Should I Stay Or Should I GoSome people know what they're desstined for, what they're purpose on earth is, what they're value is. As your about to read my life has left me unsure of myself. Fear of the unknown is paralyzing to me. I don't remember a time in my life where I felt sure of myself, of my purpose, of my value..huh that's actually funny what value? They say that people will forget what you said. People will forget what you did...but people will never forget how you made them feel. Well the following is what I was made to feel from the moment I took my first breaths, the moment the light first hit my hazel eyes. In fact it was while I WAS in the womb that my father first struck at me intentionally punching my mother in the stomach. When I look back I can't pin point the defining moment. I can't figure out where it all went wrong. I didn't have much of a childhood, my innocence, childhood bliss and child like feeling of invincibility in relation to ones personal safety and security was robbed. To many times to count, to many methods of inflicting optimal pain, to write them all hear or even remember them all. Some of them just seem to blend in to one horrific pile of shame, embarrassment, and fear. FEAR, walking on eggshells, words and phrases that I know the meaning of all to well. Years of huddling in a corner hearing my mom shriek and beg for my dad to stop beating her. Then silence. Then minutes later footsteps getting closer and the door bursts open, OH GOD! I know that look in his eyes, I have seen it many times and with all the uncertainty in my life this is on thing I can be certain of, I know what that look means, I know what is coming. The only thing I don't know is how long I will be beat for and what methods he will employ to make my body, heart and soul hurt. Perhaps it will be some kicks to the ribs with his pointy toed boots that he always wore due to insecurity about his height or lack there of, the kicks to the ribs will be followed up by more kicks to whatever other part of my body is exposed as I wrench in pain and to try to cover myself from the blows, only to expose another part of my body for my dad to hit me. I am crying and pleading for him to stop, trying to shield myself he stops for moments as he takes off his belt and unloads a verbal barrage at me of how weak I am, what a little girl I am for crying, men don't cry, I am not a real man, I am to sensitive, my mom is to nice to me and so he has to teach me how to be a man. By this point he doesn't even have to tell me, I know I am to pull my pants down so he can whip my naked skin with the leather belt. The belt hits me all over my backside and legs leaving there mark. The marks all seem to blend in with each other, all different colours, in various states of healing from previous beatings. Almost a road map of or a log of sorts of the beatings and which was worse then the other.
I'm a naturally very quiet , discrete , private , shy person so even at the best of times I am not a social butterfly. I'm also self-centered and can't stand for people to want me or need me. Pretty much I don't let people get to close and the moment a person starts to want me or need me or love me. I shut down, I'm skeptical. Why would anyone love me?Want me? Need me? There must be some ulterior motives. Because look at me I'm a useless, helplessly addicted drug user, with extreme mental health issues, borderline personality disorder, psychosis, depression, post traumatic stress disorder. I cut myself all over my arms and wrists. When Im cutting myself the emotional pain seems to ease momentarily and the deeper the better because my mind tells me I deserve to suffer. I deserve it I've sold drugs on the streets to survive being homeless and to support my heroin and crack cocaine habit. As a teenager I broke into homes, shop lifted, robbed innocent people and drug dealers, I participated in enabling woman to prostitute themselves because they asked me to spot for them. That's taking down the license plate numbers of the johns that were picking up the prostitute, so that If the girl wasn't returned on time the police could be alerted. For this I got half the money and then the girl would usually get me high with her half of the money. Now you see, I'm a bad person. I mean even when I was a kid I was so detestable that my dad punched, kicked, slapped, pulled and threw me around by my hair, whipped me naked with a belt. At the very least that was an everyday event. I was getting off lucky if all he did was tear my clothes off and whip me with his belt, he shoved my face into my own vomit , or deficated and urine soaked diaper. That's how detestable I was that I deserved all that. As I write this I'm almost one year clean from all illegal drugs, but its not that big of a deal. I'm still on methadone, clonazapam anti anxiety medication, citalopram anti depressant, and risperidone anti psychotic medication. Most days I have to fight just to get out of bed and function normally. I don't have the drive, will to live, energy to fight. People say you have to push through it. If it was that easy trust me I would just push through it. I don't know maybe now you'll listen when I say I'm weak, useless, self centred. I know deep inside me that I'm destined to forever spin my wheels in a never ending cycle of institutions and homelessness. So my options are get high and numb the pain, unfortunately the drugs stop working the longer you do them. Every time you get high your chasing the illusion that you'll experience what you experienced that first time you got high. Plus your life becomes so unmanageable so you see the only reason I've stayed clean and even sought treatment was by crawling through the doors of detox a beaten , hopeless soul. So I stopped doing drugs for now. How long this will last? Probably as long as I remember the pain and misery of active addiction. Eventually, you forget and so the obsession returns, you pick up and boom you've unleashed the gates. My second option is to do what I'm doing , suffer in silence, cut my body, and make some plans. I have a team of health professionals at my disposal. All claiming they want to help. My mind tells me why?Why do you care? Why would anybody care about me? Why don't you just leave me alone? So as they say, here I stand at the turning point. I'm tired of fighting , I'm tired of community mental health support workers, substance abuse counselors, methadone doctors, group therapy, social workers. So where I go from here well I'll let you read between the lines. Let's just say its inevitable, will happen one way or another naturally or other. You'd never know to look at me. I don't fit the stereotypes. I suffer in silence , putting on different masks for different situations. It's something I've got down to an art form, its a survival mechanism ingrained in me at a young age, living life walking on egg shells, fighting to survive. I don't write this for shock effect, sympathy, or recognition. I write it under the cloak of anonymity and privacy which the internet provides. I write this so that the next time your at work and you look with distaste at the quiet, shy person, or the next time you hurriedly step over the smelly person laying on the side walk as you sip your five dollar Starbucks chai tea latté, just remember that person is probably suffering in silence. They weren't always like that, at one time they had dreams, hobbies , aspirations , hopes , faith. They're a son, a daughter , a mom, a father, a brother , a sister. They say we don't change when we see the light, we only change when we feel the heat. If need be, perhaps from this story , you will feel the heat??