Entries tagged with "anger"
As I started packing tonight I came across my old journal that I started in 2003 when I was 12. as I started flipping through it I began to cry uncontrollably. Sometimes I forget miserable I was. and how close I came to ending my own life. All of a sudden the pain and depression came rushing back to me making it hard to breath. I remember this feeling.
I can’t help feeling angry. WHY DID NO ONE REALIZE I NEEDED HELP?! I wish I could talk to my younger self and tell her everything was going to be alright. That things would work out. That mom would stop drinking. That dad really did care and not to blame myself for all the fights, arguments, and tears.
But I can’t. Whatever. Fuck it. Things are better now. And I feel untouchable. Almost.
All I want to do is leave and find you. I think about it every day. But, when you left, you were so mad that I couldn’t save you. I love you, and I know you loved me. What happened? How did we end up this way? Why do I feel like this? And where did you go?
You owe me $342.00…
We were foster parents and were mislead by the foster agency that we would be able to adopt our own little foster son. “There are no suitable relatives” is what we were told.
Then they changed their mind and sent him to his Aunt. For quite awhile we thought we’d never see him again. I didn’t care if I lived or died.
She called after a year and said the adoption was final and asked if we wanted to see him. She had changed his name.
That was three years ago. We go get him for a day or two each week. So he lives the life of a middle class kid during that time. The rest of the time our little boy lives in a slum. There are burned out and abandoned houses on his block and a crack house across the street. I am a psych nurse and can tell you that his aunt is mentally ill. She hits him with a belt and rarely leaves the house with him.
People tell me “how fortunate that you’ve been able to continue contact with him.”
Part of me agrees with them. And another (big) part of me want to SCREAM at them “how fortunate would you feel if this had happened to your child?” At any time she could say it’s not working out to continue contact.
I live with this every day.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but it sucks. I feel like a huge bitch for saying that. And the problem isn’t even really happening to me. But I still feel the effects.
My little sister has depression. And I feel like it’s ruining the whole family. Everyone is always so stressed trying to figure out how to help her, how to deal with it. We all want to, we just don’t know how. All she ever does is yell at people, and if you ever try to talk to her, her only response is some bitchy comment. I love her, but I hate what she is doing. She yells at my mom all the time, and I hate it. All I want to do is leave the house, to get away. But I can’t. I try to stay strong. I know I can’t run, I need to stay, and try and be supportive, but it’s so hard with how she acts. No one wants to be around her, then she complains about it and yells more. I want to yell back, but that wouldn’t help anything, would it?
All her Facebook status’ are always about death and sadness. Suffering and how bad her life is. When it’s not bad at all. I just really wish she could see what life really is, instead of how she sees it.
I’m scared that when I leave to go back to school, she won’t be here when I come home.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother for more than six months when she died. I hadn’t lived with her for more than three years. I was 18, three days into a vacation in the same state that she lived in, just three hours away from her, when I got the call. My friend and I were stuck in the middle of the road going to an apartment — her car shut off and we were waiting for help. I threw up. I spent the next two weeks and all of my vacation money driving all over Florida, signing consent forms and talking to coroners and cops. She died of a drug overdose, made possible by a dirty doctor who was “treating” her for a painful disease she didn’t have. She paid him in cash for every prescription he wrote. Only one family member came down to be there. She was cremated. We had a small memorial service, during which my great aunt allowed 12 of my mother’s closest drug dealers to come into her house, get drunk, steal her prescriptions and my cigarettes, and eat all her food.
Afterward, my family member went back to Illinois, and I left my great aunt’s house and flew back to NYC. I left her remains with my oldest friend, in the back of her closet. It took almost another six months before I bothered to send them to my family members in Illinois. When we got them, we dumped them into an unnamed river. I cried.
I’m 20 now. I can’t stop thinking about that time. She had been on drugs since I was 10 years old. I have called 911 more than thirteen times to have her stomach pumped. I had been in five major car accidents, including smashing into the side of a semi at 40 mph and rolling a car twice end over end and three times side over side down an embankment and hitting a tree due to her drug-impaired state. I had been waiting for her to die for almost ten years. She ruined my vacation.
