“When you can’t look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark.”
~Alice in Wonderland
Here I go again with an Alice in Wonderland quote. But honestly, there are so many that have changed the way I look at things. This one, in particular, has gotten me through so many hard times. It has proven that I will never be alone for as long as I have my books.
We know that there are things in life that cannot be controlled. That there are times when you are powerless to control what happens. And many times, in many situations, our control is stripped.
What happened in the past, happened.
Just because our control was stripped, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just means it happened to us, not because of us.
This is a story about a girl, who was supposed to be something good, but instead was terrorized from a young age by her family and friends. She stands tall and fights back. When maybe she should sink to her knees and scream for help.
She’s broken and shattered, but not on the outside. No one knows she’s in there, surviving but not really alive.
No one understands that there is glass inside of her, and that every once in a while, the glass shatters and pierces the skin. Blood then runs down her thigh, or wrist, and out of the wounds.
Relief.
That’s all she wishes to know. Every once in a while, others see. They don’t believe in her style of relief, they see death and pain and red. They see bad and sad and hurt, they don’t see the peace, the help, the faith. Soon the water washes away the relief and she is left feeling empty and unsure.
Tears do not help, they have not since she was a lot younger. For a girl of such a young age that is saying something unknown to many. Tears are a necessary part of life; they show the truth in what is not said. When tears no longer give the truth, and only show that there is something hidden, then they are no longer necessary.
Snow melts, sunrises become a single, bright, blinding light, and darkness always returns. This is the story.
This cycle repeats many times over. The smile begins, the lip shakes, the tears come to the edge, the laughter breaks, the tears fall, the smile slips, the lights dim, the abuse starts, and the life turns the way no one would want it to.
But it did anyways.
Just after I was born, my parents divorced. As far as I know, my mum left my dad when I was only a few months old. The divorce didn’t actually happen until I was already a year old, but it was still when I was young enough not to know any different as I grew up.
It was difficult for me when my siblings were born, because they had their parents together, and I didn’t.
My two households were very different, in nearly every way.
At my dad’s I was branded a liar from a young age, even though I had never told a lie until I was seven years old. Every time I tried to speak out, I would get shot down.
I was two when this first happened when it first started. My father’s girlfriend’s son, (my now ex-stepbrother) had begun his stage of ‘childhood curiosity.’ That’s what everyone called it.
The first time I told someone, I was immediately thought to be ‘stupid’ and a ‘liar.’ Again, I was two. That wasn’t a big deal to me.
It was later when I turned seven and was blackmailed into saying it was a dream. First of all, why would a seven-year-old have ‘wet dreams’ like that? I rescinded my statement and it was over. Well, they thought so.
The next time I told someone I was eleven, and I was given: “We’ll watch it more closely.” I wasn’t told that they were sorry I had to go through that, or that I was going to be okay.
Nope, not at all.
It hurt me to know I was shot down over and over again, only to continue to be sexually abused.
Whenever I tried to make a statement, I was always told it was a lie. I was quick to learn that it was better to be quiet and just accept the way things were. I was also quick to learn to just do things as I was told and not argue my reasonings for anything.
Before that day, when I was seven, I had never told a lie. That day, I told many lies, and they all ruined my life.
When I was about twelve, I’m unsure to be honest, I told my mum (while sobbing and trying to be brave) that I thought I had depression. It was hard to do, but I did it.
When it didn’t get better, I began cutting.
It was so hard to take the blade to my wrist and cut the first time, but it felt good. And it quickly became an addiction. It was hard to stop. The inpatient hospital I went to when I was sixteen was the only reason I could.
Thinking back, I guess there were a lot of things that led up to this point.
Just after my sixteenth birthday, it came out that I had continued to be sexually abused.
About two months earlier I got a concussion, and I had been unable to compartmentalize anymore. My mind just couldn’t do it, and I had serious nightmares.
After the concussion, I got the flu, and then pneumonia, so I was out of school for three months. The cutting and depression got worse. My school work piled up and I couldn’t cope.
I got an email from all eight of my teachers, mind you, it was two days before school ended that year. The teachers all sent me the work I had missed and said I had two days to get it into them.
It was a lot of stress and I couldn’t handle it.
The pills I was taking for my PTSD weren’t helping, only making it worse, plus I couldn’t sleep. It didn’t help that I have ADHD and dyslexia. The chronic depression and anxiety on top of that, the stress was through the roof and I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I had decided to kill myself. However, before I started, my resolve crumbled, and I decided to tell someone before I did it.
I do not regret that night at all.
No. That night, I got out of an emotionally unstable household. I could breathe.
Yes, I’m fine now. I know how to tell when I need to rest when I need to push, or when I can push. Because they are all different things.
I began to know my limits, find out what gave me anxiety and what helped. I was out of my home environments for an entire week, and without the influence of them, I was able to think. It was phenomenal.
It’s hard to make it through things like that.
It’s hard to understand that even though you were torn down, you can still get back up.
I mean, I had been sexually abused from the age of two until I was fourteen. That’s twelve years!
I’m still not healed, and I still can’t find myself accepting relationships. Some days it hits me hard, like when someone asks me out, and all I can think about are his hands touching me.
It hurts that when my best friends tell me I’m so innocent. Or when they ask me specific questions, that makes me think about what happened to me. It’s hard for me to feel innocent when I feel dirty and damaged.
It is really hard for me to not hate my body, or myself because the thing is; when everyone found out after the concussion, the only thing my dad said to me was: “and you didn’t want it?”
Sometimes I question myself, but then I remember that I cried every time and that sure, my body liked it, but I myself, did not.
Still, on some days I cry, but I always stand up again and fight. The most important thing is to always get back up!
Hey lovelies!
So I know that was a bit personal, but I believe it was important to write and get out there. I’m hoping it will help some of you through the hard times you are in currently.
This post can be found here on the blog I write for on the side!
