevent the future from hurting you, I would. But I can't. There are things that no force on earth can prevent, and the future is one of them. But I will meet you there, in the future. That's the best that I can promise. That someday, you and I will meet. If Kurt Vonnegut is right, than you and I have already met, are already meeting, have yet to meet. But never mind that. You and I will meet. Your job is to get that far. My job is to take the fractured parts and make them whole. Neither of us have it easy, but I think that you have it harder. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for a lot of things, it seems.

I know you don't understand most of this. Don't let that worry you. Over time, it will all make sense. But, even if the rest of this letter goes to waste, and you forget it all, remember this: What happened was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. He was a bad man, and he deserved much worse than he got. You do not deserve to carry the shame, and if I knew how to take it from you, I would. Unfortunately, it's going to be awhile before you learn to lose that, no matter what I say. Just know, if you can, that I'm sorry. Know that you are loved. Know that you are not alone, no matter what you think. Know that you are better, that you deserve better, that someday, too far off for you to see right now, you will get better, in both senses of the word. I love you. Stay strong.

Love,

Big Me

I'm sorry, this is a bit long and rambling.

I'm so tired of being afraid. I look back on my life, and there's so much fear there, it's leaking out, it's poisonous.

When I was very little, even before the abuse, I was horribly, painfully shy. Afraid of people. People have always been my biggest fear, I suppose. What they're capable of. And I don't care what you're scared of, I can't imagine a fear more debilitating than people. Particularly when you're a kid, because when you're an adult, you can go live off by yourself, but when you're a kid, you have to go to school, have to meet your parents friends, have to go places. When you're older, if you want to be a hermit, no one can stop you. Not when you're little. I'm still shy. Only now I cover it up better. You don't have to act shy to be shy.

Then came my abuse, which, by the way, did not help with my fear of people at all. But it also gave me something else to be afraid of. My abuser threatened everyone around me with horrible things if I ever told. So then I was afraid of him, naturally, but also afraid of myself. I was afraid that I would inadvertently give everything away. Accidentally kill everyone. I wasn't afraid to die, like so many are, but I was terrified of the people around me dying. When people, or even pets, close to me died, I would take it as a warning. As a sign from my abuser. A neon one saying "Don't tell."

But I did. I told, and I was afraid of it all coming true. Because you see, it was out of my hands then. I couldn't control who knew, or what happened. I've been lucky, in that he never followed through with his threats, but terrified still by the looming prospect of death. It's been almost exactly six years since I told, and I'm still terrified that it could happen. Because you see, he made all these threats, but he never said when. Not once did he say when he'd follow through. And people can tell me whatever they want, nothing takes this fear away.

Along the way I picked up other, more...traditional fears. A fear of heights, of bugs, of smells. A fear of eating spoiled food, of getting lost, of getting left. A fear of the future. A fear of not being good enough, of being too good. A fear of addictions, of loss, of blood. That last one has haunted me since February, and is incredibly difficult. You don't realize it, but blood is everywhere, and even the amount of blood caused by a papercut can send me over the edge. A fear of driving. I'm nineteen and I can't drive. The longer I put it off, the scarier it gets. As time passes, it's not just my own driving that scares me, it's everyone else's. A million times a day, I find myself clutching the car seat, as I watch what I'm sure will be my last moments, only to be fine.

I spent my whole life being afraid of ticking people off, of having them hate me. So I danced around, didn't say what I really felt, what I really meant, and tried not to upset anyone. I was so afraid that I'd make my friends angry and they wouldn't want to be my friends anymore. But finally, one day, I said what I was feeling. And you know what? They were so used to me being nice all the time, that they got mad, and now we're not friends anymore. And you know what else? I'm going to be okay. The world didn't end, they didn't come after me with guns, or knives, buildings are still standing, and the sky is still far away. I lost some of my best friends, and that hurts. But it's not worth being afraid all the time. I've survived worse pain. I can survive this. It hurts, but I'm less afraid of losing my friends now. And that, I think, is a good thing.

I'm so tired of being afraid. I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want this half-life existance. I don't want to be afraid to live. But I don't know how to stop. I don't trust people, because I'm so afraid they'll hurt me. Even my no-longer-close friends, I never trusted. I suppose there, at least, I was right not to. But I don't want to live this way. I don't want this. Fear is so tiring. Does anyone know how to make the fear go away? Please. I need this to stop, one way or another. I don't want to be afraid anymore.

Twisted

Lies twisted

Words surround

Things moving

Thoughts gone

Nothing matters

All is pain

 

Bodies twisting

Limbs surround

Things moving

Thoughts gone

Nothing matters

All is pain

 

Lives twisting

Death surrounds

Lips moving

Words gone

Nothing matters

All is pain

 

Cant speak

Can't think

Can't move

Can't breathe

Pain surrounds

Lies for truth

Sleep

Rest

Death

Hope

None

Never again

I had a rough day today. I wasn't going to tell anyone, but I think I need some support. Or if nothing else, maybe I can sort it out better when I see it.

The day was going really well for a while. Then in my psychology class (couldn't the irony just kill you?) I had another...incident. For lack of a better term. Normally I sit in the front row. Sometimes I'm alone, sometimes a girl sits next to me. Today some guy I didn't know sat next to me. I didn't really notice he was there that much (like I said, it had been a good day.) until he scooted his chair until it was touching mine. I sit in the front corner, right by the door (odd for me, now that I think about it. I usually sit as far from the door as I can get.) and with the table leg there, I couldn't move any farther away without getting up and walking. I tried to ignore him, but his hand was resting right there, until he started running it up and down my leg. Mind you, this is all during class, I don't know this guy, and because of how we're placed, no one can see what he's doing, not even the teacher.

I froze. Completely. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I was texting a friend during this, and I couldn't even tell him what was going on. All I could think was Oh my G-d, no. Not again. But I just sat there, as he ran his hand all the way up and down my thigh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to make a scene. But I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. I felt so useless. I'd been getting better. Or at least not worse. It'd been so long...I thought maybe I was past it. Maybe no more would hurt me. Maybe I was finally safe.