If I tell you that I think your gray speckled green eyes are beautiful, I mean it. If I tell you that I am here to ground you, to give you a safe place to keep your secrets, to hold your hand when you smoke weed in the park, to sit in your car until 3 a.m. talking, to go with you on trips to haunted places only to not be scared but to be thankful I spent the whole night with you, to go sky diving off a building downtown, to sit on a bench and make you people watch with me, to lean in close and kiss your ear, to feel your reassuring hand on my back, to run my hands through your hair, to drive to your house and watch ESPN, to stay up late laughing on the phone, to talk about things we will never again say to other people, to feel you take my breath away, to let me fall for you, to allow me to love you and feel invincible for once, to notice you have changed, to realize you won’t be calling me tonight or the next night, to hear your voice at 9:30 in the morning saying that you want us to be over, to not let you know you’ve made me cry, to never talk to you again though it hurts and to let you know that I will always be here if you need me, though you probably won’t–if I tell you these things, I mean it. Unlike you.
The other day, I realized that having sex makes my body react the same way as when I’m having a panic attack. My breathing shortens, I get cold and clammy, I shiver uncontrollably, my entire body goes numb, and I start crying. How about I go get a new life, one where you didn’t rape me and I didn’t have to see your face around the house every other weekend? A new life where I could actually enjoy sex, or being in public, or meeting new people, or expressing myself somewhere it might be found and related back to me? How about that? Wouldn’t that be nice? Hmm? I think it would be pretty fucking awesome. I’m never going to enjoy sex, or art, and art is what I live for. No wonder I have mental problems. Fuck you, you know? Fuck you.
I want so much out of the next few years to graduate college this May and have anywhere to go from there. I want to be everywhere doing everything and never disappoint anyone
I wanted to avoid writing about it, but nothing else in my life is quite so significant and life altering. I miss being innocent and naive. I miss the optimism and utter lack of understanding for hatred that I had ‘till I was seventeen. Rape is an awful word. It’s a terrible feeling; It changes you and follows you around so closely that 4 ½ years later you can wake up from a random nightmare and struggle to look your boyfriend in the face because you just dreamt of such an awfully horrible thing being done to your body. I guess that’s the worst part about it—the fact that it’s never far from your thoughts. My family has suffered so much sexual abuse it’s unbelievable. I could be OK if it was just me. I can eventually come to understand the guy who decided to take what he wanted from me, even though he knew I didn’t want to give it.
This is all so jumbled—I get like that sometimes when I ramble.
I was two days away from my 17th birthday, in the basement of a friend’s house—watching a movie. We had been semi-friends for years. When he tried moving my hand where it didn’t belong I just pulled away. When he tugged my pants down I tried to pull them up but I wasn’t as strong. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I just cried real quiet. I didn’t think that’s who I was.
I thought I was stronger.
My best friend was only 13 when it happened to her. She’d gotten separated from her friends and was found by a middle-aged horny as fuck wasted asshole who attacked her. She fought back and screamed and was choked nearly to death by him. She didn’t tell anyone for years. She wishes she didn’t fight back because she tried and failed and almost died.
You can’t win.
She’s my baby sister.
I was raised on Disney Princesses and ‘Leave it to Beaver.’ My parents are straight out of Pleasantville—very even tempered, very much in love; Everything that went wrong could be solved by brownies.
I love the world. I love people. I love being introduced to new things and dreaming about the future. But sometimes I’m alone in my car and I think about my sister, or me, or my Grandma who’s addicted to pain pills, and sleeps all day (scares the shit out of me because she was raped by her brother—I don’t want to turn out like that when I’m old) and my knuckles go white on the wheel and my stomach clenches and I know that I am capable of violence.
I miss being innocent and naive.
I wish my mother would realize how much she has changed since she married her second husband. My sister and I are miserable, and she doesn’t care. But more than that, she is miserable. She cries all the time. She lies all the time, to him and to us. I don’t want him to ruin her. She complains to me, yes, even has threatened to leave him a few times. But she has never followed through. I hate that more than anything. The small hope I have that we might be happy again, right before she runs into his abusing arms again. She always thinks about tomorrow, when my sister and I will be out of the house at college, and how she will be all alone. But she doesn’t think about today.
I just stopped myself from committing suicide. This is not the first time I’ve seriously considered expediting the whole pushing daisies scenario. I’ve never told anyone I’m that upset with myself and my life.
I believe in God and accept Jesus as my personal savior. Just sometime I feel like he put more faith in me than he intended. Figured why not meet him and ask him what the hell he was thinking.
But I didn’t. Now I’m here. And listening to The xx.
Tomorrow, I’m going to move out of my childhood home and find somewhere else that makes me happy. I need to be happy. We don’t deserve much – I’m not sure we deserve anything – but I think I deserve to be happy when I go to sleep for at least a week or two.
Maybe I’ll find one of you. We can be happy together.
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