Thursday, May 5, 2011

Why I tried to die

Warning:  Extremely honest.  Extremely raw, extremely triggering. I also cannot get myself to read through it to edit it so I'm sorry for the quality.



People often wonder why the things they do for me don't convince me that they aren't going away.  "But I'm here" is what they say.  "I've been here."  What they don't know or maybe what they cannot understand is when you've grown up in 42 different foster placements and you've had your own mother leave you over and over like I have, there really is no concept of "here" for me.  People are always "here" until they aren't.  People have ALWAYS left me, even the ones who say that they never will.  I am not capable of feeling loved.  That part of me is broken.  I do not have the capacity to feel safe or loved.  I don't know how to feel like people will always be around because no one has ever "always" been around in my life.  People ALWAYS leave especially when I need them the most.  It never changes.  It's never changed.  Even today.  I give everything I have to people I love.  I give so much of myself because I want so badly to be loved.  I want so badly to be worthy of love, but I'm just not.  I never have been.  I never will be.

I started this blog as a way to process the things that I cannot talk about in real life.  I did it with the blessing of friends who said they loved me no matter what, friends who wanted to know the real me.  I did it to try to start fixing myself, but then some people read my blog and start to hate me for what I write.  They hate me for my feelings.  They hate me for who I really am.  They start to feel like I'm invading their life because they are reading my blog so often.  They feel like they are drowning in me.  I've never forced my blog on anyone.  My blog is out there but no one is obligated to read it.  It's not fair to encourage me to do something that will ultimately make you tire of me.  My life is tiring for me.  I get how tiring it probably is for other people, but I have to live it and you don't have to read it.

My suicide attempt was not about anyone.  My suicide attempt was not about attention.  My suicide attempt was because I'm so tired of hurting.  I'm so tired.  The real reason I swallowed all those sleeping pills that night was because I am so exhausted.  My original plan was to overdose on something that would make my blood sugar plummet, but the sleeping pills were convenient.  Here is the honest truth on why I tried to take my life last month...I have to tell the whole story in order to make it make sense so bear with me.  

Thanksgiving when I was 9 years old was actually pretty good.  I was a picky eater back then so I only ate mashed potatoes, green olives, cheese, and then a slice of pecan pie for desert.  I drank sparkling cider and had a great time at the kids table with my new family.  My foster brothers and sisters were having a good time too.  We secretly flicked food at each other, acted like were were getting drunk off our sparkling cider, and told jokes.  The adults seemed to be having a good time too.  After everyone finished eating, we all lounged around the house, some sleeping, some chatting, some playing games.  All the adults were drinking heavily.  My foster father had a tower of beer cans next to him.  Later in the evening it was decided that we were all going to spend the night at "grandmas" house because we were already there anyway but then it was decided that I should sleep at home because I was a bed wetter.  My foster father would have to take me home while the rest of the family stayed at my foster mother's mom's house.  I didn't want to go and I threw a tantrum.  I wanted to stay with the family.  I wanted to be part of the family.  I promised I wouldn't wet the bed.  I begged and cried.  By the time we left my foster father was in a drunken rage and my tantrum was not helping.  I cried and whined the entire way home despite how many times he told me to be quiet.

When we got home he told me to go to my room but I asked if I could stay up and watch tv since there was no school tomorrow.  He said no and I threw another tantrum.  I cried and told him how unfair he was being.  "You're an asshole" nine year old me shouted.  I was really pushing it.  He told me to go to my room and I complained and shouted out insults the whole way down the hall.

Once in my room I began to play with my Barbie dolls.  My Barbie liked to drive my foster brother's monster trucks so I snuck into his room to get the trucks.  Tim saw me and yelled at me to go back to bed.  "I left something in A's room."  Tim was furious.  "I don't give a shit what you left in that room.  I said to go to bed.  Get your ass in bed now.!" He slurred.  I went back to my room but later went and got the monster trucks anyway.  Once my Barbie had her truck we began hauling loads of Troll dolls and legos around my room.  This activity was not very quiet and a while later my foster father burst into my room.