I forgot one of the early lessons. You're never safe. They can always hurt you. Everybody hurts you.

I have been numb all afternoon and evening since.

 

After that, (and isn't that really enough for one day?) I got a text from my ex. Basically, he doesn't understand why I'm afraid of guys, even though I've explained it several times. I don't know how else to explain it. He knows large portions of my history, though not everything, of course. No one knows everything. But he wants me to just get over it, and be happy, and just like guys, specifically him. I can't explain to him how guys are scary to me! "Is it just your past?" he wants to know. Yeah. Just my past. Nothing big or important, just my serial deaths.

 

Tonight, I just want to curl up in a nice safe corner, and never move from it.

So, I haven't posted anything in forever, and I don't know why. I haven't written anything really coherent in a while, but I wanted to post some random thoughts I've had. I want to remember all of these later. (This summer my therapist wants me to write my autobiography, so I want to include them.) You guys don't have to read this, I just want to write it. Also, I don't think it's triggering, but as always, there is a chance, so please read with caution.

You say "I wanted this. I deserve this. I asked for this." Because the alternative, that you had no power, no control, no say, is far more frightening than that it might have been your fault.

I don't like nighttime, because I don't want to sleep. No, that's not entirely true. I don't mind sleeping. It's the long minutes of lying there before I fall asleep. I don't want to have time to think. I don't even know what I'm so scared of, I just don't want to think. I stay up to ridiculous hours, reading, forcing myself to focus on the story, and not to think. I feel like I'm holding myself together by threads, and if I stop moving, reading, eating, for too long, the threads will tighten until they snap. I don't know what's going on at all. I have no reason to be this freaked out. I don't even know that I'm actually freaked out. I don't know what I am. I hide in my reading, but when I poke my head out long enough to think, I start thinking about me, and I don't want to. I don't know why, I just don't want to. I want to cry, not all the time, not during the day, just at night. I don't know why night, just that I don't like it. It isn't the being alone, because I'm fine when I"m alone during the day. Something about night just sets me off.

There are words that adults know, that children don't. Words replaced in a child's mind with pictures and vague ideas. As the years pass, the child grows, the words themselves fade, and so do the pictures. But the idea of the pictures, the remnants left behind, those are still there, still real. Still terrifying. And they'll be around, far longer than mere words ever could.

And then, when that happened, something pure and good inside of me cracked, twisted, and broke. I was left to live a life, or something like resembling a life, without the internal strength to live it well. Instead, my cracked, twisted, broken self had to fake a life. And it did so badly.

It's not the dark that scares me, it's the shadows. It's always been the shadows. Things hide there, and blend, and you can't see them. Can't see them, that is, until they leap out at you. Leap out inside or outside your head, and reach out with teeth, and claws, and hands, to destroy.

I can feel the threads connecting me to my body snapping. I start drifting away, but then I breathe, and I'm back.

I'm the worst thing that ever happened to me.

These are just a few thoughts I've had. It's been a rough time. I hate spring. But it looks like I'm going to make it. Eleven years is the charm? Ha. And it's been a rough spring too. Try explaining to someone that you haven't had a good night's sleep since February. That always goes over well. Okay, enough with the bad news. Good news: I'm in love. And that is even better news than it seems. I thought I couldn't love, thought it was impossible. I thought I wasn't capable of emotion. Turns out I am. And she's worth it completely. More than. I won't drag you through the mushy, lovey-dovey stuff, but I assure you, I have plenty. I want to go on forever, but I will spare you that. Just know that the sad stuff here isn't equal to some of the happy stuff I've had the last few weeks. Well what do you know. Happiness in spring. I didn't know that was possible. I leave you with a final thought:

Every day a new death, every day a new life.

You can't touch me.

You can laugh.

Point fingers.

Call names.

But you can't touch me.

You can mock,

Ignore,

Insult,

Berate,

But you can't touch me.

So desecrate my body.

Assault my soul.

Attack my mind.

You can't touch me.

No matter how hard you try.

I'm too far gone.

Your arms can't reach.

To prick,

To poke,

To hug,

To pet,

Friend

Or foe

Too late to know

I'm gone

Where you'll never be.

I've retreated deep

Inside myself.

Hiding in caves,

That you'll never find.

I'm long gone.

And nothing you do can touch me.

I panic, and the world goes gray, liquidy mercury sitting in my chest, heating and cooling uncomfortably with the food and drink I ingest. Sitting there, pooled behind my sternum, preventing clear breathing, and ease when I move or lie down. Taking my strength, so that I shake, and gasp and stumble, so that I can barely type, or read, or think. Slipping through my veins, making me slow and heavy moving. Air more precious than any man- or nature-made substance, and I too poor and downtrodden to get it. The mercury taking the place of the air, and doing so poorly. Blind panic rising in my mind, like floodwaters, rising and rising, too quickly to predict, or stop. Hands moving, tapping, twisting, tearing without thought. Chest heavy, no air, twitchy, shaky, alone, panicked, and no idea why.

I didn't want to write this. I didn't want to deal with it, didn't want to think of it. Still don't. Master of Avoidance, that's me. But I've been deeply numb since a bit before the events on Thursday morning. Actually, more than anything, this is an explanation of why those events occurred. Why I wanted to harm so much in the first place.

I found a repressed memory. I don't get many of those. I've remembered the majority of my abuse for the duration. I can tell you most details about my abuse as a kid. It's the majority of my clear memories. I don't remember much outside it. My whole life is kind of fuzzy.

My rape was different. I remembered it, but not the months following it. It was around Halloween when I was raped, October/November the year I was fifteen. I remember almost nothing from then until that summer. I can tell you I was very numb for most of it. I can tell you that's when I switched schools, something I'd set in motion in August. I can tell you I went to class, and smiled and laughed and talked. I can tell you I told no one. I can tell you I didn't cry. I can tell you I felt nothing. But that's all. Almost no distinct memories.

