I Am Strong! Shut Up Voices! I Am Strong!

My creation was a violent act of violation. My mother was watching her friend's kids, when one of her friend's boyfriend broke into the house. He held a knife to her neck and sodomized her, then in her own words "flipped her over to finish up the normal way." So I was born.

Before all that, my mother had issues. No one knew it at the time, but she had Borderline Personality Disorder. She also had a lot of health issues: heart problems, learning disabilities, seizures... She always had trouble with boys. She always choose the wrong one, the one that hurt her. And once I was born, hurt me.

They were dating since I was born in 1994. He was charming, sweet, and funny. He loved children, and played with my cousin and I. He touched me when no one else was around, when I was in my crib in my mother's room in my grandparent's trailer. No one knew.

They married when I was 5, and my mother and I moved out of my grandparent's trailer and into my new stepfather's trailer. My mother worked three jobs, and was gone all the time. During these times I would be trapped in that trailer, while he did any drug available. I watched shot up, snuff, chain smoke, chain drink, and shake as the chemicals took over his brain changing him into a monster. That monster ripped my ruffled, lacy dress off and raped me on the sofa. Every day. Every night. Whenever my mother wasn't home. When she was home, they would scream and throw things, he would beat her, call her names, make her feel worthless, stupid, ugly. But he was so nice to me, well, when he wasn't beating the **** out of me. He made sure he had both my love and complete control. He would give me things he found at the dump and cleaned up, and then he would starve me, forbidding me to eat. He conditioned me so he could have his way with me, and he conditioned my mother so he could have his way with her.

That monster also had a fix, an addiction that needed to be filled. But we had no money because he already spend it all on drugs, beer, and chew. But he had a little girl and absent mother, so he had an opportunity. A large, obese man showed up at out house when I was about 5, he handed my stepfather his drugs or whatever it was, and took me out to my stepfather's blue truck. I know have a terrible fear of trucks. Because in that truck he raped and beat me. I was a ******* prostitute. A five-year-old prostitute.

My mother left him when he locked up inside the trailer and set it on fire. I still don't know why he was trying to kill us. He was probably just high. So we moved back in with my grandparents. I was a timid, depressed, quiet child, but everyone ignored it because they wanted everything to be fine. And when my ex-stepfather was thrown in jail for molesting and little boy and raping an adult women, no one thought anything of it. The only thing that was wrong was the simple things everyone goes through: lack of money, health problems, death. There were no deeper issues. No, not yet.

In 6th grade I tried to kill myself. I didn't know how though. No one knew that I tried to kill myself. But I did. I never thought about why I hated life and wanted to die. I just did.

Then my mother met another man. I was probably about 10. He took us places, had money, was fun. I was glad to have a father figure. We moved in with him after a few years. He turned out to be a gay-hating, racist, **** addict. He was also selfish and controlling. He moved us far away from our family, and didn't buy a computer or a phone for us. He had his cell phone that he took to work with him, which he was at a lot. After we moved in we never went out any more. We stayed home all day. I started cutting myself then. It wasn't the first time I had seen ****, but it was a lot... darker than before. My mother had watched **** with me, but it wasn't just ****, it was **** within a story. A horror movie or something. This was just pure sex. Disturbing sex.

I started cutting myself then. I cut myself until 7th grade, then in a horrid fight we my mother (we fought all the time, she had tried to kill me, and thrown me out of the house for a night), I reveled my scars. She told my grandmother and my grandmother told the school. Then I was sent to therapy, only to beg to be taken out of it. So I was.

In 8th grade I was anorexic. It was for the control and because my mother constantly called me fat. When I was 20 pounds underweight she still called me fat. That was also the year I went out to walk the streets with a friend and her boyfriend and his friends. They tried to rape me. Got very close, they took off half my clothes, pushed me on the ground, and touched me. I really have no idea how an anorexic, timid, quiet girl managed to fight her way through 8 guys, but I did. I did and I ran. Sometimes I feel proud because I got away. If I'm lucky I can bring that up when the voices call me weak and they shut up.

In 9th grade I tried to kill myself twice. So I was put in a mental institution twice. I was put back in therapy. Around that time I met the love of life, but I didn't know he was yet. I also told my therapist that I remembered being raped by my stepfather... she didn't believe me. I don't know why. But she just said "I doubt that happened, and why does it matter anyway? We're here to work on the issues with your mother." I didn't care so much for my mother. At this time she was diagnosed with manic depression and getting therapy for that. I wanted to talk about my ex-stepfather. I remembered bad things. He had molested other children, raped other women, we had him on tape talking about my little girl breasts! Normal fathers don't talk about their little girl's breasts. But just like it always was before, it was unimportant. All anyone cared about was how they felt. How my cutting made them feel. How my eating disorder made them feel. How my depression made them feel. **** YOU! Do you care about how I feel?! How my cutting makes me feel? How my eating disorder makes me feel? What my depression feels like to me? No. No one cares about that.

I only saw the future love of my life every now and then. But he always made me feel better. Then at the end of the school year, we started talking more and more. Then he told me that he loved me and we started going out on May 25th 2009. We still are. He's a Christian. At the time I was Agnostic, and doing bad things. But then he showed me God, and I became a Christian a few months ago. It really changed my life.

But a lot more was going on beneath the surface. My therapist said I was all better and had me stop going to her. That's when I started having flashbacks, and terrible fears about being raped, and of trucks. I also started losing my memory, first hours, then days, then weeks. Then I started completely going away. I was just quiet at first, but then someone else started taking my place when I was gone. This someone was a little girl, who didn't know her name and thought she was five... Eventually a man named Roger started taking my place. He was very angry, he carved his name into my leg, and cut and burned my arms all the way up on both sides. Another person, I don't know their sex, is quiet and curls up in a ball and takes long showers and doesn't talk to anyone. He/she just says their name. Which no one can ever quite understand. But it's not my name and it's not Roger.

So I went back to a new therapist. A Christian psychologist. She diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, and re-diagnosed me with Depression. The best part: She believes me! She believes that I was raped by my stepfather! We think the voices that I hear that are mean to me and say horrible things are other personalities inside myself.

I also got a new psychiatrist who put me on new meds. A good anti-psychotic one, and I've been dissociating less and less.

By this point my mother had been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. My family read Stop Walking On Eggshells, and things have been better.

The love of my life and I are still together, and he helps me through everything. He's the best.

And even if I wasn't able to get through all of that without becoming mentally ill, I'm strong. It's hard to go through all that. When no one believes you , and everything is falling apart. I'm getting better everyday. Life is looking brighter.

I still am devastatingly sad. I still have a lot of work. But now I have love and people who support and believe me. And I know I can get better, because I'm strong. I'm strong and I don't care what anyone says.

lolitanomore lolitanomore
13-15, F
Feb 13, 2010