Boys Rule...Girls Drool.

Standing awkwardly in my oversized required gym T-shirt and basketball sport shorts I await to be picked for an organized sport by two male team captains in gym class. I know that I am going to be amongst the last to be selected so I am propped near the back of the crowd gazing off apathetically.  When they finally get down to the bottom few, (all females mind you) they grudgingly pick me. Was I hurt by this? Did I think ‘oh no, how unfair that these men aren’t picking women?’ Isn’t that sort of sexist?

Guess what? I didn’t go home in tears that day, nor did I feel the need to write the school administration that I was being treated unfairly. I just had to pull my big girl panties up and realize that these guys take gym class and the sports we play quite literally and they wanted to win. None of the females are very decent at sports (sorry, let’s just be honest with ourselves shall we?) and so they didn’t really care for them on their team. They weren’t trying to belittle me or upset my feelings; they had their own agenda and motives.

*sigh* Today I would like to speak on feminism. I realize after I write some of these words down on paper I may possibly have an angry mob of hairy pitted & half nude women with picket signs show up on my door step but I am completely willing to accept their rebuttal to my self-considered words of wisdom. I would appreciate it if you would take the time to process my verses and actually ponder them rather than automatically dismiss and put down my personal opinion. Nobody ever said you had to like it, nobody even said you had to read it. Women, if you are slightly offended remember this is just how I feel as woman myself and it’s my right to feel any way that I want to. You might want to take a seat, because I have a lot to say on this one. Because, you know, unlike feminists, I don’t have the luxury of simply making a bald statement, and then moving on to the next one, without providing rational and empirical support for it.

I can honestly say that I don’t believe in feminism. Why do you ask?  I mean I totally should right? I am in fact a woman and my occupation is a male dominant domain and I should just stand up for myself…Well, if anything my opinion isn’t that biased if you ask me being as all of those are facts in my life.The reason I don’t believe in feminism is because the second that women are treated equal as men is the moment we start getting disrespected verbally, our doors are not open for us, or we won’t be asked if we need help carrying heavy stuff. Just a heads up, I like all of those things and being in a two year committed relationship I haven’t opened one of my doors, because I am fucking princess and I will be treated as such. You want to be treated like a man go right ahead, but as for me, I hold myself to a greater standard and if a man wants to open a door for me he will! Shit, I don’t want to carry the ten pound bag of flour into the house, you do it honey. I enjoy having a man wait on me hand and foot, because that is how women are supposed to be treated. It doesn’t mean that I am weaker or I can’t pull my own weight, it means that this man loves me enough to share the load.

I don’t need feminism because equal opportunity already exists. Let’s be honest here, some of the stuff men can accomplish women cannot. The same goes for women vs a man…We can have babies…blah blah blah. Men can lift heavier, their bodies can withstand certain things that a woman’s cannot. Take for example, I am in the military and some idiotic wide eyed woman (feminist) decided that being in the military wasn’t enough; she also wanted to be in an infantry unit. (Infantry is strictly all men; they are the front linemen during war.) Let’s process this for a moment, shall we? First things first, it has been scientifically and medically proven that men’s bodies are in fact STRONGER than a woman’s on average. One of the exercises of being an infantry man in the military is you have to go on long hike’s with packs averaging over a hundred pounds. They are not only fastened at your shoulders but also at your hips, women who attempted to do this feat were coming back with crushed hip bones  and needing hip replacement’s in their early twenties. Are you getting this? It was literally destroying their lower bodies just to keep up with their loads and the men who seem to not have as many issues with it. Next, let’s explore the idea that most women (No I don’t mean all so stop getting your panties in a twist) can’t seem to separate emotion from loss. It is extremely common in the military especially at war to lose someone, every single day there are military members dying from various causes; also in combat you witness some of the civilians and locals being killed. When a local Iraq Veteran returned from war she was asked why she came home early, she said: “I saw them tormenting a young child and being a mother myself it tore me into two, I couldn’t withstand the pressure and tried to save the child by putting the rest of our men in harm’s way.” Although I cannot annotate her name, please let that sink in. Especially those of you who have loved ones at war or family members who have fought for this beautiful country in the past. This girl couldn’t control her motherly instincts and almost had what could have been your son, father, and friend, whatever, killed. Just let that stew in your mind. You could be burying a body and draping a flag over your loved one because a woman and yes, emphasis on woman could not control her fucking feelings.