Until now.

Now I have remembered something about those months. And I'm not sure what to do with it.

I can remember a series of memories that I didn't have two weeks ago. I didn't get them through a flashback. It was just that they were suddenly there, where before they hadn't been.

But I remember now.

I had a miscarriage in March of that year. Around twenty or so weeks after my rape.

I'm not sure what to do with this. I know I should feel something, but I'm far too numb for that. I've reverted back to the numbness from those months, you see. It was as though I saw the memory, and the numbness slammed down, like a visor on a helmet. I'm pretty high functioning, even with numbness. And I don't want this numbness to leave. Because when it does, I'll have to feel. And I'm not okay with that. I didn't feel then, why should I now? Oh, I felt the pain. But there was no sadness. No anger. (There's never anger.) Just tamped down panic. Like packed flour, too stiff to stick to you. It's still there, but it doesn't really affect you. That's all I had.

I don't want to feel now. I can't deal with it. Everyone has a breaking point, and I've found mine. Mine was the blood staining the bathtub one night in March when I was fifteen. I cleaned up, afterwards, so there was no trace of what had happened. I cleaned up, and I went to school.

I've told my therapist, before anyone asks. We talked about it today, actually. I went dead numb in there. Couldn't think, really. Certainly couldn't feel. Entombed in iron. And I dropped my defenses, and let her see it. She hasn't seen me like that before.

I've been fighting to get back to my previous state of numbness all day. It's easier to function there than here.

I'm sorry to write all this. I'm sorry to have to write all this. I just don't know how to deal without writing.

 

So either I reach out too much and I'm needy and push everyone away, or I don't reach out, and I'm alone, like I've always been.

Either I die on their terms, or I die on my own.

Either I push them away, or I never let them in.

Either I lose, or I lose.

Either I'm alone, or I'm alone.

Either I have people who take care of me, and resent me for it, or I have no one.

How the bloody heck am I supposed to choose?

How am I supposed to choose, because I can't keep leaning one way then the other.

I can't keep doing both and neither.

And I've never found that mythical middle ground.

I can't keep losing people.

And I can't keep being afraid of losing people.

I'm always afraid of people leaving.

Because that's what people do.

Nothing is forever.

Doesn't make it hurt less.

No matter what they say.

They always leave.

I have a friend who told me to call her whenever I feel bad, or am in a bad place

Or need her.

She knows I can't call people on the phone.

She says if I call, she won't answer.

She'll wait.

Then she'll call me back.

Because I can handle that better.

She says even if it's really late.

She doesn't want me to do somthing stupid like I did last week.

Walking around town alone during the night in the rain.

Not safe.

It was so sweet of her.

I felt lovely, knowing she cared.

But I know I'm never going to call.

Because I'd rather be alone.

Than have her leave.

So I guess there's my choice right there.

Same choice I always make.

In the end.

Because I know.

I'm always alone.

Always going to be alone.

Who do you call at four in the morning to say that you don't know how to survive the night?

Who do you call, who won't say

"Can this wait until morning?"

Who do you call who won't secretly resent you for waking them?

For not waiting until it's convenient?

For not being normal.

No one.

That's who.

You don't call anyone.

Because no one can be trusted to stay.

 

Possibly triggering

I've had a specific harm in mind for at least a week now. I won't describe it, (don't want to give anyone ideas) but suffice it to say that it would most likely be very painful (obviously), and debilitating, and would last for a while, and be a particularly stupid idea, as opposed to the usual brand of stupidity. Sorry. I hope that doesn't offend anyone. Well, my plan was to wait until after break, when I wouldn't have my family notice. (The goal was that no one would notice, but I particularly didn't want my family to.) I would like to point out: I knew this was a bad idea, I knew it was idiocy, but I wanted it anyway. I thought maybe if I put it off long enough, the urge would fade. (It's happened before.) Well, last night, I decided not to wait. I wanted to do it. I was going to go back to my room, and harm, and hang the consequences.

So, at about 3 in the morning, I went back to my dorm (It's finals week. Time is meaningless.) and when I walked out of the building I'd been in, it was raining. I had this sudden crazy idea. What if--instead of harming--I went for a walk? It wasn't as clear and simple and content as that sounds, it was much more desperate.

I went back to my room, dropped off most of my things, and by 3:20, I was gone.

Picture this: It's 3:30 a.m., raining reasonably well, dark (obviously), and I'm wandering the streets, alone. It tells you something that that was my better option. For an hour and a half, I walked. I walked by the train tracks, and thought about standing on them, but I didn't. I walked by two fairly decent overpasses, and thought about jumping off, but didn't. I walked through bad and good areas of town, through residential and commercial areas, and past a graveyard.

I stopped once, at the very beginning of the walk, for about five or ten minutes, and watched a train roll by. The sound of it forcing through the air thrummed against my ears, and I wanted to stay and watch more. But I kept going.

I didn't think much. At first, I was running. Two minutes after I left, the rain slowed and nearly stopped, and I begged, in a cracked voice, for it go on. I didn't know why, but I needed the rain. Later, I was in almost a trance. I liken it to a religious ecstasy, a sort of desperate blind following mixed with a not-quite-happiness. I don't know how to describe it.

I got back to my room at 4:50, an hour and a half after I left. I was dripping wet, could barely see through the rain on my glasses, and wasn't doing too well, healthwise to begin with, but I felt so much better mentally. I went to bed at 5:30, and I hadn't harmed.

I woke up today, and I still felt pretty good. For about 45 minutes. Then it occured to me that I could still do it. I left, I went and did things, and, perhaps an hour later, I found myself in a school bathroom with my weapon of choice, a cup of boilingly hot water.

I stood there, and thought about it and...I poured the water down the drain.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Usually when I write these notes, I know where I'll end up. Now I don't. I guess I'm fighting this off. Still. And I just wanted to write it all out. That's a terrible ending, but it's what I have.

