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hole in my heart.

June 7th, 2011

I'm not really quite sure how or when it all started, maybe I was just born this way. But I've been depressed for as long as I can remember. I try to analyze it all in my head over and over. I never stop thinking. When people say that they think and then they don't, or that they zone out and not think about anything, I honestly can't wrap my mind around that fact. I am constantly thinking, my thoughts never stop. It could be something completely off the topic of what is happening around me. But regardless, every moment of the time I spend awake is spent thinking. The scenereos I play in my head are as random as they are endless. It is even to the point which I often distract myself from conversations with other people because of my wandering brain.

 

Back to the point of my analyzing habits. I try to figure out what trauma must have occurred to me at such a young age, to have caused my diagnosis of my anxiety, depression and borderline personality disorder. I have accumulated that it was the physical abuse and neglect I suffered all throughout my childhood and maybe even more, is the physical abuse I seen happen to my older brother. The memories of what happened to me are half buried, perhaps. Some are so clear that I wish my mind had blocked them out completely, but most are slightly faded. The memories I have of watching the abuse towards my big brother are always as clear as day. One time when I was very young (perhaps I was three and he was six) he said or did something that siblings do, but I remember it really hurt my feelings. I told on him. I'll never forget what happened to him and I'll especially never forget the guilt I felt. It was all my fault; if I just kept it to myself and never told mom, that wouldn't have happened to him. I never "told on" him ever again.

 

It was such a stressful house, with such abusive and hateful parents. But what gets to me more is that my psycho mother along with her faithful sidekick, my father, always made it out to be a perfect home. That they were the perfect parents and that whatever stress was in the home was caused by us. If we were disobedient or "disrespectful", we had to be punished. They tried to brainwash us into thinking that it was normal or that we deserved to be hit when we were wrong. I remember my mother telling us when I was probably seven or eight, that if I ever called the Kids Help Line on the boxes of cereal that they would never believe us. And that if they did, we would be sent off to a foster home where we would be beaten worse than we were there. I always disregarded that number on the cereal boxes.

 

I was living in silent agony. Teachers were always concerned with my social behavior. Although I could get along with my classmates and make friends, they said I was always too shy and withdrawn, that I worried too much. I always had upset stomachs and headaches and strange pains that doctors couldn't diagnose as a physical problem, but was obviously linked to stress. I was diagnosed with anxiety when I was in kindergarten. Everyone saw the effects but no one saw what happened behind those closed doors. Starting in grade five, I started to get bullied at school a lot. I had no defense mechanism, I was the perfect target; a withdrawn, shy and extremely insecure girl. Everyone called me crazy, I had no friends and no boys wanted me.

 

At age thirteen, I began cutting myself. I didn't know anyone who did it, but for some reason I felt that by hurting myself physically, I could numb the emotional pain. It was a cry for help, that I didn't let anyone see. I'll never forget the first time I did it. I was sitting on my bed, wearing that pink skirt. I pushed the covers down over my legs and started cutting my thighs, places no one would see. I'll never forget that feeling. That rush of relieif. I also started writing very dark poetry and became very suicidal. No one knew, but I knew that I was insane. Everytime I couldn't handle the intensity of my emotions, all I could manage to do was break apart a razor and slice through my skin. Not only for the pain, but there was a certain addiction to seeing that crimson blood flowing out and over my pale skin. My first boyfriend was when I was fourteen and for some reason, I began to make a point to date as many guys as I could. The more guys that wanted me, the better I felt about myself. I would do anything to get the attention.

 

My many scars, new cuts, dark pieces of literature and suicidal thoughts were all my secret. They were all mine; meant for just me, in my desolation, to bask in. I loved my dark secrets, they made me feel powerful and gave me more confidence. I finally found who I was- an emo kid. By the end of Junior High, I became friends with a group of kids who were from the other Elementary School. They never made fun of me and I was just like them, except maybe worse. We all dressed in black band shirts and hoodies, torn up jeans and Converse. I was the most extreme- with my dark hair, black eye make-up and black nails. I never failed at my style; I wore black every single day and it was okay to get made fun of for being an "emo kid". Although my secrets came crashing down around me, when I was sixteen and my mother found some of those dark pieces of writing. She or dad didn't seem to be too fond of them, although I thought they were genius. I came home from school that day and was told to sit down for an important discussion. This always made my heart skip a beat. Unexpectedly, they were very calm about the ordeal and even more surprisingly, seemed concerned about me. I held onto my secrets and gave either one worded responses, or an "I don't know" to their questions. When they began yelling at my lack of cooperation, I spilled all out of fear for my safetly. "If you care so much," I screamed back, "then why haven't you noticed that for the past three years I've been cutting myself???" They didn't even believe me. So I showed them the scars on my wrists. Nothing like shock value for a pair of parents who caused all my pain and agony.

