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Posted by on 2012/02/09 under Uncategorized

“Write where it hurts”

It’s been so long since I enjoyed life, I can’t even recall it to tell you what it feels like to enjoy it.

Whenever I am asked to recall a good memory, there is an overwhelming sense of emptiness. I have no memory that is, as they put it, happy. At least not anymore, it is all tightly knit with remorse now.
I remember a beautiful royal-blue dress for a barbie. It was winter and likely snowing outside, but as I lay on my back on the small bed, the blue dress was all my three-four year old self could think off before I dozed off. In my second and last memory of the dress, it is ripped at the seams on one shoulder.
That dress somehow means a lot to me. I haven’t seen it for years, and yet when ever I think of my childhood, that is the purest and happiest memory I have. Ah, the days before any worry entered my life. My only memory that isn’t tainted with hurt.
I so often wish someone would rewind the clock of time, but I fear the regret will stay with me, always.
I had a good start at life. Two loving parents, a home, and all the small comforts that come with it.
… But danger was lurking beyond the front gate. As a bubbly, loud and playful six year old I met new children I believed would become good friends with me – but that was not the case. One of the girls was a bully who thrived on others’ humiliation, and that became my role for the next four years. I became a mere shadow of my former self, quiet and incredibly shy. I didn’t understand what was happening, I had never heard of bullying, so I thought it was normal that I was singled out and picked on. My mother found out more or less by mistake – or rather, silent observation – at my first birthday party for friends. She noticed a massive change of behavior when I was around others of my age. After she found out and talked to me about it, I learned that what was happening was wrong. My mother confronted the school, the parents, but nothing ever came off it. At first we just endured it, hoping it would get better with age, but then we started having problems with our new neighbors. The family’s kids had been mistreated all their lives and had become damaged to the extent that they had no empathy for others. The eldest brother kept bothering us at all times during the day and night, making my mother, who had just birthed my little brother, lose sleep. She called the Police on multiple occasions, but they wouldn’t do anything. My family finally had enough with trying to stop the bullying and our nasty neighbors and we moved abroad, hoping that the change of scenery would also revive the bubbly personality that had once been so prevalent in me.

It never happened. At the age of 16, I had switched schools several times and had slowly begun to truly believe that I deserved the pain I was subjected to. This is when I began to harm myself with sharp objects.
I suppose that my mother had become somewhat numb to my pain, at least she wasn’t showing it, because when she found out about my cutting, she simply stated that it wouldn’t get me any attention and continued doing whatever it was she was doing.

As my cutting wasn’t for attention, that in itself didn’t bother me. But what did hurt was that she didn’t realize that the emotional pain and turmoil was so much worse than my red scars. I liked being able to see the pain for once. Finally having control over pain was very important to me.
I became addicted to self-harm early on. (While I now haven’t cut myself in over half a year, I have once in a while resorted to heating a small metal object over fire and scalding myself with it – simply to ease the massive urge to see red. Sometimes the urge becomes so great that I have to sit completely still for an indefinite amount of time, for if I move, I know I’ll find myself a sharp object and use it. So I sit there with my hands under my thighs so that I won’t get up, and wait.)

Some time later I started to think about taking my life. I would sit anywhere, at anytime, considering the how’s and when’s, and how people would react. What ultimately kept me back was that I didn’t want to burden my family with a sudden death, especially my grandparents. I thought to myself that while I may want and deserve death, they don’t deserve to see a grandchild waste their one chance at life that way.
The feelings, the wish to die, still pesters me today, but I do my best not to listen to it. I have tried to take my life a couple of times with a sharp hunting knife or a glass shard held against the artery under my jaw, but I was too afraid to go through with it. Every time I tried, I lost the strength in my hands.

I was over 18 when I realized that I wasn’t just not interested in boys, but was actually preferring the female gender. This was a massive blow to me, considering that I come from a God-fearing family. To spite this new reality, I allowed a man to get close to me. We were good friends and I knew of his attraction to me, so all I had to do was not reject his advances. Later I discovered that he was mentally ill, but it was too late, the harm had been done. He ensnared me in a trap of guilt to make sure I didn’t leave him, kept telling me I was what was keeping him alive. He spoke of the seven children he wanted to have with me, named them and commented on their attributes. It got quite scary in the end, he told me that he liked me thin. The thinner the better. I had been loosing weight because the whole ordeal was very stressing, and he liked it. I touched the subject of me leaving him, but he quickly started crying, saying he’d do suicide if I did leave him. He was twisted, but I didn’t leave him for the fear that he’d really kill himself. He was, in a strange sense, a very good friend to me, he was the only I could speak too quite freely, but it was wrong on so many levels. I was ignoring the fact that he was a male, that he was a family member, and that I didn’t want anything to do with him sexually. I had become quite self-destructive by now. We had been physically intimate on several occasions, but never anything beyond touching, and while I reveled in feeling his love(being a bit of a nympho certainly did its thing), touching him was… strange. It always felt so innately wrong, but I pushed that feeling aside. “Someone is finally loving me. Someone cares. Someone loves me.” Was what I kept repeating to myself like a mantra. Yet I had never wanted him as anything but a friend. When I was touched by him as if I were something to be worshipped, as he lavished me with kisses, I was trying so hard to ignore the utter wrongness of the situation. I felt trapped. I was terribly confused. He was the only one who was aware of my attraction to women and fully believed that he was my cure, which is why he never did anything ‘drastic’ when we were intimate. In that sense he was quite patient. But on the last day I saw him… He had bought protection. The thought of actually doing it was terrifying… Thank God we never got that far… ish. But there was some harm. I really don’t want to talk about it, but I need to say it somewhere, somehow, because it’s eating me up. I’ve never told anyone. I… I didn’t want to do it, but he did try to enter anyways. I was scared, and he was big. It hurt like hell and I tried to stop him. that’s when we heard a car-horn honk outside. It was my dad, and I quickly put my clothes on and ran out.