I can't speak for everyone, but I feel that it is a safe assumption that most--if not all--of us have been attacked by people. I don't mean in the ways that brought us here, I mean in verbal and emotional ways. I don't think I am the only one who has been called melodramatic, or a drama queen, or a liar, or a [insert derogatory word for woman who sleeps around. They all fit in here.] I have been called a cow, and I have been called an idiot. I have had people attack my intelligence, my looks, my actions, my emotions. These accusations have come from people I was close to, and people I wasn't. I have been called these things by strangers, and once upon a time I was called these things by people--by a person--I trusted. I haven't trusted anyone since. It hurts less when you don't trust people.

It was easy to pass it off and say that those people hadn't been through what I had, those people didn't know. They weren't part of the community of survivors. It was easy to say that they had no right to judge me because they hadn't lived my life. It was easy to say that they didn't understand anything. I kept thinking that if I could just find people who understood what I'd been through, they would understand. They wouldn't call me these things. They would listen to me, and help me, and believe me. And it was with that in the back of my mind that I joined PWP.

I was right. People here did listen to me, and help me, and believe me, and they were my friends. I have met so many wonderful people through this site. I don't regret that. But I have seen some behavior that I do not like. I accepted that not everyone is in a good place, and so there will be frustration, and there will be anger. There will be people who do things that I will not condone, whether verbally or in silence. I accepted and understood that. Because I am fully aware that disagreeing with people does not mean I don't like them, or don't support them, or don't want to still be friends with them. And so, when I disagreed, I did my best to keep my disagreements as private, and non-aggressive as possible. I would say what I didn't like, and then explain, again and again if necessary, that this did not mean that I no longer supported them. I would let them know that I was still there for them as much as I'd ever been.

But when the personal attacks come from within the community, things are bound to change. I did my best to keep the way I felt about people from being affected by how they spoke, or acted, when they were upset. But in my attempts to make things better, in my futile efforts to make people happy, make things right, I have made people upset. I laughed it off. I mean, come on. Aggressive, you said? I've never been called that! I made it into a compliment, and it didn't get me down. But I have to draw a line. I cannot take being called a Drama Queen, by someone who should know better than anyone the difference between drama and telling a hard truth. I have been called confrontational, and nosey, and I don't want to deal with it anymore. I have been told to mind my own business, to go away, and never come back.

I began to wonder. If maybe the people saying these things were right. If maybe I should go away, stop helping, stop trying, stop being there for anyone who needed me. I wondered if all the names they called me, the names everyone of those people called me, were right. I wondered if I should just leave this site, leave all of my various works aimed to help people, and just live my life the way so many people do: With blinders on.

I almost did it. I almost posted a note on here saying that I was done. That I wasn't coming back.

But then I remembered when I was little, elementary, maybe middle school, and I first heard the saying "Life isn't fair." That line intended to fix all manner of inequalities, to cover all types of sins against justice and humanity. And I remembered my response to that. "Maybe life isn't fair. But maybe we're here to make it fair."

I still believe that. And I don't care what anyone says, if people hate me, or get mad at me, or doubt my motives or my efforts or myself. I don't care how much it hurts sometimes. I am here to do the best I can do, in whatever way I can do it.

I'm not here to preach, or to change people. I'm not trying to convert people or force my beliefs on them. (Not that anyone on here has done that to me, but it does happen.) I am not telling people that there is only one path to healing and they need to follow it. All I am doing is listening, and offering suggestions and opinions. If you don't agree with what I say, that's fine. I'm asking for an exchange of opinion, not blind obedience. I'm not always right. I know that.

I am not bashing anyone. I don't do that in public, and I don't do it in private. If you think you know anyone to whom I might be referring, don't use names here. This is not about what other people said or did, this note is just me expressing my thoughts and feelings on some things that are in my head.

I will still be here for anyone that needs me. I am saying this not only to the people that I know well on here, but to the people I don't. We have all been rejected at some point. I am not going to add to that.

Sorry, I'm taking this poem off the site. If you want to talk to me about it, by all means, you're welcome to.

Sorry folks. I'm deleting this. I have my own reasons for not wanting people to read it. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with anyone on this site, just with me.

