I was having such a crappy day. I got a ticket for turning right at a "no turn on red" intersection, but I swear the light was green. My anxiety is building because Tuesday is already over which means I only have one more day until I have therapy again. I don't want to go to therapy again. I've been having these irrational fears that I'm pregnant. It's totally not possible because A. I'm with a woman. B. I was left infertile after a procedure I had to help friends have a baby. and C, I haven't slept with a man. It's like I'm expecting the next messiah or something. I've been obsessing about it for weeks so I finally bought a pregnancy test and took it. Negative of course. Am I losing my mind?
I tried to kill myself when I was 11, almost 12...Maybe I was 12 already. I'm not sure. My foster mother read my journal and then interrogated me. She slapped me. "How can you write something so horrible? How can you do something so disgusting?" To this day, I still have no idea what she meant by those words. Was she angry at my words or my actions? She said she was calling my case worker and slammed my door. I knew I had messed up my chance at a family. I knew this was it. I crawled out the window and I ran away. I was in the middle of nowhere Arizona. I was literally in a town that only had a gas station and a pizza place ran outside of someone's house. The nearest grocery store was a 45 minute drive away so I'm not sure where I thought i was going. All I know was that I wanted out of there. I knew they were going to take me away, maybe put me in jail...Beat me with bamboo sticks like they did to that man in the middle east.
|Me: a week or two before she read my journal|
I didn't go very far. I ran to my elementary school and slept on the soccer field. My foster parents found me the next night, trying to hitch hike my way to anywhere...to anyone that would love me. My foster father jumped out of the truck and grabbed my arm, pulling it behind my back. He grabbed me so hard I thought my arm might break. I knew... He didn't have to say anything. Talking would be a very bad idea. That night, after I thought everyone was asleep, I took every single pill I could find in the house, prescription or not. I must have taken 200 pills. I don't know what happened after I took them because the next thing I know I was restrained to a bed with a tube down my nose that carried a black liquid into my body. Charcoal maybe? After that I stopped talking. I stopped eating. I stopped living. I no longer had a home. I messed up again. I proved myself unlovable again. I just wanted to sink into that bed so no one could see me anymore. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to disappear. No... I wanted not to be. I didn't speak for a year after that but when i finally did... it was raining.