February 27, 2oo7
Hi everyone,
I know I act smily and happy most of the time. I know I try to portray myself as cute, bubbly, and overall optimistic. I try to be a pick-me-up to people, draw them cute pictures, give people advice . . . but I'm really not like that. I'm really a mental, emotional, and physical mess. I'm not happy, I'm not optimistic, and I don't follow my own advice.
To start out, let me tell you a few small facts about myself. My mother and father were in an unhappy marriage for thirteen years of their life and for nine and a half of those, I was alive. My mother had left my father when my brother was two years old, but then found out that she was pregnant with me. For fear of not being able to support a toddler and a new infant, she went back to my father before they got a divorce. Nine years later, she said she was going to get a divorce. Two years after that, some time in April, they talked it over and decided my father was going to leave--but instead, he gave my mother two options: Stay or leave with nothing.
For almost four months after that night (which I will not describe--only tell you that I had never and will never feel that bad again in my life), my father and grandmother screened all phone calls and not once during that time did my brother or I get to speak with my mother. During those four months, my brother and I were bombarded with nothing but hurtful things about our mother and lies. We were told that she never loved us and left because of us. We were told that she never wanted to see us again. We were told she slept around on my father, she squandered away his money, that she was a bad mother.
I had begun to believe what I was told as those months went by, more because I had not spoken to my mother since the night she was kicked out rather than the fact that I was being told them. I began to figure, "He said she didn't love us and didn't want to see us . . . and she hasn't called . . . so maybe it's true".
But she got a hold of us one day, when my father was not home and my grandmother was busy in the basement, watering plants. She talked to my brother first (he had answered the phone) and then to me. She explained how she had been trying to get a hold of us, that she wanted us to come live with her but we couldn't because she had nothing and was living with her sister. I forget how long we talked, but . . . but I didn't enjoy it. I didn't love her anymore. I didn't trust her.
Years passed. I was no longer playing any sports. I stopped going outside to play with the neighborhood kids. I had a piano instructor who often times would yell at me for looking at my hands while playing, for various things, whom I did not like and whom made me cry many a-time. I quit piano. I fell from grace. I stood in the kitchen at the ripe old age of ten years old and screamed at my father about how there couldn't be a God because he never listened to my prayers to have a family. My prayers about being able to sit down at the kitchen table at night with my brother, my mother, and my father with Noel (our dog my father often beat) sitting in the next room while she stared at us and whined. My prayers to have everything back to normal. So we stopped going to church.
I now only ever attended school, which I did so less and less as the years went by. We went to four cour hearings for custody. Each time, my brother and I had to go back with our father, wherein the night after he would throw a party with his family while we sat upstairs and cried. We started to defy our father more and more, and with that he began to get more and more abusive. He left bruises more often. He screamed more often. He was home less often. And hell, the summer before mother finally got custody, he killed my hamster because she got out of her cage and chewed up a section of carpet.
During those years, not only did my home life go down, but so did my social life. Not only did I stop doing after-school activities and try to skip school as much as possible, but I stopped talking to people at school. I would sit quietly now in the backs of the classrooms (when allowed to pick my own seat) and doodle after I quietly finished all of my work. I had been social, I had been popular. I was loud, fun, always laughing and playing games. Hell, even after mother left, I was still one of the top five popular people in my school just because of my reputation. But I stopped--well, because I was caught up in my home life and stopped hanging out, people stopped initating contact with me. So I felt worse, and pushed away the people who did.
Then the three people whom I still did things with after school moved away. I stopped going outside all together. I just sat in my room, drawing or playing on my brother's Gameboy, and eating. I went from being thin and active, to fat and lonely . . . which only made me feel worse. I got acne. I stopped growing. I was noticably more and more feminine as I went through puberty. I started to pay attention to my sexuality. I found out I was gay, through a long ordeal of denial and fear of what my father would do to me.
I didn't know what to do. So I ate more. I began to hurt myself, to punch myself in the face, in my legs and stomach. I began to rip my skin off with my nails, to pull my hairs out, to stop showering on a regular basis. I would tell myself that I was the reason mom stayed with dad for so long, the reason she was miserable and now alone, the reason my brother had to live with my father's abuse. I was the reason my father tied the dog up and beat her. I was the reason my friends moved away. I was the reason my dad was so angry. It was all my fault, so why did I deserve to be clean? To have unscarred skin? To be thin and attractive?