I've put off writing this note for about a week now, but I think I could really use some support. Or just to vent a bit. As always, please don't read this if you don't want to. I'll try not to trigger anyone, but I'm definitely going to be discussing suicide and self-injury, so if those are triggers, please stop now. I don't want to upset anyone, just trying to work some things out.
I've mostly been pretty healthy since I joined this site. I mean, at the beginning things were a little shaky, but the last few weeks have all been really good. Frankly, for the most part, I've been doing better the last few weeks than I can ever remember. But this week has not been so successful. I have not been here. Mentally, I mean. My memory has been basically non-existent, and I keep losing chunks of time. I couldn't figure out what it was. One of my friends told me that it's dissociating. This is confusing to me, because in the past (including fairly recently) my dissociations were less frightening than that. Mostly just a feeling of floating, and of things around me moving in odd ways. Turns out what I'm experiencing now is just a different version of the same thing. It's getting pretty bad. I mean, today I went into the ceramics studio, and there was something on my shelf, and I don't remember making it. I have the vaguest recollection of putting it away, but I don't even know why I made it. And I have no idea what's been setting me off.
All the same, I could have handled the dissociations, but the last few days I've had several triggers. The main thing that keeps triggering me is getting my hands cold. (That comes from an event that isn't really related to the abuse, but was terrifying in its own right.) Well, anyone in the mid-west can tell you that it's pretty cold during the winter. Even with gloves, sometimes my hands still get cold enough for a panic attack. (For the record, working out after a panic attack is NOT a recommended activity.) So those had me a little on edge. Then, the other day, I woke up with my headphone cords wrapped around my neck. (Things touching my neck is a major abuse related trigger of mine.) I was already on edge from the other triggers, so the whole day after this one I was just trying to keep myself under control, keep myself from going completely crazy. I made it until six, when I was in the ceramics studio, and one of my tools cut me a little bit. That was all it took, and all the self-harming urges I'd been restraining the last two months (since I last actually attempted anything) just burst to the surface. I won't drag you through the details, but I've since had five "sessions" with this tool, and am up to forty-two...marks...some deep, some shallower.
Suffice it to say, I was unhappy aobut this. I felt like I'd completely undone the progress I'd made in the last few weeks. My best friend here at school saw the blood, and seemed pretty disgusted with me. I thought I'd lost her, and I kept kicking myself for making the same mistakes again and again. (For the record, I didn't. She told me today that we're okay. I also gave her something that I'd written that night. A sort of explanation. I haven't heard from her since, but I think we really are going to be okay.) But I talked with a different friend (first boyfriend again. More on him later), and sometime during that conversation I realized that just because I had a relapse, and a fairly major one at that, it doesn't mean I undid all my progress. Because now that I've made that progress once, I know I can do it again. Which means that I already have an advantage over where I was when I started. So I have made progress. I hope that makes sense. It makes perfect sense in my brain.
Now, I'd love to be able to say that I'm not going to do that again. But frankly I don't think I can. In all honesty, I really want to do it again. I want to sneak off right now and add to the number. There is a very good chance that by the time you read this note, there will be more wounds on my arm. But this won't last forever. Someday, someday soon, I'm going to be back to where I was. No, I'll be better. I'm allowed to still be healing. It's hard for me to write this, because I feel like I'm saying that I'm not as strong as I should be. I feel like people will censor themselves a bit while talking to me, like they will worry about setting me off. But I am trying to recognize that I can't predict other people's reactions to what I say. I need to reach out right now, and if that changes how people view and treat me, then I'm sorry.
I am still getting stronger, and I can still see the difference. I keep thinking of examples of how I was then, and I realize how much I've changed. You know that first boyfriend? Well, back a year or so ago (I don't remember when exactly) we were talking on the phone, and I was pretty depressed. I mentioned that I'd been thinking of suicide. And he told me "Well, if you're going to do it, just do it well and cut deep." I nearly killed myself that night. I came so close. When I asked him later why he said that, he said that he'd been reading about PTSD and something said to try tough love. He said "It worked, didn't it? You didn't kill yourself!" That always seemed weird to me. I let it go, chalked it up to him trying to help, but it felt weird. And now, I think about it, and I'm just like "How could I listen to that? He didn't save me by telling me to kill myself! He nearly killed me! I saved myself despite him, not because of him."
That's not the only change. I spent two hours on the phone with a friend the other night. Two hours! And when I went to tell my therapist that I'd hurt myself, I didn't text her like I usually do. I called her. I can't explain what a huge thing that is. I never call people. I can usually handle having them call me, but I get off the phone as soon as I can. Now, I'm not saying I'm going to become a telemarketer or anything, and I don't know that I will be able to call anyone up tomorrow, or the day after, but it's a start. It's all a start.

These were sort of an experiment I did, inspired by the writing style of the book Severance. They're all exactly 240 words (if I remember correctly. I wrote them a month ago.) and I think they're the best thing I've written that I can post here.  As always, you don't have to read them. I just want to post them. (For the record, Drew is my boyfriend. It just occured to me that that is a necessary fact.)

1/8/10

My feet are so cold, they ache, oh how they ache I don't want to be here, I want to be at home, or under the covers, or with Drew, rubbing my feet, making them warm, making me warm, making things right. And I am lying there, with his arm over my side, and his front to my back, and I am warm, and I am loved, and I am home. I have no home, no home but him, my friend, I never thought we would be together, even when people asked I laughed I told them it would never work we are too different, and we are, we are, you hunt food that I will not eat, and we worship at different alters, though you don't worship so much anymore, did that stop when your bother did? No, never ask that, never ask about it, don't make you sad, don't make you hurt. When you hurt on the inside, you hurt on the outside, your head, your hand, legs shoulders bleed and burn, bruise and tear, and even when I didn't know, when I didn't love you, I couldn't stand by, couldn't let you do what I did, what I won't do, I won't do it anymore, I told myself that, but I don't believe it when I say it, when I say I am happy I am happy I am happy as if saying it makes it true.

1/8/10

Moving moving and I read and I write and watch movies and play games and talk and listen and learn as much as I can about everybody else, because the other choice is to learn about me and I don't want to learn about me, I know too much already I know I lie, I know I hurt, and because I can't hurt alone, I make sure everyone hurts, I make them hurt for me, I make up reasons to hurt, so that I will know why, so that they will know why, even if it's the wrong why, it is something, something is better than nothing, if I can pretend that I know, pretend long enough, maybe it will be real. I really fell down the stairs, into the bookshelf, off the building, out of the car, into the water, the ice, the cement, off the edge of the world, of my sanity I have no sanity, I never had sanity, I float through and I pretend more pretending, it never ends I pretend I am sane, but no one believes, no one wants to get close to the crazy girl, get close and maybe you'll get crazy too. No one looks, they look away, and it's okay. I'm okay. No I'm not, but it doesn't matter. I can be alone, and I can keep moving, and pretending, and no one will ever care if someday I just stop

1/8/10

I write because I can't talk, because it hurts to talk, because I lie when I talk, I don't even mean to anymore, the lies pour out with the truth, spilling into the air before I can stop them, before I can say wait, that's not true I tell stories, then realize they never happened, or if they did, I wasn't there. And they start as real stories, they start with my memories, but then they disappear into the air, and I grab at them, and come back with things that never happened, that should have happened, making me my life into something other than what it is, making it make sense, making it different. I make me, again and again, each time I talk not just me, you talk, and you make a picture of who you are, who you could be, who you want to be, who you were. And people believe it. They take what you say, and what you do and what they think you really mean and call it you, not knowing, or refusing to know, that it is not you, that it cannot be you, that no one can ever know you all those people who say I knew him or I know you better than you know yourself they lie, even though they think they are honest because no one ever knows anyone, and least of all the ones they are close to.