 

At first, I was stupid and thought that those words that I wrote and those scars I left would make a difference. That maybe mom and dad would see the emotional distress I was in from their horrible parenting. Instead, I was drugged up on antidepressants that made me feel worse and gave horrible side effects, like worse stomache aches than I had from the start. Using the drugs as another way to trick me into believing that I was the only problem in the family. Saying that I was sick and causing stress in the house so I had to take them. Always bringing me back to the doctor to say the dose wasn't strong enough. Later that year, I couldn't take their continuous physical and mental abuse any more than their drug pushing. I had an older boyfriend with a car. Lucky me. That night, after being abused for what I said would be the last time, I waited patiently in my room for everyone else to fall asleep. I then began packing. I let myself fall asleep for a couple of hours, awoke and waited quietly for dad to leave for work. Everyone else was still sound asleep. I called my boyfriend and told him to come get me. It was quite early on a day without school, so he was quite confused but met me at the front door. He was even more confused when he saw my bags. "I got to get the fuck out of here." I said bluntly. He questioned but never argued so I left with him. "My parents won't let you stay at my house." He said as we drove away. "You think I don't already know that?" I snapped. "So where are you going?" This wasn't decided so far. It was quite the implusive decision I made just the night before; but a smart one I never regretted for a moment. "I'll figure something out." I replied. And I did.

 

I was between places a lot, living with lots of friends and a scattered relative. Even tried going to live with my parents a couple times because they said they wanted things to work out. It never did. It wasn't easy, living in each place no more than 5 months and at worse times, finding myself homeless. But sleeping on a couch and the instability of not knowing where I would end up once I had to move again was an adventure to me. It definitely beat living with my parents. Over those years, I loved drinking myself into an oblivion and when I got my own place, I loved hard drugs even more. I never stopped cutting and my suicidal thoughts had turned into actions by the time I was seventeen. I tried to drug overdose several times and was hospitalized on different occassions. I left that boyfriend I was with, although I'll always remember how he helped me leave, he wasn't good for me either. I moved away from that small town with all those bad memories and ended up in the city.

 

I've been here over a year now and I'm 20 years old. I have a great boyfriend who understands a lot of what I've gone through. We love and care about each other so much. I haven't tried to kill myself in almost exactly a year now, although the substance use and self harm hadn't ceased to exist until two months ago. Because two months ago, I found out that I am pregnant with my first child. I managed to quit all my addictions for the health of my baby, even the strongest one of all- cutting myself. I want more than anything to be not only a good mom, but the best mom in the world. I never want to be anything like my mother. But I've been struggling with this and my past every day. It wasn't too bad until I called and broke the wonderful news to my estranged parents a couple weeks ago. Although I never expected a positive response from them, their coldness still took me by surprise. I've been analyzing the situations more than I ever have. My sleeping hasn't been solid since then either, as I've been waking to them haunting me in my nightmares.

 

I don't know what to do with myself. I wish I could just get over it, like I thought four years of not living at home anymore would help me to do. Really, nothing helps and I don't think I'll ever get over it. No matter how many drugs I took or how much alcohol I drank. The only difference is now since I've stopped, my head has been clearer, which gives me more mind space to think about everything that made me so depressed in the first place. I wish I could forget it all for good. I wonder if I'll start to finally feel complete once I have my own family. My parents don't want anything to do with me, but what hurts me even more is that they don't want to know their grandchild. Although this could be in my favor, like why would I ever want my child to know those horrible people? I'd never leave my child alone with them, out of worry for her/his safety. My mind and emotions have been in overactive mode and I feel like I'm going insane. I just wish I had parents that actually loved me and that's really all I've ever wanted. There's a big hole in my heart and pain that reaches so deep into my soul, I don't think I'll ever be right. All I can really focus on is my love for my child and the hope that having my own family- a loving family- will restore me to what I should have been.


 

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