I saw a shrink named Sandra for about two years, between the third custody hearing and the last. I had become obsessive compulsive, schizophrenic, and she had thought for a time that I had multiple personalities. She didn't want to put me on medication, but attempted to treat me in other ways.
I only felt worse, feeling like I was just in the way and troubling everyone, and basically like I was a basketcase. I started to fear what other people thought about me, if they knew I talked to this thing that I believed was real but everyone else said wasn't. I feared that they saw me as a disgusting, fat, dirty f**. A short monster. A little ugly troll that deserved nothing but to be ignored or taunted. I started to fear going out in public, to be around people. I fainted in front of class while presenting projects. I had panic attacks if I had to go to someone's birthday party or to the store. I had panic attacks when I'd see Ilta (the thing I spoke with which was apparently in my head) because I was told he wasn't real. I had panic attacks because I would have day dreams of getting in a car accident, and slowly would convince myself that it was some sort of vision and I couldn't go out or I would die and so would the driver.
But the last custody hearing came around, when I was fourteen and my brother sixteen. After so long, my mother gained custody. We got to move in with her and our other grandmother at her new house. We got to move our stuff there (well, the stuff our father let us have). We got to start doing things again and having fun, going places and seeing our mother's side of the family once more. Things began to pick up.
I began to drop weight. I stopped having so many panic attacks. Ilta came less frequently, despite the fight he put up with leaving. I finally got to tell someone I was gay--My mother assumed it, since my friend Chris and I often times would hang out and we'd hang all over each other. I had people to hang out with after school, on the weekends, during the summer. I had a boyfriend.
And then he tried to rape me.
Two weeks later, I broke it off between him and I. I once again began to stop being around people so much, I put on some weight again. The panic attacks began again. Ilta came back. I began to think about how I knew things were too good to be true, about how I couldn't believe I thought things got better. I was harder on myself than ever before, for having let myself be fooled by everyone else and by me. I would tell myself that I was stupid for thinking someone would like me, would find me attractive. I knew the only reason he had wanted to be with me was because I was insecure and chubby, and that he knew I would give it up easier because I knew I wasn't good enough to find someone who would love me for real. I put on even more weight, and I began to rip at my skin and hair, began to stop showering so much.
I shut myself off from the world. I took solace in Ilta and in sleeping, in being alone and in dark places. I put black sheets up all over the walls of my rooms as I was not allowed to paint them black. I covered my window. When I had the opportunity to get new furniture, I got a bunk bed that was only a foot and a half off the ceiling, packed pillows around the edges, and would lay in it for hours, imagining I was in a coffin. I would drift off in to sleep and dream of this beautiful, quiet, but lonely place; a place with no sky and only a small area of land, covered in dully coloured flowers and one singular dead tree in the middle. It smelled of hot flowers, but it felt cold and nothing made a sound. I loved it there, and wished I could be there always. I started sleeping more and more, and when I was not, I was on the internet roleplaying, to be someone else.
During that time, my OCD became only a slight case as it still is today. My schizophrenia came and went in small rifts, as it does now. My panic attacks began to slow down and I began to ignore what I thought other people saw me as. I felt a little more comfortable around people and no longer fainted when I had to speak in front of class. Although things became so bland, I still skipped school as much as possible, but I did keep up my grades in the A and B range.
But things were only calm for a few years. Three summers ago, after mom saved up for years to pay for her fair, as well as mine and my grandmother's, we went on a cruise for our summer vacation. My aunt that my mother had lived with after father kicked her out went with us, along with my two cousins (one my age, the other a young child). So, my mother and I joined a gym, and I lost quite a lot of weight. She got me to go tan so some of my scars weren't so apparent and so I would not sunburn so easily. I was sort of happy, although uncomfortable with having to be around so many people on a boat and sometimes in a bathing suit.
But, my grandmother had decided after her ticket was bought that she no longer wanted to go, and being the stubborn woman she is, ruined the trip. Now, I don't mean she complained the whole time. She did, but . . . she also decided not to take her diabetes medication. She made snide remarks about my cousin Veronica, and about me. She tried to turn my aunt against my mother, while having them both on her "side". Many things happened which I don't feel comfortable with sharing, but overall she made it a horrible trip.