1/9/10

People ask where they came from, and I tell them the stories and sometimes they believe and their pity is so kind it hurts and when they don't believe what I say, I must bear that too, when they know I lie, and their inner voice (and sometimes their outer voice) says get away get away and they do. It is enough that I was there, that I know why, that I am resolved never to do it again (for however long that lasts) I will try to explain this to you, as I have tried before, with other people, and they have never understood, and you won't either Understanding for you is not the same as understanding for me No matter how hard you try, you cannot get inside my head you cannot stop the pain stop the hate stop the loss but you will try, and I will love you for trying, I will love you for being you and for wanting to make it stop. I will love you even if you say I can't do this anymore and leave, leaving me with the same things I had when I started, only worse, because now I will know that I can be happy, that it is possible, and I will never be able to rest knowing it. And I will miss you, but I will not mourn, knowing that I had you for however short a time.

So basically, if you read my last note (I'm pretty sure it was my last note...) you know that I am feeling very confident lately. You also know that I am no longer talking to one of my friends. Or I wasn't. Tonight he tried to message me. It took me half an hour to decide if I should message back. I had a friend talking to me the whole time, but I just couldn't make a move either way.  Finally, I got on PWP to refreshe the page, and I kind of thought about needing a sign. Well, RIGHT THEN, at the top of the page, was my sign. Nothing related in any way, just a supportive message from a friend. (For the record, when I tried to find it later, I couldn't...just so you know.) So I told my friend that I was tired of running and hiding and avoiding. I wanted to face him head on and still be me. And I did it! (Online, but still!) And it was great. I thought I'd include an excerpt that I wrote during it, because it really sums things up well.

"I have been better, and I have been worse. But not much better. I am feeling stronger than I have in my entire life, and it is because when we had coffee, for once in my life I didn't leave feeling like I had more to say. I felt like I said everything, and realized all I need to. I can make myself happy. You can make yourself happy too. But you are not capable of making me happy without my input, and I cannot make you happy if you don't want to be. I have accepted that, and I am better for it. I have accepted that I may never be able to make lasting friends in person, and the day (the exact day) that I finally accepted that, I got a call from one of my friends here asking if I wanted to hang out. We hung out and talked for four hours, and had dinner with another friend the next night. I have accepted that I used to have thoughts and wishes about hurting myself before I was even abused. I have not hurt myself since. I accepted that I was not who I wished I was. Then I found that I can be. I am changing. I am healing. And it all started because I was able to tell you to your face that you were wrong when we last had coffee. The other day, for the first time in my life, when someone asked me why I didn't like myself, I didn't have an answer. It has taken my a very long time, but I am finally becoming comfortable with who I am. I had a day when I was just happy, for no reason. That has never happened. I always need a reason. Always. But now, if I'm choosing to be happy, I don't need to wait for a reason. I can make my own. I can't say I won't backtrack. I can't say I won't go back to hurting and cutting and feeling alone. But right now, this moment in time, I feel like I am doing good. Like after all these years, I finally can see where I'm going. I feel like it's possible for me to live, and not hate myself. I feel like it's possible for people to dislike me, and not have it affect me. I feel like I am helping people, and I feel like I can ask them for help. I can recognize people who aren't healthy for me, and I can recognize people who aren't healthy, but are good for me. And no one is completely healthy, no matter what people would like to think. I feel like I can see. It's like finding religion, but without the religion. I feel like I'm finding me. Finally, I am figuring out who I am supposed to be."

I told him we could be friends as long as he continued to be supportive, but he might get frustrated by my fighting back now. He said "if it will help me make sence than i will be frustreted and grow a pair and deal with it should have doen that years ago"

Today is a good day. Rawring is my new lifestyle.

I've actually wanted to write this not for a while, but now I feel like I am in a place where I can do so and not feel like I'm lying. Things have been changing for me since December, and I'm not sure what changed. However, I am not going to argue with the results. Just because I'm writing it, however, doesn't mean that you are under any obligation to read it. I'm prepared to talk a lot today. Also, you should know that I almost never reread before I post. So it is entirely possible that I say something totally strange in here. If so, I'm sorry, but I'm also kind of amused. Have a great day everyone!

I think it all started when my ex-boyfriend and I met for coffee. He was my first boyfriend, when I was sixteen, and we dated a total of three times. He was my best friend before that, and I thought he was just wonderful. He was a year older than me, and very kind, and I just hung on his every word. When he asked me out, I don't think I ever even questioned if I wanted to date him. He wanted to date me, and that was such an incredible concept that I couldn't say no. I would have done anything for him, and often did. I won't drag you through all of the details, save to say that the first time we broke up, it was because he'd told his parents about my childhood abuse, and PTSD. They told him to break up with me, and so he did. (Apparently his mom, who's supposed to be a leading child psycologist, recently asked him if his new girlfriend was "another crazy." Can I just say that I don't know who's the crazy one here? Sorry. I just wonder about that.) I was devastated, and made high tradgedy of my heartbreak, until, a few months later, he decided to ask me out again. I was delighted, and again, went along with anything he said, even going so far as to sneak into his house, on his command. Slowly, however, I became aware of my mother and therapists comments that he was not treating me well. After several weeks of this, I finally took him aside and asked him to please change his behavior. I put a time limit on it, saying that if he couldn't make an effort to change at least some of his behavior in a week, then I couldn't be with him. Short version: He told me I'd better break up with him now, because he wasn't going to tolerate me doing it later. Ergo, I wound up breaking up with him. A year went by, we remained friends (I had a stubborn refusal to let him stop being my friend.) We dated again, briefly. I told him this time that I was not okay with having sex, I wanted to wait. He said he was fine with that, then broke up with me not long later because I wasn't acting like a girlfriend. Oddly, my mother told me I wasn't acting like a girlfriend before he did...I don't understand. Is there something that you HAVE to do to be a girlfriend? I thought I was taking care of me, for a change.

