Strength Doesn't Come From Running Away

I'm 15. Fifteen and a half actually. I have one of those sob stories you know? Molested for four years (aged 6-10) by a cousin. Physically abused for a year in 7th grade when I thought it would be a good idea to live with my crystal addicted father. Then there's the emotional abuse. My bipolar, hypocritical, twisted mother. Years of men in and out of my life. My mother using me to manipulate and lie to everyone for her. I watched her twist her truth into thin rubber bands about to snap. I raised her, she had me at 17, and I raised her. She is still a child in so many ways. So easily angry, stressed, upset, and she acts as if she hates me. No one cared when I was a child raised in a world where my mother didn't want children and I was expected to act like an adult. I don't remember being a child, the word childhood confuses me. I have spent years of anxiety because of a mother that expects perfection, standards too high for anyone. I can't be perfect for her and that is why she resents me. I bottled up all the pain, the memories of fighting, taking care of these children dressed as adults with adult jobs that just weren't ready to grow up, holding my mother while she cried after another fight with her husband, crying after their divorce and crying when things didn't turn out the way she wanted them too. I lost sight of myself, who am I? In 6th grade, she met my current step-father and stopped depending on me, the hormones came and the realization of all the wrong that had been done to me. I was much too young to experience, see and know the things I did before I was even 10. I started digging my fingernails into my forehead when I got anxiety. It would be that I forgot a jacket at school or my lunchbox and I knew the monster in her would come out. If she'd be drinking that night she'd tell me all about how I was an accident and she never wanted me. I started scratching myself. Then she got pregnant. I had been an only child for 12 years. I was hers and she was mine and no one else was allowed to have her. So I got anything sharp I could find and I dug deeper every time. The nausea from the anxiety, the hyperventilating, the screaming from the demons in my head, so easily stopped with a couple spills of my own blood. Now though, now I can't stop, and I just keep waiting for the day when I cut too deep and fall into that sedated sleep I've always wanted. I cry... all the time. I cut and cry, throw up, then put a smile on my face. Everything needs to be okay so mama is okay. I have to take care of her, so I have to be okay. So I'll just cut a bit deeper tonight, maybe I'll write to run away from my problems. That's what I do because I'm a coward. I cut to run away. How do I stop?
Rosesarenotred Rosesarenotred
18-21, F
1 Response Dec 14, 2012

You're no coward! It takes balls to live through this hell. Don't hurt yourself hon. You have a whole life to live. You gotta move on. Your mama is going to be alright. Stay safe x