By the time the cruise was over, we were all on a high stress level because of her. As we drove up from Florida to Georgia where we would stay the night for rest, we were all silent. We got a hotel room once in Georgia. Once inside, my cousin Veronica and I decided to stretch out and check the TV, my aunt began to give my other cousin a bath, and my mom decided to change. But grandmother? She wanted to re-arrange the room before we did anything else. But without verbalizing what she wanted to do, she began to try to move the couch to put the roll-away bed where she wanted it. My mother stopped her, saying she'd help in a few moments. Grandmother then reacted with, "Well those two need to get their fat asses up and move the couch for me, NOW!" Literally, those were her words. At that moment, I do believe my aunt, mother, Veronica, and I all hated her. That whole evening was spent with everyone yelling at each other.
Much more happened, the next car ride was just as silent, and the whole vacation was just something to forget about.
Although I wish that had been the end of it, it was not. When we arrived home, we were all on guard. I was not speaking to my grandmother, she was not speaking to me, and my mom was trying to get everyone to just be nice to one another again. The next day, there was some commotion upstairs and some yelling. My brother, Walter (my mother's at the time boyfriend whom came over for the day), and I all went upstairs to see what was going on. Mother told Walter to make Stefan and I stay downstairs, and not to tell us why.
Later that evening, mother told us about how grandmother had gone into Rick's (my step-grandpa I suppose) gun cabinet and gotten his hand gun, pointing it at my mother before putting it to her head. Rick (whom is on crutches, having had polio as a child) basically tackled her to get the gun from her. That was the commotion we had heard. Mother told me what grandmother had said, but I cannot recall what it was any longer.
We decided that night that we would move out, no longer having the desire to live in the same house as that woman, and we knew she would refuse to move out instead (although she was more financially able). A month and a half later, we lived in a trailer, in a trailer park.
Half a year later, my brother's girlfriend moved in. A year later, mother kicked her out and my brother moved out with her. It was then just my mother and I. A year after that, my mother got married to Walter and then pregnant. Walter still lived at his house and we at the trailer, because Walter's mother was unable to take care of herself and he did not want us to have to be around someone in her state, especially with my mother being pregnant. (At an interjection, Walter's mother had horrible rhumatoid arthritis, to the point where she couldn't even open a container of pudding by herself. She also had epilepsy and was becoming senile, and was a chain smoker. I'll speak more about her in a moment.)
That was last year. My eleventh year of school. I haven't been speaking much of school or even of myself, but I have to explain a few things before I continue on. At the end of the ninth grade until the middle of the beginning of the eleventh grade, I had a boyfriend. Through the whole year and a half of our dating, I did not once allow him to even kiss me, and I could not deal with him putting his arm around me, or picking me up (for I'm short as I've mentioned, and he was tall), nothing like that. It all reminded me of Chris and that made me only think of what Chris did to me. I began to not trust Robert, but to also feel guilty for not really being a boyfriend to him. So I broke it off with him, telling him he deserved someone better. But in the tenth grade, at the end of the year, something had clicked in my mind. A switch turned off. I decided that everything was pointless. School was pointless. Putting effort into things was pointless. Doing things that were fun were pointless. Everything. It was all pointless because life only has one purpose to me; as for any species, the purpose of life is to live, mature, procreate, and die. I won't procreate because I'm homosexual, so I am a pointless waste of resources, space, and energy. So my grades declined from A/B's to C/D's at the end of that year. Over my 11th year of schooling, my grades in everything except art and chorus were no higher than D's. I rarely went to school. In May, I decided that because I was a useless waste, that I shouldn't bother with school. I tried to drop out. I missed fourteen days consecutively, and would have missed 15 (in which case, the school would have dropped me from all rosters) if not for my business law teacher. Mother found out, I freaked and thought she would treat me like my father would, and had I'm sure five panic attacks while I cleaned the house almost spotless while I just knew she was coming home (the school called, I listened to the message, and they said because they didn't reach her at home that they would call her work--she then began calling my cell about a half hour later). Things happened, I had to go back to school, and we decided that I could finish my senior year of school in homeschooling.