The reason for that long paragraph, is to lead you to November of this year. In November, I woke up and decided to participate in NaNoWriMo. (Long story. Basically you write a novel in a month. Mine was more 50,000 words of introspection. I wanted to make myself "snap out" of my depression in that month.) So, that day, I woke up, I went and I wrote a whopping 8,000 words worth of introspective things that I had never dared say. It was possibly the only time in my life where I acted based on what I was feeling without worrying about the possible consequences. I wrote what I thought, and didn't edit or even reread. However, after that first day, I was kind of freaked out by some of what I had written. By some chance, my ex was on facebook, so I started talking to him, telling him how freaky this was, but how proud I was of having written it. He asked if he could read it, and I sent it to him. It wasn't until several minutes after I sent it to him that I realized I had mentioned him in in...in a non-flattering capacity. I began panicking. When he read that part (maybe three sentences, maybe a whole paragraph) he called me up, angry (and rightfully so) demanding to know what the truth was. So I told him everything I could think of to explain why I would write such hurtful things. I spent an hour? two hours? on the phone with him, apologizing and feel horrible guilt for hurting his feelings. I felt like I always hurt him, and began planning to kill myself when I returned to my room. Well, eventually he kind of calmed down and changed the subject to lighter things, thereby defusing some of my suicidal thinking. Obviously I did not kill myself, I did not even attempt to. But, as my therapist pointed out to me later, this shows what kind of power he holds over me, and what kind of power I let him hold over me. I thought the matter had blown over, so when he invited me for coffee over winter break, I agreed, no problem. We spent the first ten or so minutes of our coffee discussing Kindles vs. books, and the rest of the hour that we were together arguing. He told me that he was incredibly hurt that I would write such a thing, and I apologized. He told me that he couldn't look at me and our time together the same way, and I apologized. He told me that he had been there for me, and I apologized. He told me that now that he knew I'd felt that way once, he'd always think I felt that way, and I apologized. He told me that I "had no right to feel that way about [him] after everything [he] did for me" and I started to apologize. And then I stopped. And I said "Wait a minute. What? Did you really just tell me I'm not allowed to feel upset with you? Uh-uh. I am NOT okay with this." So I told him the truth. He was choosing to make himself unhappy. I was not doing anything to him anymore. I was horribly sorry that I'd hurt his feelings, and I was thankful for what he did to support me, but I was going to listen to what everyone had been telling me for years, and make myself happy. His happiness was no longer my responsibility, in this new mindset, it was his. He could be unhappy all he wanted, but I wasn't going to feel guilty because of it. Happiness, I suddenly realized, is a choice, not a gift granted on you by luck, and other people. I was done with the guilt. I left him that day, and we have not talked since. Frankly, it feels great!

I have never been able to stand up for myself, only others, and that conversation was really a turning point for me. Even when I was not really aware of it, it was as though confidence was slowly building up in me.

This term started, and I went back to school, only to find that the majority of the friends I'd had last term, seemed no longer interested in my friendship. This upset and hurt me greatly, but I tried to focus on other things. In the course of these "other things" I made the decision to tell my therapist about my rape, and hope for the best. It took me three weeks to finally get to the point where she knew I was trying to say something. (I had to eventually write it up and send it to her. I just couldn't get the words out.) So last Thursday, she finally found out. (I should also mention that during the course of the sessions where I was trying to work up the nerve, a lot of other good discoveries were made. It's like after two years of therapy, I'm finally making progress.) I was on pins and needles waiting for Tuesday (yesterday) when our meeting was. I was anxious all day. Then, the meeting comes, and we have planning issues. So we rescheduled for that night, and I returned to pins and needles. We had our conversation, and she didn't hate me, she supported me entirely, and was glad that I'd told her. She told me something that made and still makes me want to cry every time I hear it. "You were young, and you were powerless. You were a little girl who was hurting and just wanted to be held. But instead of saying "That's okay" you are criticizing this little girl and telling her that she was bad. You are punishing her for not being perfect. For getting hurt." (I am nearly crying as I type this. This is ridiculous!) I can't stop thinking about that. (And coming near tears every single time...this could become problematic if I go out in public.) I don't know how I feel about this yet, but it has clearly touched a nerve somewhere. So I'm going to keep thinking about it.

While all this was going on (not the conversation, the things leading up to it) I found myself joining PWP, something I wanted to do when I first heard about it two years ago, but didn't have the guts for. I joined, and within a few days, I was going to bed feeling good about myself. I felt like when I logged in to PWP I was the person I always wanted to be. I felt like I was a good person. One of my old friends asked me about a week after I'd joined why I thought I was a bad person. For the first time in my life I didn't know the answer. I couldn't tell him! It was one of the strangest, yet most wonderful feelings I could have imagined.

Last night, I saw something I didn't like, and I spoke up about it! That's incredible! I don't do that! I am so proud of myself right now, I can't even tell you. Yes, everything fell apart. Yes, I lost a friend, and got temporarily banned (twice!) from one of my favorite places in the internetverse. (I don't think websites are technically places in the universe, hence the new word.) But I am proud of myself for saying something. Maybe next time I will be able to do so in a better way, but for now, I am just over the moon that I spoke up. I feel good about myself. So I lost a friend. There is no replacing a friend, but I did gain more friends who can't be replaced. Yes, I got banned, but the world didn't end. Someone called me aggressive! I can't stop smiling about that. So, in a weird way, what should have been, and logically was an absolutely terrible night, became something purely remarkable.

I woke up this morning and I felt GOOD. Aside from the effects from the three hours of sleep, and the strange sensations you apprarently get when you fall asleep with a cough drop in your mouth (I don't advise it. It makes your mouth shrivel in weird ways, and everything feels strange until you've drunk a lot of liquid.) I felt great! I went to my first ever college midterm and I sat down and looked at the test, and thought to myself "This is it? I can handle this!" I wanted to roar at my test, show it who was boss. (Think of what a story that would have made! "I was taking my midterm and the girl next to me roared at her test....like actually roared at it!") I did that test, and I did it with humor! I amused myself while giving good answers to historical questions. I felt barely a trace of my usual test anxiety, and I am (to use the word) pumped! (I've never actually used that word. Now I'm wondering how it aquired this particular meaning.) I feel like I can handle anything life throws at me. It is a new day and I feel STRONG! RAWR!

