Wednesday, June 20, 2012


Rambling dramatic crap.  Don't read it if you want rainbows and unicorns. 


Here is how I really feel without the filter I put up so people don't think I'm being dramatic or psycho or looking for attention or whatever.  I'm tired.  I'm tired of seeing, feeling, hearing, smelling, everything everyday.  I'm tired of being raped every single day.  I'm tired of my mom screaming at me everyday.  I'm tired of hearing a man screaming for the beating to stop every single day.  It's not just once or twice a day.  It's all fucking day.  Like, maybe once or twice AN HOUR.  I read these blogs from other, "survivors" and I just don't understand.  They seem so healthy and put together.  They are hurting, but not psycho.  They are functional and making something of their lives.  I'm not a fucking survivor.  I'm a fucking failure.  Pathetic.  Psycho.  Dramatic.  Ruined.  Damaged.  Worthless piece of shit.

I don't know how any "negative" emotion always turns into "I want to die" for me.  Maybe that desire is always there.  I don't really understand why I am here.  I really don't.  I feel bad all the time.  Even when I sleep, if I sleep.  I feel bad when I'm laughing.  I feel bad when I'm crying.  I feel bad when I'm drunk.  I feel bad when I'm high.  I feel bad when I'm sober.  So far today I've tried:  Mindfulness, meditation, soft music, holding ice, really hot water hot tea, gross tasting or and spicy things, Klonopin, wine, more wine, weed, lunesta to knock me out.  Nope.  Still freaking psycho. 

I feel gross all of the time.  I hate myself all of the time.  I cannot even look in the mirror most of the time.  When I'm in a clothing or department store, I always look away when I'm passing a mirror.  I hate myself.  I hate what I look like.  I hate what I sound like.  I hate the way I think.  I hate the way I feel.  I hate the things I've done.  I just hate who I am.  I look at the shitty things I've done in my life all of the time.  I know people are thinking, "Well, stop it.  Think about the positives."  I want to.  I really do, but I just have no idea how. It's like I've been way over my limit for my whole life and I just can't take anymore, even the little stuff.  I just want it to be over.  I don't want it to be better.  That's not realistic anymore.  

I fail at everything.  I lose everything.  I'm not playing victim here.  I'm playing fuck-up.  I ruin absolutely everything in my life and I'm so tired of it.  I'm starving for a family.  It's something I think about all day, everyday.  People who didn't grow up and age of out of foster care just don't get it, no matter how hard they try.  There are feelings that I carry around that most people don't even know exist.  I've lived in 42 different placements in 18 years, not counting all the times I moved around with my mother.  I have never lived anywhere longer than 3 years, and those three years were with my rapist foster dad that I also chose to have sex with a lot.  Not only that, but I did things with my Middle Eastern stepfather too.  And I had sex with a male staff member in one of my group homes when I was 13.  It was totally my idea.  I totally pushed him into it.  I was still mute and still did really disgusting shitty things.  He quit the next day.  After that I was kind of a slut with a lot of boys.  Yeah.  I was never an innocent little kid.  Even my mom said the first time she looked at me she knew there was something wrong with me.  I was actually born feet first with the cord around my throat according to my Lifebook.  See, even the womb that created me thought I should die.

Before and after Maggie and Tim's, I never lived anywhere longer than 7 months, and have never stayed in an apartment more than a year and a half as an adult.  I do not know what it's like to have a home.  I do not know what it is like to feel safe.  My mother locked me in closets for days at a time as a little girl.  I used to hide in them when I lived with Maggie and Tim.  I used to hide under my bed in my group homes and as an adult, but now I hide in the closet again because there is nowhere else in my tiny shoebox apartment.  I get stuck in there.  I literally get scared to come out, like Tim or my mother is waiting for me.  How fucking psycho is that?  I'm crazy.  I'm ruined.  Damaged goods.  I am terminal.  Paging Dr. Kevorkian...