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[adiaryofmyownmisery]

#4 - Pretending

Warning. Don’t read this, it is not fun, it is not pleasant, it is   not optimistic. It is for me, it is me reliving my pain in my own   words. It is so I can feel better. Or at least attempt to.   

I pretend to be asexual. I pretend to be a girl. I pretend to be human. I pretend to be a lot of things because the reality is just that I’m not happy as anything. Sex just repulses me, I was molested as a child. But even then no one ever seemed to be normal in my family about sex. My mother told me when I was little in excruciating detail about how those other people were horrible. They raped dogs, and babies. Anyone darker than the shade of white she was was evil, they’d kidnap me. Put me into human trafficking, rape me, murder me. It was constant. Instead of stories my mother would tell me the horrors of the world. It fueled my anxieties and I never left home, never got a taste of the world outside of the fear and abuse. You should not explain to a seven year old about how their sister was raped at eleven. You should not slut shame your children who all faced sexual abuse, you should not explain to a child the concept of bestiality. You tried so hard to teach me how to be as hateful and sad as you are, and it worked. But I hate myself more than I could ever hate the world. I’ve tried so hard to die. And you offered. You offered a suicide pact to a ten year old because you’re too much of a coward to just kill yourself. I’m too much of a coward to do the same for me. So many nights in winter I’d go outside and lay in the snow. No shoes, just in shorts in a tank top. Pain from the cold burning into my nerves and numbing them. I tried to die so many times that way, a quiet death. A long and painful death. I always ended up going back inside though. And you never even noticed, no one did. So many times I wished I could just turn into ice and melt away.

[adiaryofmyownmisery]

#3 - Knife

Warning. Don’t read this, it is not fun, it is not pleasant, it is  not optimistic. It is for me, it is me reliving my pain in my own   words. It is so I can feel better. Or at least attempt to. My mother pointed a knife at my throat today. She was so angry the veins in her neck bulged and she screamed about stabbing my sister to death because of how miserable and enraged she is. She talks a lot about this, snapping and killing everyone. Stabbing them to death, shooting them. Just constant talk about doing the worst things in the world to people. But this time she had a large kitchen knife pointed at my throat. And I wasn’t even the object of her anger, and I did not care. I just flinched. And she continued screaming before getting bored and walking away. And yet she continues to tell me about how much worse her parents were, somehow I do not believe her.

[adiaryofmyownmisery]

#2 - Family Musings

Warning. Don’t read this, it is not fun, it is not pleasant, it is not optimistic. It is for me, it is me reliving my pain in my own words. It is so I can feel better. Or at least attempt to. One of my sisters is in the mental hospital, not one who has hurt me. Inconvenienced me? Yes, A lot. But has not hurt me like the other one. She got in a car accident a year or two ago, the brain damage hasn’t been fun to deal with. High tempers and impatience run rampant in my family, and no one quite knows how to deal with her. But I do, I’ve always been good with kids and animals. And everyone in my family has always acted childish my entire life. I hear my mother on the phone with her, she’s gotten riled up from the demon. My horrible sister, the one that tried to kill me, she started screaming at her over the phone. My sister in the hospital was getting stressed. So I make my way out of my room, asking her if I can talk to her. Its me, I speak softly and calmly. Like you might to a scared child. And I get the important things done, I ask if we can move her car. Somewhere it wont get stolen. I assure her her phone and cds are safe with me. And she agrees, I leave again and she says she feels a lot better after talking to me. I manage to bring the calm. I’ve always had to be the steady one, the rock. It brought me back to when I was little, I was only 5-6 but I was the one who had to wake her up for high school. Even as a small child I was always the one who had to take care of my older siblings. And now? They take credit, they take credit for raising me. For making me into a talented person. They were never around for the hard parts, they all grew up and left. And I was left alone for almost eight years. Yet they still take credit for the parts of me they deem good. Not the bad, not my panic attacks, not my depression that is so bad I cant be an adult, not the fact that I’ve wanted to die. But they take great pride in how smart I am, how fast I pick up skills, how good at art I am. They don’t seem to even remember how I took part in raising them. My three older sisters, my own mother, my nieces and nephews. I’ve been taking care of them since I was ten. They accidentally call me Mom sometimes, yet.. I’m not allowed to give parenting advice. I’ve never worked a day in my life despite a decade of taking care of other peoples kids. Sometimes for days at a time, yes. Lets trust this small child with our newborn and then scream at her when she does it wrong. Lets blame her for injuring the child, despite her still being a child herself. Lets raise her up, and tear her down. Lets tell her she��s not feminine enough, and tell her she’s the son you never wanted. Lets call her a lesbian just because she cuts her hair short. Lets never think about why. Why I started cutting my hair short after almost being murdered in my own bedroom. Why I never talk to anyone in my own family. Why I’ve started leaving the house even less. Why I cry when I’m called a woman. I’m too masculine to be a woman, to feminine to be a man. Even if I told the truth.. You all hate men, you all hate me. I will never escape this closet, maybe if I go deep enough I can escape into Narnia. Or just suffocate. Either sounds nice, maybe its the same thing.

[adiaryofmyownmisery]

#1 - I don’t feel like I’ve survived

Warning. Don’t read this, it is not fun, it is not pleasant, it is not optimistic. It is for me, it is me reliving my pain in my own words. It is so I can feel better. Or at least attempt to. The phrase survivors of violence has never struck me right, why is that a good thing? Was survival even worth it. It twists and warps you, leaves you with scars both physical or mental. Whether its random or domestic it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t survived. Sometimes I wish that I had just let her kill me. Every night I sleep in my bed, my head towards a wall, my feet just hanging off, right above an unassuming spot of floor. You wouldn’t notice it at first glance, there’s no sign of the struggle that had happened there. My screaming, when I was pinned to the ground. My sister on top of me, picking up a pencil and asking me “What do you think would happen if I shoved this into your eye?”. My sister is crazy, a drug addict, strung out and hellbent on making my entire family suffer. I throw her off, I’m bigger than her but I’ve never been in a fight. I grab her hair, she stomps on my foot. And I manage to throw her to the ground. For just a moment I thought about grabbing a knife. Sticking it in her throat. But I’m not a murderer, I’m honestly a pacifist. But I thought about it, cold and calculating like a robot. Like my father, instead I just start choking her. Rage thundering through my body as I press my arm down on her neck with my entire body weight. Its self defense but it didn’t feel like that at the time. I just wanted her to stop. To leave me alone. Her face is going red, bulging eyes and veins. She’s struggling less now. I don’t know what do to, I didn’t want to kill her. So I let her go, she struggles for air as I get off of her. Grabbing her by her hair and shoving her out of my room. The moment I can close my door I start sobbing like a child. Babbling to no one, I can’t even call the police she had stolen my phone. I just have to sob and wait for my mom to get back from the store. I was a minor at the time, almost an adult but still so very much a child in that moment. And I did not press charges. I still don’t know why, I don’t think I wanted to admit what I was capable of. I don’t want to be a murderer, I don’t want to be like my father. He had killed his brother, I almost killed my sister. We haven't fought since, I am scared what will happen next time she attacks me. But what terrifies me most is that I’ll be the one that survives.