I was so stupid to let it get that far. Now he was sure he had me. At home mother started questioning me about why I had seemed scared earlier, after a little prodding, she asked if he had kissed me, and I nodded (I had kept the whole affair secret). When she asked if he had done anything else, I shook my head. Then she asked me if I wanted him to kiss me. I shook my head again. “Then you’ll call him on the phone and tell him that right now,” she said.
That was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I called his cellphone, told him this was wrong and that it was over. I was sad and scared. I really missed the friend I had once had in him. I heard him go outside and then he told me he’d commit suicide while on the phone with me if I went through with this. I didn’t dare hang up as he kept a running commentary on where he was and where he was going. He told me he was at the top of a hotel, ready to jump now. That’s when I cracked and yelled at him to walk down off that stupid building and hung up on him. Mother was actually impressed by my outburst. But then the messages started flowing into my cellphone. I got at least 60 in a few hours, and then mother took it from me, because she didn’t want me to read them. In the messages I had read, he had begged and begged for me to return to him, but he was slowly getting nastier, which is why mother took it. The following week I sneaked into mother’s bedroom to check my phone. It had everything from begging to cursing me, calling me and evil manipulating selfish demon and so many other things. I saw that mother had replied to one of the messages, saying that it was her and not me that had the cellphone, then he had suddenly started being nicer and begging again, yet threw more threats of suicide at her.
Turning nasty again, he called her an evil something-or-the-other, as well… I couldn’t bear reading any more and turned off the cellphone and resorted to buying a new number. It didn’t end there. I had to block him everywhere, on my mail and facebook and msn because he was constantly messaging me. He somehow got my sister’s number and was asking her strange questions. My sister immediately blocked him.

A couple of weeks after this I went abroad to an easy-going Christian high-school to get a breather from all the s*** that had been going on.

Everything slowly got a little better. One day I was told about how my grandfather (he’s a seriously awesome protective one) and one of my uncles had confronted my former friend and told him to stay far away from me. He had apparently turned back into his usual overconfident self and was overly sure that *he* had called for a break in the relationship so we could think things through and that I would come back to him in 6 months and marry him. Hearing this shocked me. I knew he was a little messed up, but this was completely mental. He had created his own series of events and believed them to be true. That’s when I saw that a friendship with him had been doomed from the start.
Two years later I heard that he had moved on and was chasing some american blonde (I’m European). But in the time before that, I was afraid of going outside in fear of meeting him.

I know he wasn’t the only one at fault. I made some mistakes. I never should have ‘experimented’ with my sexuality. I shouldn’t have let him get so close to me. I don’t know if I’m showing classic signs of abuse by believing it was my fault, but I know I was at fault to a certain extent. He just took it much too far.

It’s been close to 4 years, and even after seeing a therapist for a year and a half, it still heavily affects me. I can’t eat certain foods at all because the taste reminds me of him. I lost even more weight, and somewhere along the way, I may have developed an eating-disorder. I don’t like eating. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to gain weight again.
I am underweight, and while I do see how thin I am, the hollow cheeks, how prominent the bones are, I still don’t want to eat. I don’t want to look fine(fat) when I feel horrible. My skin has aged prematurely because I don’t eat much and drink even less.
Whenever I take a shower, I stay in there for 1-2 hours and scrub and scrub and scrub ’til my skin is red and tender, I turn the heat up and up, but I can’t remove the stains. It’s like a sickness crawling under my skin. I try to scratch it away with my nails, leaving burning streaks, but it does nothing to relieve me. I feel so completely filthy.

It pains me to say that that’s not the end of it… I seem to attract series after series of unfortunate events.

I later developed feelings for a strange and sadistic girl. But…
Yes, the term sadistic speaks volumes sometimes, doesn’t it.
I remember one time I was sat beside her and spoke of a wound I had had on my back and she was just staring at my back with a scary expression on her face, not an evil look or anything, but she looked incredibly… sickly aroused, her body language completely tense. After a moment of silence she said, “Sorry, I was just imagining all the blood running down your back.” Then she stood up and paced the floor, obviously flustered and trying to cool down.
It wasn’t the only time she acted like that, but it’s the one I remember most clearly, as it was the first time I had seen her like that.

At my current 21 years of age, I am a social recluse with no social life, the only times I truly and completely speak my mind is… I am not yet there. There is so much no one knows, and I can’t speak it nor write it down because I’m so afraid. I am so, so afraid of the possible consequences. I don’t know what to do. I feel so wrong, so guilty, and I can’t do anything about it.

What I fear isn’t muggers, thieves, rapists and all the other things people fear, but myself. I fear what people will see when they know me inside out. I fear eye-contact. I fear closeness. I hate when people look at me with their bright eyes and think they understand me, because if they did, they wouldn’t look at me like that. I fear speaking. I fear breaking down in the middle of the street. I fear so many things… But most of all, I fear the day my very darkest secret comes to light. No one knows. No one. Now you know some of it, but I’d rather not speak of it. I probably never will.

“Write where it hurts” is the quote that inspired me to write this. I have meant to write about some events in my life before, but I’ve never gotten around to it. I know this isn’t written very well, I am simply too tired to edit it any more, it is very taxing for me to think and write about the past.

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