I was not trying to be a high school drop out though, not entirely. I had decided that during one of those days that I was staying home, that I was going to kill myself since I'm useless. But I couldn't bring myself to doing it. Many things made me not want to, but the only thing that truly did was the fact that I wanted nothing more than to meet my baby sister.
But, back to my mother's pregnancy.
During my mother's pregnancy, she decided she wanted a divorce from Walter. He had become a bit of an a*****e (although nothing compared to my dad), to be blunt. I attended the la maz (I don't know how to spell it) classes with her, and I was going to be in the hospital room with her when she gave birth, and I was going to take care of the baby after she had to go back to work.
Through some drama between her and Walter, they worked everything out and got back together. I was at the hospital with mom when they chose to induce (mom was having blood pressure issues and they lost the baby's heart beat), and thusly called up Walter and grandmother (I had forgiven her at some point and began speaking with her, although I forget when). They arrived a few hours later, and mother was still in early stages of labor. So, since it had taken about six hours for mom to dialate four centimeters, Walter and I decided to go get breakfast (I hadn't eaten yet and neither had he). While we were gone, somehow in those 25 minutes, mom dialated the last six centimeters and had the baby. We didn't get to be there, but at least she was born and she was safe. We got back literally two minutes after the baby was born, and I got to cut the chord (Walter couldn't--he had passed out when his previous wife gave birth and he went to do that and didn't want it happening again).
Madi was so beautiful, and I'm still so happy she's okay despite the problems mom was having. And I'm very happy she was born, that mom got pregnant on accident, and everything.
Things went back to semi-normal, although there was a baby in the house now. Walter was still taking care of his mother, and mother and I were back at the trailer, taking care of Madi.
Four months ago, Walter's mom was admitted to the hospital after two strokes caused by her epilepsy medication. She was diagnosed with lung cancer. Three months ago, Walter's mother passed away.
Since then, mom, Madi, and I have moved in here and things are still getting unpacked and finding places. The carpets are going to be redone, the walls repainted, and the kitchen rennovated.
I still feel the same way I felt last year--that I'm a useless waste of resources, space, and energy. Although, now that I live in the house with mother, Walter, and their baby, I feel like I'm in the way. I'm disrupting a family unit and I shouldn't be here. I feel unwanted and unneeded even more than ever, and I feel like I need to still get rid of myself or at the least move out. I don't want to continue to disrupt their new family unit, because I don't want Madi to not have a proper family much like I didn't get.
I'm once again ripping at my skin and hair and am showering at irregular intervals, feeling like I don't deserve to be unscarred or clean. I haven't been hurting myself, but I have been thinking about it more and more lately. I've been sleeping more and more lately once again. I've been ignoring phone calls from my two friends, going out less and less. I've been eating more and more . . . although now, I feel as if I don't deserve to eat, that I'm too fat and shouldn't be allowed. So I starve myself then binge, only gaining more weight from the binging.
I have to go get a job, so I can pay for my car insurance and (although I never use it) my cell phone bill. I want to get a job so I can do that and also so I can save up to move out. But I'm at a dilemma with the fact that I'm useless and should not be here, so I have been unwilling to go out and find a job. I also don't want to work with people because I don't want to be around people. I don't want to put them through being around me. I don't want anyone having the impression that they might like me as a friend or maybe more. I let friends down and I don't deserve to be loved.
As my father says about most fags, I more or less deserve to be beaten to death by someone with a baseball bat.
That is my basic over-view. The basic reason why I'm not so smily. I left out many details, many small things, some big things. I'm not emo, I don't cut myself and never have and hopefully never will. I don't complain about how life is so shitty--I have a comfortable life. I just have had some hardships and some bad situations in my life and because of it, I don't feel happy most of the time.
I act happy, optimistic, and bubbly so I can perhaps convince myself that things are all right and even though I'm slacking off in homeschooling and can't afford college, that things will be all right. I try to do so because I figure it's like the fact that if you force yourself to smile, you often times feel better if only by a small bit. I'm trying to improve my outlook so I won't be as much of a waste.
- Sam // Alex in Wonderland`
PS: I wrote this for people to read and not for me to discuss. I also didn't write this to be flamed or to compare life stories. I wrote this so people can understand some things I say when I'm in a bad mood and also so they know that if I am in a bad mood, that it won't last very long.