Okay so let’s take it back to my life previously before I was in the military. Hmm let’s go about age 14 ish and note a small clip from my life….

Sitting cross legged in a dirty basement surrounded by clouds of smoke and random strangers as they grind on each other’s bodies and partake in puffing out little white clouds from their mouths. Uncomfortable and withdrawn, I try to make my sneaky escape by announcing I needed to relieve myself in the restroom. Upon exiting the basement I make my way to the front door of the eerie house and push through to freedom and a dimly lit street. I don’t live far from here and it’s a short walk on residential roads; I pull my jacket tight over myself and fold my arms across my chest as I begin to make my way towards home. I am dressed in a petite jean skirt, long dark knee high boots, and a jean jacket over my silk midriff baring tank top. I definitely don’t look or act like I am fourteen years old and tonight; I look like a cheap fifty cent hooker. Several paces down the road; I am stopped and asked by a group of teenage boys if I was ‘looking to have fun’ tonight. I shake my head no in response but offer a sly smile and keep hitting pavement in movement towards my house. They proceed to follow me home and keep taunting me from behind as I continue forward occasionally glancing back. Before I reach my house I am grabbed by one of the boys and pushed up against a privacy fence on the block. He asks me if I am playing hard to get, I respond with “No, I just want to go home and you’re hurting me.” Believe it or not, he actually let me go and said he was sorry for bothering me. HA! And you thought he was gonna like sexually assault me, you were all waiting for that. Quite the buildup, I know. Don’t get me wrong, I know sexual assaults happens, trust me. You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of my past to know that I am well acquainted with rape. However, this young gentleman realized he was wrong and I stood up for myself. He did note….and please lean in to get the full effect of these words I WAS DRESSED LIKE SOMEONE WHO WANTED THAT KIND OF ATTENTION. Crazyyyy. Guess what else? I agree with him. Feminists are usually at rallies wearing signs like “I am naked and I am still not asking for it”, well hunny, just because you think you have the right to flaunt what god gave you doesn’t mean you need to flaunt it in men’s faces. (or any of our faces for that matter) We get it, men are animals just sex demons waiting to crawl out of them right? Wrong! B O T H men and women have sexual desires and needs and when you show off your body parts it awakens the endorphins and other desires within both sexes. If you didn’t want that kind of attention then perhaps you should I don’t know, cover up your body because the rest of us sure as hell don’t need to see it. There is a reason we call it ‘private parts’ when we are younger. It should be kept private. My personal opinion is, if you don’t want to be treated like a piece of meat then stop acting like one.

Well, back to the present situation of feminism in the military. Get this, we have sexual assault briefs constantly because it is a growing problem. Why? *deep breath* okay here is why, because women get drunk, or sleep with partners they at the time want to, then the next day go back on their word and decide…oh shit, my boyfriend found out better call rape! Or this is my favorite; they wake up and see that people are labeling them as a slut…well if the friggin shoe fits…so they call rape again. It’s so easy to put yourself in a victim category than it is to take responsibility for your action isn’t it? Let me just state this for all of you, whether you are a girl or a man who has claimed these accusations without them actually being true; you bring a bad name to the rest of us. I was personally sexually assaulted and raped as a god damn child, yes my innocence was robbed of me. If it didn’t happen to you and you claim it, there is a special place in hell for martyrs. Stop playing the game and own up to who you do, or what you are.

And…we’re moving on. Feminists claim that women are so mean to each other because social media tells them to be. I think we can personally take a page from the men’s book on this one. Oh shocker, I am actually going to take advice from a man believe or not they are pretty smart sometimes. They don’t hold grudges, and they aren’t catty to each other….If you think that the media forced you to ‘call out’ a girl in the hallway at school, or sabotage her Facebook with terrible words, you’re completely wrong. Learn how to be nice, let’s just play it old school and treat people the way you wanted to be treated. Simple concept, so why can’t we do it? It’s not men who are forcing you to be a bitch, it’s you girl. You’re just a straight up bitch….so stop it and quit blaming that fact on everything else.

