When I was three years old, I lived with my biological mother, and her alone. Life with her was, as I recall, tough. She worked nights, slept all day and left me to tend to our two cats and grungy-groody home. There were many-a-times in which she had come back from work, lied down on the couch and simply drifted away -never once bothering with my young needs. I had to rely on an iron stomach and eat whatever was in the fridge; raw, molded or both. It didn't matter to me as long as I got to eat. And, that alone, was enough to leave me feel alone and unloved.
During those tough years, however, I had a saving grace; my babysitter -the one thing I can credit to my dearest mom. Her name Jeni. She was twenty three, married and a proud mother of two sons. These people were the slice of family I didn't have at the time.I loved them. The boys always made me feel welcome and I could never forget their warmth.
It was, though, the last night I saw them that I realized how unreciprocated these emotions were. That night, I recall, was like any other night. My mother dropped me off and I was welcomed to their cozy home. We had spaghetti- all mixed together- milk as beverage and friendly smiles. After that, the boys and I went on to play a game of hide and seek. And it was a liberating sensation to just be a child for once...and so much fun. That feeling of fun was soon rotted by the feeling of uneasiness. The moment I hid behind their couch and looked into the adjacent kitchen, I realized something was wrong. Jeni wasn't smiling, but instead was pressing a large bottle of red liquid; one of two; the other already emptied.
With my eyes pealed upon her strange atmosphere, I was caught and brought into an open space. The boys knelt on either side of me as Jeni stood in front- her smile back on her lips. "Do you guys want to go to the night park?" She had asked. The boys had been struck with glee. Their smile grew large with excitement as they looked to me, urging me to answer with a yes. And despite myself, I said it. I said yes...just to appease the very people who had brought me joy.
We all shuffled into the night light then into the car. Oddly enough, I was the only one wearing a seat belt. Afterward, Jeni drove to the tracks - of which singled that no one was to pass. So, we waited anxiously. And then waited a bit more until -bump bump. We were now on the train. The oldest boy had pointed this out, only to be told that they would pull off when possible. The youngest looked to me, and I to him, then both of us out of the back windshield. There, the large light shone, paired with the chugging of metal wheels. Now, we were frantic. Well, everyone but Jeni. The youngest had taken my hand and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Then it happened.
The train struck us from behind, tumbling us down the hill that sat beside its tracks. We rolled a few times before I could see things clearly. I had watched as the boys were both thrown out of their seats. I was horrified. But it wasn't about to end as I looked forward, my small mind dizzy from the motion, just 'in time' to watch Jeni's head crash into the windshield - her blood splattering before her forehead hit the steering wheel. I was now mortified, internally. I knew she was gone the moment I saw her iconic smile fade. What had I done?
Later, the ambulance and rescue services came. I found that the boys were alive but, of course, she was not.
And that was that.
The aftermath resulted in my inability to pass trains or train tracks without, literally, peeing my pants on top of nightmares, hallucinations of demonic creatures drilling my spine and severe guilt. These were all things that my family ignored.
It didn't end there, though.
I had been sent to live with my Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. My uncle worked 90% of the time and was usually never around.I remained a prisoner of my symptoms as life with my extended family began fringing at the edges. My Cousin disliked my presence greatly and never failed to make that known. My Aunt, too, disliked my presence. Whenever she was angry about family issues, or just any issue, she would punish me. I would be "spanked" with whatever was handy; brushes, swatters, pans, hands, switches, belts..whatever was within grasping distance. It didn't matter the time of day or number of times my punishments were bestowed before-hand. I lived with them from age four to seven. A total of two-three years of beatings I did and did not deserve with exceptions few and far between. I had grown to hate touching. I craved isolation and revenge. I tried to kill my cousin only months before I was sent to live with my mother again as she resided within my grandmother's home.
I still remained a prisoner of my newly formed darkness.
Long story short, my mother continued to treat me like a child's doll - always threatening to put me up for adoption- and I was eventually taken in by my grandparents whilst mother left for New O.
I continued to have nightmares, hallucinations and guilt. However, all was not well under the roof. My other uncle lived with us and was suffering from alcoholism. He would begin fights during the night- screaming and yelling no matter was tossed his way. I spent plenty of nights in fear of his beast but grew to love him the most as I discovered the true traits of the other family members.