I know I act smily and happy most of the time. I know I try to portray myself as cute, bubbly, and overall optimistic. I try to be a pick-me-up to people, draw them cute pictures, give people advice . . . but I'm really not like that. I'm really a mental, emotional, and physical mess. I'm not happy, I'm not optimistic, and I don't follow my own advice.
To start out, let me tell you a few small facts about myself. My mother and father were in an unhappy marriage for thirteen years of their life and for nine and a half of those, I was alive. My mother had left my father when my brother was two years old, but then found out that she was pregnant with me. For fear of not being able to support a toddler and a new infant, she went back to my father before they got a divorce. Nine years later, she said she was going to get a divorce. Two years after that, some time in April, they talked it over and decided my father was going to leave--but instead, he gave my mother two options: Stay or leave with nothing.
For almost four months after that night (which I will not describe--only tell you that I had never and will never feel that bad again in my life), my father and grandmother screened all phone calls and not once during that time did my brother or I get to speak with my mother. During those four months, my brother and I were bombarded with nothing but hurtful things about our mother and lies. We were told that she never loved us and left because of us. We were told that she never wanted to see us again. We were told she slept around on my father, she squandered away his money, that she was a bad mother.
I had begun to believe what I was told as those months went by, more because I had not spoken to my mother since the night she was kicked out rather than the fact that I was being told them. I began to figure, "He said she didn't love us and didn't want to see us . . . and she hasn't called . . . so maybe it's true".
But she got a hold of us one day, when my father was not home and my grandmother was busy in the basement, watering plants. She talked to my brother first (he had answered the phone) and then to me. She explained how she had been trying to get a hold of us, that she wanted us to come live with her but we couldn't because she had nothing and was living with her sister. I forget how long we talked, but . . . but I didn't enjoy it. I didn't love her anymore. I didn't trust her.
Years passed. I was no longer playing any sports. I stopped going outside to play with the neighborhood kids. I had a piano instructor who often times would yell at me for looking at my hands while playing, for various things, whom I did not like and whom made me cry many a-time. I quit piano. I fell from grace. I stood in the kitchen at the ripe old age of ten years old and screamed at my father about how there couldn't be a God because he never listened to my prayers to have a family. My prayers about being able to sit down at the kitchen table at night with my brother, my mother, and my father with Noel (our dog my father often beat) sitting in the next room while she stared at us and whined. My prayers to have everything back to normal. So we stopped going to church.
I now only ever attended school, which I did so less and less as the years went by. We went to four cour hearings for custody. Each time, my brother and I had to go back with our father, wherein the night after he would throw a party with his family while we sat upstairs and cried. We started to defy our father more and more, and with that he began to get more and more abusive. He left bruises more often. He screamed more often. He was home less often. And hell, the summer before mother finally got custody, he killed my hamster because she got out of her cage and chewed up a section of carpet.
During those years, not only did my home life go down, but so did my social life. Not only did I stop doing after-school activities and try to skip school as much as possible, but I stopped talking to people at school. I would sit quietly now in the backs of the classrooms (when allowed to pick my own seat) and doodle after I quietly finished all of my work. I had been social, I had been popular. I was loud, fun, always laughing and playing games. Hell, even after mother left, I was still one of the top five popular people in my school just because of my reputation. But I stopped--well, because I was caught up in my home life and stopped hanging out, people stopped initating contact with me. So I felt worse, and pushed away the people who did.
Then the three people whom I still did things with after school moved away. I stopped going outside all together. I just sat in my room, drawing or playing on my brother's Gameboy, and eating. I went from being thin and active, to fat and lonely . . . which only made me feel worse. I got acne. I stopped growing. I was noticably more and more feminine as I went through puberty. I started to pay attention to my sexuality. I found out I was gay, through a long ordeal of denial and fear of what my father would do to me.
I didn't know what to do. So I ate more. I began to hurt myself, to punch myself in the face, in my legs and stomach. I began to rip my skin off with my nails, to pull my hairs out, to stop showering on a regular basis. I would tell myself that I was the reason mom stayed with dad for so long, the reason she was miserable and now alone, the reason my brother had to live with my father's abuse. I was the reason my father tied the dog up and beat her. I was the reason my friends moved away. I was the reason my dad was so angry. It was all my fault, so why did I deserve to be clean? To have unscarred skin? To be thin and attractive?