"How many times do I have to tell you to get into bed?"  He shouted.  I said, "But I'm not tired.  It's not fair that S and A got to stay up at Grandmas and I have to go to bed."  He threw my pajamas at me and stayed in the room until I had them on.  He put me in bed and then left the room.  I was wide awake and so I began to sing quietly to myself.  I was wishing Tim would come in and cuddle with me like he often did.  I was feeling very lonely and left out of the family activity.  Some time later he did come into my room.  I was happy.  He got into my bed and began to rub my back like usual but his energy was different.  He smelled like beer and smoke, and stale sweat and he was not gentle like he normally was.  He began to rub my back under my nightgown and I began to panic.  I moved a little farther away from him and tucked my nightgown between my legs so it would be more difficult for him to get under it.  He pulled me back and began to remove my nightgown.  I started to cry and said I didn't want to cuddle anymore.  He started to get rough with me and I began to cry even harder.  "Shut the fuck up or I'll give you something to cry about!" He hissed at me.  I kept crying and kept talking and he punched me in the face, pulled off my pink My Little Ponies nightgown and days of the week underwear and crawled on top of me.  When I began to cry harder he hit me again, this time in my stomach which knocked the wind out of me so that I was only able to breathe in and not exhale.  He undid his belt, unzipped his pants, spit in his hand, rubbed it on me, and tried to force himself in.  It didn't work at first and I began to scream because of the pain and he shoved my face into my pillow while he continued.  I felt something hot and wet, and sticky and then he was able to complete the task.  Somewhere after that I kind of just went away.  The rest feels like something I read in a book along time ago and not something from my memory. 

When it was over he fell on top of me and began to sob.  "Omg, I'm so sorry.  I'm so sorry.  Look what you made me do!" He kept saying.  He sobbed loud and hard for quite a long time before he got up, fixed his pants and took me into the bathroom.  He ran a bath for me, put me in it and told me to soak in it until he came back.  By the time he came back the water was completely red.  He emptied the tub, and filled it back up to rinse the bloody water off.  He rubbed something on me, gave me clean underwear with a pad attached and the nightgown I had on earlier.  When he took me to bed, my sheets and turquoise blanket were replaced with a pair of mismatched floral sheets.  He put me in bed and rubbed my back until I fell asleep which I did pretty quickly.  I bled for days.

This would happen over and over again until Maggie found out, decided to get rid of me and then I tried to kill myself at 12 years old.  Each time he was angrier and angrier, but I really only have flashes here and there of the later times.  I got pretty good at not being present.  He would hold my face so I had to look at him a lot so many of my memories are of his facial expressions while it was happening and not what it was like for me.  He would always leave bruises.  He would always cry when it was over.  He told me that he didn't want me to tell anyone because they would take me away and that they would lock me up with crazy people because only crazy slutty little girls would do what I had been doing to him.  I believed him and in the end he was right.  They did lock me up with crazy people.

What I see when I close my eyes at night is Tim.  What I feel when I got to bed is his breathe on my body.  What I smell when I go to bed is this strange mixture of smoke, beer, and him.  Sometimes it's a loop playing in my head over and over again and I can't stop thinking about it.  I can't think about it without feeling the sheer panic and sometimes actual physical pain I felt back then even though it happened so long ago.

If I'm not thinking about Tim, I'm probably thinking about the man in the middle east, or the time I left my sister when my mom was raging and came back to her being rushed off in an ambulance, or the time I watched my mom stick a little boy's hand in a pot of boiling water.  I still hear him scream and I still hear myself lying to people and saying that he climbed on the counter and stuck his hand in the pot himself.  Sometimes I think about my times in the dark closets, especially the one with the giant wolf spider in it.  Sometimes I think about the times my stepfather made me strip naked to see how I was developing and the times he made me touch him.  Sometimes I think about helping my mom smoke crack.  Sometimes I think about the time the stove fell on top of my little brother slicing his head open so that I could literally see his skull.  I thought he was going to die and it was my fault for not watching him.  My mom said that if my brother died she was going to do the same thing to me.  Sometimes I think about the time my mom tied our Philippine servant to a tree in the backyard in Bahrain overnight and how we just watched her through the window.  Sometimes I think about the time a bug flew in my ear in the middle east and the doctors shoved a giant qtip in my ear to kill it and broke my ear drum.  Sometimes I think about all the mean things my mom has said to me.  Sometimes I think about the sweet things my mom has done which crushes me more.  Then I think about all the foster families that didn't want me.  I think about all the people who said they would be my family and then went away and it makes me feel like nothing.

I tried to kill myself because I am in pain every single day of my life.  I can't believe people are my family because my history tells me that it's not possible for someone to love me, at least not when it really matters.  I tried to kill myself because I'm tired of being raped every night when it happened so fucking long ago.  I should just get over it but I can't.  I'm too weak and pathetic.  I tried to kill myself because I should be able to cuddle with my girlfriend and watch a movie without thinking about these things.  I should be able to find a moment of peace in my life but I can't.  I'm damaged.  I'm defective. I'm unlovable.  I'm tired of seeing Tim.  I'm tired of feeling Tim.  I'm tired of being so lonely even when I'm in a room full of people who tell me they love me.  I'm tired of not being able to feel loved.  I'm tired.  That's why I tried to kill myself.  That's why I want to die.  I didn't do it for attention.  I didn't do it to manipulate anyone for any reason and I'm so beyond devastated that the pattern of my life just won't stop.  I really can't continue this way.  I'm so tired.  I don't want to die.  I don't want to survive.  I want to LIVE, but death feels like the only way out.  The only way to find any peace.