My grandfather was an isolationist himself, my grandmother an conceited, jealous woman. I had, regretfully, placed my grandmother on a golden thrown all of those years; cherishing her wisdom and helping her with every little thing - no matter the extent. I still, näively, do so today. I used to see her as my hero for saving me from my mother. I didn't know that she was keeping me from the joys of life; keeping me from leaving the house without her unless she was 'comfortable' with it. It's still a pain in the ass to get time out of the house. School became my second-hand God send - a perfection distraction from my frazzled emotions.
During those first few years with them, I had attempted suicide thrice. Once by choking, once by drowning and once by chest penetration. I had failed to pull through with them...feeling too guilty to accomplish my darkest desire.
By the time I was fourteen, I had emotionally detached myself from everyone - though never failing to smile and help any- and everyone that came along.
My dreams remained haunted by Jeni's death as well as nightmares of being drowned in tanks of my own blood. My thirst for suicide came back but was promptly ignored as I marched throughst the days, crying during the nighttime hours.
Then...there were these passed two years. I've become a happy go-lucky person on the outside. People adora my company. However, I've yet to recieve help as my family conclude that I had left it all in the past and moved on. I'm still suffering on the inside. I still cry myself to sleep, have break-downs, dream of her death and feel sick. Being sixteen, I am more aware of what's around me and my mind never sleeps. I feel like my chest will explode as I deal with judgemental peers, a demanding- strictly codependent- grandmother and haunted mind. I've dealt with this for so long that I've considered it insanity. However, after rethinking it, I realized that seeing a dead woman's body in the back og every ambulance I see, becoming petrified during overwhelmingly loud situations and my lack of trust for even my closest of friends didn't qualify for that. Now, I'm just trying to reach out for help. I'm too afraid to mention this to my family because of their prior words and current attitudes towards everything.
Really, I don't know how to reach out to people who constantly bicker with one another, act depressed and/or act uncaring.
I just want help for myself because I'm tired of this darkness. I don't want to feel totally distant, introverted and inhuman. I don't want to dream about death and insanity.
I want to be free and have a good life. I want to have bonds that I don't sever because I become too uncomfortable with showing affection.
I just want to be...happy...genuinely happy.
During those tough years, however, I had a saving grace; my babysitter -the one thing I can credit to my dearest mom. Her name Jeni. She was twenty three, married and a proud mother of two sons. These people were the slice of family I didn't have at the time.I loved them. The boys always made me feel welcome and I could never forget their warmth.
It was, though, the last night I saw them that I realized how unreciprocated these emotions were. That night, I recall, was like any other night. My mother dropped me off and I was welcomed to their cozy home. We had spaghetti- all mixed together- milk as beverage and friendly smiles. After that, the boys and I went on to play a game of hide and seek. And it was a liberating sensation to just be a child for once...and so much fun. That feeling of fun was soon rotted by the feeling of uneasiness. The moment I hid behind their couch and looked into the adjacent kitchen, I realized something was wrong. Jeni wasn't smiling, but instead was pressing a large bottle of red liquid; one of two; the other already emptied.
With my eyes pealed upon her strange atmosphere, I was caught and brought into an open space. The boys knelt on either side of me as Jeni stood in front- her smile back on her lips. "Do you guys want to go to the night park?" She had asked. The boys had been struck with glee. Their smile grew large with excitement as they looked to me, urging me to answer with a yes. And despite myself, I said it. I said yes...just to appease the very people who had brought me joy.
We all shuffled into the night light then into the car. Oddly enough, I was the only one wearing a seat belt. Afterward, Jeni drove to the tracks - of which singled that no one was to pass. So, we waited anxiously. And then waited a bit more until -bump bump. We were now on the train. The oldest boy had pointed this out, only to be told that they would pull off when possible. The youngest looked to me, and I to him, then both of us out of the back windshield. There, the large light shone, paired with the chugging of metal wheels. Now, we were frantic. Well, everyone but Jeni. The youngest had taken my hand and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Then it happened.