I saw a shrink named Sandra for about two years, between the third custody hearing and the last. I had become obsessive compulsive, schizophrenic, and she had thought for a time that I had multiple personalities. She didn't want to put me on medication, but attempted to treat me in other ways.
I only felt worse, feeling like I was just in the way and troubling everyone, and basically like I was a basketcase. I started to fear what other people thought about me, if they knew I talked to this thing that I believed was real but everyone else said wasn't. I feared that they saw me as a disgusting, fat, dirty f**. A short monster. A little ugly troll that deserved nothing but to be ignored or taunted. I started to fear going out in public, to be around people. I fainted in front of class while presenting projects. I had panic attacks if I had to go to someone's birthday party or to the store. I had panic attacks when I'd see Ilta (the thing I spoke with which was apparently in my head) because I was told he wasn't real. I had panic attacks because I would have day dreams of getting in a car accident, and slowly would convince myself that it was some sort of vision and I couldn't go out or I would die and so would the driver.
But the last custody hearing came around, when I was fourteen and my brother sixteen. After so long, my mother gained custody. We got to move in with her and our other grandmother at her new house. We got to move our stuff there (well, the stuff our father let us have). We got to start doing things again and having fun, going places and seeing our mother's side of the family once more. Things began to pick up.
I began to drop weight. I stopped having so many panic attacks. Ilta came less frequently, despite the fight he put up with leaving. I finally got to tell someone I was gay--My mother assumed it, since my friend Chris and I often times would hang out and we'd hang all over each other. I had people to hang out with after school, on the weekends, during the summer. I had a boyfriend.
And then he tried to rape me.
Two weeks later, I broke it off between him and I. I once again began to stop being around people so much, I put on some weight again. The panic attacks began again. Ilta came back. I began to think about how I knew things were too good to be true, about how I couldn't believe I thought things got better. I was harder on myself than ever before, for having let myself be fooled by everyone else and by me. I would tell myself that I was stupid for thinking someone would like me, would find me attractive. I knew the only reason he had wanted to be with me was because I was insecure and chubby, and that he knew I would give it up easier because I knew I wasn't good enough to find someone who would love me for real. I put on even more weight, and I began to rip at my skin and hair, began to stop showering so much.
I shut myself off from the world. I took solace in Ilta and in sleeping, in being alone and in dark places. I put black sheets up all over the walls of my rooms as I was not allowed to paint them black. I covered my window. When I had the opportunity to get new furniture, I got a bunk bed that was only a foot and a half off the ceiling, packed pillows around the edges, and would lay in it for hours, imagining I was in a coffin. I would drift off in to sleep and dream of this beautiful, quiet, but lonely place; a place with no sky and only a small area of land, covered in dully coloured flowers and one singular dead tree in the middle. It smelled of hot flowers, but it felt cold and nothing made a sound. I loved it there, and wished I could be there always. I started sleeping more and more, and when I was not, I was on the internet roleplaying, to be someone else.
During that time, my OCD became only a slight case as it still is today. My schizophrenia came and went in small rifts, as it does now. My panic attacks began to slow down and I began to ignore what I thought other people saw me as. I felt a little more comfortable around people and no longer fainted when I had to speak in front of class. Although things became so bland, I still skipped school as much as possible, but I did keep up my grades in the A and B range.
But things were only calm for a few years. Three summers ago, after mom saved up for years to pay for her fair, as well as mine and my grandmother's, we went on a cruise for our summer vacation. My aunt that my mother had lived with after father kicked her out went with us, along with my two cousins (one my age, the other a young child). So, my mother and I joined a gym, and I lost quite a lot of weight. She got me to go tan so some of my scars weren't so apparent and so I would not sunburn so easily. I was sort of happy, although uncomfortable with having to be around so many people on a boat and sometimes in a bathing suit.
But, my grandmother had decided after her ticket was bought that she no longer wanted to go, and being the stubborn woman she is, ruined the trip. Now, I don't mean she complained the whole time. She did, but . . . she also decided not to take her diabetes medication. She made snide remarks about my cousin Veronica, and about me. She tried to turn my aunt against my mother, while having them both on her "side". Many things happened which I don't feel comfortable with sharing, but overall she made it a horrible trip.
