This blog is not FDA approved
I disassociate. It’s how I cope with life, it’s the only thing I know and it’s kept me alive this long. It is hard not to go there, to type this out and paint a beautiful picture about some imaginary characters that aren’t me. Instead of using allegory to do this, I am going to do something I don’t think I can, write this about me. See, I don’t have a cool LeClown approached me story. I came to him; I came to him because of Loony and The (not so) Pretty truth.
She is from my world. Population:
1 2, we speak our own special private language and just when I doubt that she and I are thinking the same thing she proves me wrong, it’s such a foreign feeling to me I still can’t believe it. I owe this to LeClown and to her because I’m not alone anymore.I thought of a million titles for this post and settled on this one because of a conversation she and I had minutes before I started this writing. So in the hope that she takes me up on my offer and for all of you to see, this is my story…
What follows is exactly why that is. My father, a Vietnam vet, was on his second marriage. His first wife’s babysitter, well she is my Mother, cliché I know. He was a heroin addict, a drunk and dealing with PTSD from the war. Unfortunately, he beat my Mom; one of my most vivid memories was running into my parent’s bedroom when she called for me. He had her off the ground… by the throat. It was not the only time and I couldn’t save her.
When he hurt his back at work and she left, I thought my Mom made her escape; I was almost happy for her. It turns out she had a disconnect from reality, the drugs and abuse caught up to her. God had come to her and told her to wait for a Priest to take her away from it all. In typical fashion, my father left her in the condo they owned, took what he wanted and covered everything she owned in bleach, no food, no money, no stuff.
After, he and I moved in with my grandmother. He left one early morning when I was sleeping, no goodbye, just gone. My grandmother was equally as abusive, I could count days between bloody noses on one hand, and I did. When her second husband died I was in second grade. I was happy because it was one less person to hit me. In about the same time frame my father came back, still using drugs it turns out.
I lived with him for about a year, this is blunt but… he raped me in the shower, repeatedly. While doing it he would say things like Mom didn’t love me and she left because I was too ugly. He would throw fits regularly ripping apart everything we owned saying things like they will never get my trash and he would beat me.
When the school saw the bruises, they gave me a social workers card as if it would protect me. I trusted them, handed him the card, and after a week of being locked in the closet, quite literally mind you, I stopped trusting people. He never called; they never saved me, not even a follow up. I was taken away finally when he ‘accidentally’ discharged his firearm in the kitchen while I was sleeping in my bedroom. He claimed he was ‘cleaning’ it.
I was bounced around family members, mostly my grandmother. I had the most clothing in my life during 9th grade, I owned exactly one pair of jeans that I had stitched the crotch back together and four tee shirts. We were not poor, my grandmother just loved the church; she would throw parties for them and bought a brand new dining room set, china hutch and all. I just wasn’t worth spending money on, so I had powdered milk instead of actual milk, secondhand clothes, and government handout food- think pink labeled cans, no brand, if you have been there you know what I am talking about.
At 15 I moved back in with my father, he had changed, or so he claimed. Two months into it, I watched him drag his third wife down the hall by her leg to the bedroom. I hate her too frankly, she tried to come on to me more than once. She was always talking about her sex life with my father. So at 16 I left to live with foster kids in transition to adulthood, sort of a halfway house for unwanted children, finished school, met kids even more fucked up than I was and went into the Marine Corps to protect people, because no one protected me.
There I was raped by three random drunk Marines in a bathroom while coming back on base from my birthday weekend celebration, funny since I sober, although I wish I hadn’t been. I thought I had escaped the jail known as my life and it turns out I just got out of my cell. My Uncle, who was the only one to ever love me, killed himself not even a year later over Easter (7 years ago now). Fast forward past the three deployments, my medical discharge and hardships thereafter, all the way to two years ago. Now after all this you would think things could not get worse, well I hit bottom.
My fourth fiancé (yes fourth, no one means it when they promise they will never leave) leaves one day for no reason, doesn’t give me warning and I still don’t know why. She takes everything she wants while I am in school and leaves a note saying she isn’t coming back. I had already been under a lot of pressure, bad things had been piling up left and right, take your pick, money problems, family problems, school problems, all of them going on, and she left… I snapped, that night I climbed into the bathtub; I took my kabar with me and sat, fully dressed, in a quarter full bathtub.
I did that so no one would have to clean up my mess after I killed myself, it was the least I could do. However, because of my history with trauma in the bathroom on top of everything else, I just cried so much I couldn’t actually see straight enough to cut or even hold the knife. Obviously in the end I didn’t do it. I am a failure, even at that. Now I have tattoos covering the spots so I will not attempt it again, you see I cannot bring myself to ruin someone else’s art even if it is on me. After the attempt I didn’t sleep for a over week; the only thing I ate was an entire jar of applesauce.
The upside, I got help. Right now I’m still playing medication roulette; this will be my sixth med change in the past 2 years. I now see two councilors weekly (each) to deal with everything, and I was called an ‘onion of trauma’ which was oh so fun. Nevertheless, the plain facts of the matter is that I have no real friends, no family, no one who knows me. If I were to die tomorrow, no one would care or come to my funeral. I survived but I am not living, some scars are just so deep you cannot even see yourself anymore when you try to look past them. When I look into the mirror I don’t even know who’s looking back.
The point is I am an atheist and very much pro-choice because between you and I, I should have been an abortion. I was not wanted, so why not. To put it bluntly the value of a life is never worth more than the quality of that life.
Birth control people, birth control.
Now I am trying so hard to convince someone who is exactly like me that she is truly loved for who she really is, if only by me! Maybe it’s just because I hope someone out there could love me the way I love her. However, neither of us is going to believe it, after all, we are both unlovable. But it won’t stop me from fucking trying.
Update: She said yes to my help, I guess persistence pays off. Maybe there is hope for me after all. Thank you, Loony, LeClown and anyone who reads this. You are all more than incredible.