For the record, being a chick is pretty much awesome and I love it. I don’t feel talked down to by men (look at where I work and what I do before you comment on that) and I like being the nurturing aspect in my spouse’s life. I like doing the laundry and I like cooking for him, he doesn’t do it not because I am the woman and I HAVE to do it. Because I want to do it and that is how I give back to him being the great guy that he is. If you’re complaining that the men you’re dating or married to aren’t helping out in these aspects in your life, you are probably with the wrong person. It has nothing to do with roles; it’s just the fact of life….those things need to get done and who cares who does them? Yes, most of the time it’s the women…but why is that such a problem to you? If it is, pick a new spouse. also, grow the hell up.

Lastly, Feminism should be about equal opportunity, not free birth control, abortions, and the ability to walk around like a shameless slut damning the male population. If you ask me, most of the feminists population is so wrapped around the ideas that they deserve more without going out and actually working for it. You want to get paid the same as a male CEO, go work your ass off not stand in a mob outside a building protesting. 

I don't need feminism because I actually am strong, and have worked my ass off to get where I am, and I have awards and commedations and scars to prove that. I don't need to belittle a man or blame him for something that I did not get or to build myself up for that matter.

As for other parts of the world, can I just share this photo with you?

Saving myself

In the mirror I only see,

What everyone else wants me to be.

Empty eyes, hollow heart

When did this become of me?

When did this start?

I have shared with you only a slight glimpse of some pretty treacherous things that took place within my life. However I’d like to highlight one particular occasion that a lot of you probably do not know about me and probably don’t really want to know. So I’d like to invite you to stop reading here because things get pretty heavy throughout this memory and I don’t wish for you to be burdened by my baggage. I am keeping you from the embarrassment or feeling the need to come ‘save me’ or ask if I am okay. Let me be clear, I am completely and totally one hundred percent fine…well, maybe not…but rest assured I am in no need of a hero or any “helping hand” at this time. I have been on my own for years throughout my many struggles in life and I have made it thus far through all of the agonizing events that took place. I am not writing in anticipation that someone will rescue me and I am not writing for the attention that I may or may not receive. I am writing to raise awareness and to help myself cope through different adversaries. Please don’t lose your heads while you read what comes spilling out of my disturbed mind, I have learned that you need to keep all of the sanity that you can.

Drown my sorrows, forget my past

Cutting deeper, make it last

With a knife that loves to feel

Open a vein, make it real

Shaky hands, tight grip

Pushing farther as I start to slip

Forcing pain to feel something more

Inviting death in with a wide open door

Taking a plunge, full on dive

Who knew this could make me feel so alive?

When did you start to notice that it wasn’t me inside? When did you see the blackness that was thriving within was slowly taking over my body, mind and spirit? Or did you not see?  Did you even bother to look? Perhaps you turned the other cheek, perhaps you did not wish to see the collapse of another soul within your grasp. Perhaps, you didn’t even care.

As I gazed into the crimson streaked porcelain, my body felt weightless and immobile. Lying next to the once bleached tub; I let the blood drip gradually and progressively out of my figure and down the metal drain, forever.  My eyes feel thick, too frail to keep them exposed I start to float off into the empty nothingness that I feel surrounded with every day. My skull is spiraling in circles and begins to pulse at a constant pressure. I am tangled in a heap on the bathroom floor of an empty house with no one there to come to my rescue. I am ready to let the blackness consume me entirely when I hear the garage door start to creek open on the opposite end of the house, I am not gone yet and I know I won’t be by the time the occupants enter inside. I pull my head off the cold, rigid tile and begin to collect my sunken thoughts. Taking in the haunted sight of the bathroom, I get a grip and drag my body up forcing myself to move out of my death trap I created. I run steamy hot water over the bathtub and start to clean up the mess that I had made only moments prior. I search for a first aid kit within the medicine cabinet and grudgingly bandage my self-inflicted wounds. Once the area has been scrubbed of all evidence I exit cautiously just as my family comes barreling in the door from their night out. Without a single word I slip into my own safe-haven of a room and away from the almost crime scene.  I will attempt again on another day, today was only a practice. Perhaps a quicker method will have to suffice.