By the time the cruise was over, we were all on a high stress level because of her. As we drove up from Florida to Georgia where we would stay the night for rest, we were all silent. We got a hotel room once in Georgia. Once inside, my cousin Veronica and I decided to stretch out and check the TV, my aunt began to give my other cousin a bath, and my mom decided to change. But grandmother? She wanted to re-arrange the room before we did anything else. But without verbalizing what she wanted to do, she began to try to move the couch to put the roll-away bed where she wanted it. My mother stopped her, saying she'd help in a few moments. Grandmother then reacted with, "Well those two need to get their fat asses up and move the couch for me, NOW!" Literally, those were her words. At that moment, I do believe my aunt, mother, Veronica, and I all hated her. That whole evening was spent with everyone yelling at each other.
Much more happened, the next car ride was just as silent, and the whole vacation was just something to forget about.
Although I wish that had been the end of it, it was not. When we arrived home, we were all on guard. I was not speaking to my grandmother, she was not speaking to me, and my mom was trying to get everyone to just be nice to one another again. The next day, there was some commotion upstairs and some yelling. My brother, Walter (my mother's at the time boyfriend whom came over for the day), and I all went upstairs to see what was going on. Mother told Walter to make Stefan and I stay downstairs, and not to tell us why.
Later that evening, mother told us about how grandmother had gone into Rick's (my step-grandpa I suppose) gun cabinet and gotten his hand gun, pointing it at my mother before putting it to her head. Rick (whom is on crutches, having had polio as a child) basically tackled her to get the gun from her. That was the commotion we had heard. Mother told me what grandmother had said, but I cannot recall what it was any longer.
We decided that night that we would move out, no longer having the desire to live in the same house as that woman, and we knew she would refuse to move out instead (although she was more financially able). A month and a half later, we lived in a trailer, in a trailer park.
Half a year later, my brother's girlfriend moved in. A year later, mother kicked her out and my brother moved out with her. It was then just my mother and I. A year after that, my mother got married to Walter and then pregnant. Walter still lived at his house and we at the trailer, because Walter's mother was unable to take care of herself and he did not want us to have to be around someone in her state, especially with my mother being pregnant. (At an interjection, Walter's mother had horrible rhumatoid arthritis, to the point where she couldn't even open a container of pudding by herself. She also had epilepsy and was becoming senile, and was a chain smoker. I'll speak more about her in a moment.)
That was last year. My eleventh year of school. I haven't been speaking much of school or even of myself, but I have to explain a few things before I continue on. At the end of the ninth grade until the middle of the beginning of the eleventh grade, I had a boyfriend. Through the whole year and a half of our dating, I did not once allow him to even kiss me, and I could not deal with him putting his arm around me, or picking me up (for I'm short as I've mentioned, and he was tall), nothing like that. It all reminded me of Chris and that made me only think of what Chris did to me. I began to not trust Robert, but to also feel guilty for not really being a boyfriend to him. So I broke it off with him, telling him he deserved someone better. But in the tenth grade, at the end of the year, something had clicked in my mind. A switch turned off. I decided that everything was pointless. School was pointless. Putting effort into things was pointless. Doing things that were fun were pointless. Everything. It was all pointless because life only has one purpose to me; as for any species, the purpose of life is to live, mature, procreate, and die. I won't procreate because I'm homosexual, so I am a pointless waste of resources, space, and energy. So my grades declined from A/B's to C/D's at the end of that year. Over my 11th year of schooling, my grades in everything except art and chorus were no higher than D's. I rarely went to school. In May, I decided that because I was a useless waste, that I shouldn't bother with school. I tried to drop out. I missed fourteen days consecutively, and would have missed 15 (in which case, the school would have dropped me from all rosters) if not for my business law teacher. Mother found out, I freaked and thought she would treat me like my father would, and had I'm sure five panic attacks while I cleaned the house almost spotless while I just knew she was coming home (the school called, I listened to the message, and they said because they didn't reach her at home that they would call her work--she then began calling my cell about a half hour later). Things happened, I had to go back to school, and we decided that I could finish my senior year of school in homeschooling.