The train struck us from behind, tumbling us down the hill that sat beside its tracks. We rolled a few times before I could see things clearly. I had watched as the boys were both thrown out of their seats. I was horrified. But it wasn't about to end as I looked forward, my small mind dizzy from the motion, just 'in time' to watch Jeni's head crash into the windshield - her blood splattering before her forehead hit the steering wheel. I was now mortified, internally. I knew she was gone the moment I saw her iconic smile fade. What had I done?
Later, the ambulance and rescue services came. I found that the boys were alive but, of course, she was not.
And that was that.
The aftermath resulted in my inability to pass trains or train tracks without, literally, peeing my pants on top of nightmares, hallucinations of demonic creatures drilling my spine and severe guilt. These were all things that my family ignored.
It didn't end there, though.
I had been sent to live with my Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. My uncle worked 90% of the time and was usually never around.I remained a prisoner of my symptoms as life with my extended family began fringing at the edges. My Cousin disliked my presence greatly and never failed to make that known. My Aunt, too, disliked my presence. Whenever she was angry about family issues, or just any issue, she would punish me. I would be "spanked" with whatever was handy; brushes, swatters, pans, hands, switches, belts..whatever was within grasping distance. It didn't matter the time of day or number of times my punishments were bestowed before-hand. I lived with them from age four to seven. A total of two-three years of beatings I did and did not deserve with exceptions few and far between. I had grown to hate touching. I craved isolation and revenge. I tried to kill my cousin only months before I was sent to live with my mother again as she resided within my grandmother's home.
I still remained a prisoner of my newly formed darkness.
Long story short, my mother continued to treat me like a child's doll - always threatening to put me up for adoption- and I was eventually taken in by my grandparents whilst mother left for New O.
I continued to have nightmares, hallucinations and guilt. However, all was not well under the roof. My other uncle lived with us and was suffering from alcoholism. He would begin fights during the night- screaming and yelling no matter was tossed his way. I spent plenty of nights in fear of his beast but grew to love him the most as I discovered the true traits of the other family members.
My grandfather was an isolationist himself, my grandmother an conceited, jealous woman. I had, regretfully, placed my grandmother on a golden thrown all of those years; cherishing her wisdom and helping her with every little thing - no matter the extent. I still, näively, do so today. I used to see her as my hero for saving me from my mother. I didn't know that she was keeping me from the joys of life; keeping me from leaving the house without her unless she was 'comfortable' with it. It's still a pain in the ass to get time out of the house. School became my second-hand God send - a perfection distraction from my frazzled emotions.
During those first few years with them, I had attempted suicide thrice. Once by choking, once by drowning and once by chest penetration. I had failed to pull through with them...feeling too guilty to accomplish my darkest desire.
By the time I was fourteen, I had emotionally detached myself from everyone - though never failing to smile and help any- and everyone that came along.
My dreams remained haunted by Jeni's death as well as nightmares of being drowned in tanks of my own blood. My thirst for suicide came back but was promptly ignored as I marched throughst the days, crying during the nighttime hours.
Then...there were these passed two years. I've become a happy go-lucky person on the outside. People adora my company. However, I've yet to recieve help as my family conclude that I had left it all in the past and moved on. I'm still suffering on the inside. I still cry myself to sleep, have break-downs, dream of her death and feel sick. Being sixteen, I am more aware of what's around me and my mind never sleeps. I feel like my chest will explode as I deal with judgemental peers, a demanding- strictly codependent- grandmother and haunted mind. I've dealt with this for so long that I've considered it insanity. However, after rethinking it, I realized that seeing a dead woman's body in the back og every ambulance I see, becoming petrified during overwhelmingly loud situations and my lack of trust for even my closest of friends didn't qualify for that. Now, I'm just trying to reach out for help. I'm too afraid to mention this to my family because of their prior words and current attitudes towards everything.
Really, I don't know how to reach out to people who constantly bicker with one another, act depressed and/or act uncaring.
I just want help for myself because I'm tired of this darkness. I don't want to feel totally distant, introverted and inhuman. I don't want to dream about death and insanity.
I want to be free and have a good life. I want to have bonds that I don't sever because I become too uncomfortable with showing affection.
I just want to be...happy...genuinely happy.