So I've been wondering for a while if maybe there was abuse when I was really young that I just couldn't remember. I have no memories that directly suggest abuse, just a few that are kind of suggestive that something was wrong. I remember (before the abuse happened) when I was less than six years old, engaging in dangerous and possibly self-harmful behavior...not cutting, but risky things, like going near dogs that were known to bite, and similar actions. I wanted so badly to be special, I would have done anything to make it happen. I talked to my therapist about it, and she asked me "What's wrong with wanting to be special?" So I was trying to explain to her that this wasn't right. Other kids get good grades, or play sports, they don't try to get bitten by dogs. I mean, that's not normal, is it? There should be a reason behind it. She kept asking if it mattered if I'd been abused and couldn't remember it. If it would make a difference. If it would change anything. I don't know. I just want to believe that I was happy, once. That my whole life hasn't been a desperate ploy to get attention. That I didn't always want to die, and hurt. That things were good. Is that wrong? I don't want to have always been the person I am now! I don't want to have always been a self-injurer. I want to believe that I don't have to be this way. But if I was that way to begin with, then maybe it's part of who I am. Maybe I will always hurt myself. Maybe there's nothing I can do to stop it. I don't know...thoughts?

It's not fair.

I know it's not fair.

And it never will be.

And I know that too.

But that doesn't stop the frustration

when I hear my suitemate cry.

I can't help.

I want to help.

But she won't let me in.

Won't let me talk.

Won't let me listen.

And it's not fair that others don't want to.

Or that some will listen to her

but not to me.

And it's not fair that that bothers me.

It's not fair that I want them to listen

And they won't.

They'd rather talk about t.v.

Or boys

Or classes

Or just about anything that doesn't concern me.

It's not fair

That they say they care

Then leave

And won't look me in the eye.

It's not fair

That they're happy

And I'm not

It's not fair

That I had to go through the torture

Am still going through it.

It's not fair that others had it worse.

It's not fair that people who do these things go free.

Are free.

Are happy.

And we're not.

It's not fair that we are blamed for what they do

For what they did

It's not fair that we have to pay the price

It's not fair that nothing can ever make it right.

Make it the way it was.

The way it would have been.

It's not fair that when I say "I'm fine"

Or "Never mind"

Or "Forget it"

People would rather just say

"Okay"

Then ask me to be honest.

It's not fair that I have to choose between lying

And having friends

That I have to feel this way

And they don't.

That when they're sad,

it's because they got a C

Or got dumped

Or are fighting with their friends

And when I'm sad it's because of a panic attack

Or a memory

That I shouldn't have

It's not fair

That when I was in elementary school

I knew what my chances of getting raped were

I knew how likely it was that I'd commit suicide

Or do drugs

Or be an alcoholic

It's not fair, that when I was ten

I was worried that I might grow up

And hurt someone else,

The same way he hurt me

Because I knew how likely it was

That I would do so

It's not fair

That I had to live with this

For five years

And not tell anyone.

It's not fair that I can't change this

Can't make it go away

Can't make people stop

Or understand

It's not fair

That I don't cry

Can't cry

Won't cry

And so people say that nothing's wrong

And it's not fair

That when I keep it inside

They say to let it out

Let them in

Let them help

But when I do

They run away

Say I'm trying to get attention

Say I'm being melodramatic

Say I need help

I KNOW I NEED HELP

That's the point,

isn't it?

That's the whole point.

I need help.

Not him.

Not the ones who hurt me.

Not the ones who think they did nothing wrong

Not the ones who keep doing this.

Not the ones who won't listen

Who think that because I'm already damaged

There's no harm in making it worse

Who think that they can be cruel to me

In ways they'd never dream of doing

To someone who wasn't.

I need help.

Not the ones who avoid me

Because I make them "uncomfortable"

Because something that happened to me

Something I had no control over

Something that affects millions of people all over the world

Is too "weird" for them to deal with

No.

I'm the one who's sick.

It's not fair

That I'm not normal

Will never be normal

Can never be normal

And it's not fair

That it hurts so much I hurt myself

And then get in trouble for it.

It's not fair that I feel guilty

That I feel responsible for the lives and safety of everyone around me

That they won't let me help.

It's not fair

That no one cares

About me when I live

But won't let me die

And it's not fair

That I care

About them enough

That I won't do it anyway.

I don't know what came over me, but all of a sudden I want to cut really badly. I haven't cut in about a month, and I don't know what just changed. I was just sitting here, and then all of a sudden I was searching frantically through my desk, trying to find where I hid my razor. I really don't want to cut, but there's no one I can talk to here, to help me calm down. Is there someone out there who can help me right now? I'm scared. I don't want to hurt myself, but I'm afraid I'm going to.

I wrote this a few months ago. It's more traditional than most of my poetry. (I generally write stories, not poems, and when I do write poems, they're almost never rhyming.

I have been beaten.
I have been bruised.
I have been choked.
I have been screwed.

I have run.
I have hid.
I tried to escape.
From what you did.

But no matter how far I run.
How much I hide.
I can't forget.
The day I died.

You murdered me,
Though I lived on.
My life was corrupted.
The end of the dawn.

I didn't swear revenge on you.
I didn't want to know.
You did so much.
But just to me, my only angry foe.

You said don't tell.
I said no words.
You thought that I'd
Just crash and burn.

You didn't know
Though airplanes crashed
There were survivors.
Just homes you smashed.

You thought that quiet.
Meant I'd never tell.
You thought silence.
I thought to yell.

But it took years.
And in that time.
You got away.
A fish, no line.

You slipped out
From the net we made.
Had you been caught
I'd be free of this grave.

But you live on.
In your own world.
Where it's okay.
To hurt little girls.

 

Sorry guys. I deleted this note. I'm just not comfortable having it up anymore. I just can't.