I was not trying to be a high school drop out though, not entirely. I had decided that during one of those days that I was staying home, that I was going to kill myself since I'm useless. But I couldn't bring myself to doing it. Many things made me not want to, but the only thing that truly did was the fact that I wanted nothing more than to meet my baby sister.
But, back to my mother's pregnancy.
During my mother's pregnancy, she decided she wanted a divorce from Walter. He had become a bit of an a*****e (although nothing compared to my dad), to be blunt. I attended the la maz (I don't know how to spell it) classes with her, and I was going to be in the hospital room with her when she gave birth, and I was going to take care of the baby after she had to go back to work.
Through some drama between her and Walter, they worked everything out and got back together. I was at the hospital with mom when they chose to induce (mom was having blood pressure issues and they lost the baby's heart beat), and thusly called up Walter and grandmother (I had forgiven her at some point and began speaking with her, although I forget when). They arrived a few hours later, and mother was still in early stages of labor. So, since it had taken about six hours for mom to dialate four centimeters, Walter and I decided to go get breakfast (I hadn't eaten yet and neither had he). While we were gone, somehow in those 25 minutes, mom dialated the last six centimeters and had the baby. We didn't get to be there, but at least she was born and she was safe. We got back literally two minutes after the baby was born, and I got to cut the chord (Walter couldn't--he had passed out when his previous wife gave birth and he went to do that and didn't want it happening again).
Madi was so beautiful, and I'm still so happy she's okay despite the problems mom was having. And I'm very happy she was born, that mom got pregnant on accident, and everything.
Things went back to semi-normal, although there was a baby in the house now. Walter was still taking care of his mother, and mother and I were back at the trailer, taking care of Madi.
Four months ago, Walter's mom was admitted to the hospital after two strokes caused by her epilepsy medication. She was diagnosed with lung cancer. Three months ago, Walter's mother passed away.
Since then, mom, Madi, and I have moved in here and things are still getting unpacked and finding places. The carpets are going to be redone, the walls repainted, and the kitchen rennovated.
I still feel the same way I felt last year--that I'm a useless waste of resources, space, and energy. Although, now that I live in the house with mother, Walter, and their baby, I feel like I'm in the way. I'm disrupting a family unit and I shouldn't be here. I feel unwanted and unneeded even more than ever, and I feel like I need to still get rid of myself or at the least move out. I don't want to continue to disrupt their new family unit, because I don't want Madi to not have a proper family much like I didn't get.
I'm once again ripping at my skin and hair and am showering at irregular intervals, feeling like I don't deserve to be unscarred or clean. I haven't been hurting myself, but I have been thinking about it more and more lately. I've been sleeping more and more lately once again. I've been ignoring phone calls from my two friends, going out less and less. I've been eating more and more . . . although now, I feel as if I don't deserve to eat, that I'm too fat and shouldn't be allowed. So I starve myself then binge, only gaining more weight from the binging.
I have to go get a job, so I can pay for my car insurance and (although I never use it) my cell phone bill. I want to get a job so I can do that and also so I can save up to move out. But I'm at a dilemma with the fact that I'm useless and should not be here, so I have been unwilling to go out and find a job. I also don't want to work with people because I don't want to be around people. I don't want to put them through being around me. I don't want anyone having the impression that they might like me as a friend or maybe more. I let friends down and I don't deserve to be loved.
As my father says about most fags, I more or less deserve to be beaten to death by someone with a baseball bat.
That is my basic over-view. The basic reason why I'm not so smily. I left out many details, many small things, some big things. I'm not emo, I don't cut myself and never have and hopefully never will. I don't complain about how life is so shitty--I have a comfortable life. I just have had some hardships and some bad situations in my life and because of it, I don't feel happy most of the time.
I act happy, optimistic, and bubbly so I can perhaps convince myself that things are all right and even though I'm slacking off in homeschooling and can't afford college, that things will be all right. I try to do so because I figure it's like the fact that if you force yourself to smile, you often times feel better if only by a small bit. I'm trying to improve my outlook so I won't be as much of a waste.
- Sam // Alex in Wonderland`
PS: I wrote this for people to read and not for me to discuss. I also didn't write this to be flamed or to compare life stories. I wrote this so people can understand some things I say when I'm in a bad mood and also so they know that if I am in a bad mood, that it won't last very long.
~.]
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