In lieu of Robin Williams killing himself this past month I decided I would share my own story with you. Although first I would like to shed some light on my own personal opinion of what suicide means to me and the effect that it may cause for those around you. I think that Robin Williams was an exceptional actor, comedian, and person all together. He brought joy and laughter to those around him, as well as us who watched him from in front of a screen. I believe he had demons that some people could have never even pictured swimming around inside of him. I also have the strong opinion that what he did was selfish, immature, and should not be memorialized in the least bit. He is a traitor to his fans, family, and brings disrespect for those who did care about him.
Now, before you get upset and tell me how sad it is that he died and he was a lost soul who is finally at peace let me remind you of the story I just spat out for you. I have been in those shoes; I have walked that road many many times with dragging feet. I wanted to know what death felt like, I wanted to have the taste of a metal rifle inside my mouth, I wanted to drain my blood from my disturbed and pained body, I wanted to swallow all of my pills and slowly drift to sleep some nights. I wanted to do all of that. I didn’t want to continue on with my life and I didn’t want to feel the awful things that I felt day in and day out. 

Where would you be if I had gone through with it? Where would my family be? What ripple effect would I have caused from ending my life?

Well, in all honesty you would probably be doing the same thing you are now. My family would eventually have moved on with their own lives and the ripple effect would have subsided after a while. However, it would have caused traumatic difference to everyone and everything in some way. I truly believe that now. At the time I didn’t realize what I was doing would affect anyone, anyone but me that is. I just wanted to be washed from this planet, lifted of all of my problems, and be eliminated from the hurt that took over my soul. You may ask how I got through it or what I did to get help, let me tell you….
This mental state and need to move on from earth never really did go away. I pushed it down and bottled up my depression and self-loathing for years. It came and went, and sometimes I was able to keep it from overriding me through self-mutilation, substance abuse, and promiscuity. Eventually I had a lot going for me that when I was forced to think about it, I convinced myself that I had to keep going for a just a little bit longer. It was sort of working, but it definitely began to get more and more difficult as I got older and things started to pop up about my childhood, or memories would invade me and cause my pain to be re-lived by opening up old scars.
Last November, the fifth to be exact was a normal day for me. I woke up, went to work and conversed with other coworkers. At eleven thirty I was notified of a text message that in turn changed my life for forever. After a snowball effect of events I found myself at the beach staring down into the lifeless eyes of one of my friends who had just pulled the trigger. Dried blood coated his still body, and music was spilling from his phone which lay next to an eight page (in detail) suicide note. My first emotion was sadness, I felt like not only had his life ended but so did mine. I was washed with complete agony as I dialed 911 and explained the sight before my eyes. My next one was numb; I didn’t think I felt anything as I was interviewed by police officers and investigators. I gazed as they picked up all of his belongings and his carcass and hauled him away while my body felt completely empty. Nothing. I felt lifeless just as he was now. The next few days I was filled with anger and resentment as I processed everything in my head. I tried to make sense of it all; I tried to reason as to why this happened and how I could have stopped it. I was mad at myself, my coworkers, and even my friend himself. I couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything but the scene I took in at the beach. I began self-medicating with alcohol, I couldn’t sleep without waking in sweat from seeing his glazed over eyes, I couldn’t even think about anything else. It took over my life for a few months. I shed many tears, I probably felt every single emotion there is to feel and tried to rationalize everything. I am sure his family did the same, and I am sure when his toddler son grows up he will do that too. All of us, who loved him and actually cared about him, were torn and broken inside. We will be for the rest of our lives. Nothing will ever be the same. The feelings may slowly fall away but they will come back, every November, every single mention of the word suicide, his name, everything….we will remember. We will hold an empty space in our hearts for him.
I finally was able to pull myself out of the slump I was in (it took every single fiber of my being) and started to really understand the whole situation. This was a troubled man who was most definitely struggling with some monsters that some of us could never even begin to comprehend. This was not my fault, and it’s not anyone else’s fault. It’s his. He chose not to stay on this earth and he chose the selfish way out. We all have pain and suffering, granted some exceeds others; but it’s not an excuse to inflict that sort of punishment on others. Which is essentially what you are doing if you look at it that way, the really strong people in life are those who excel past their adversaries and move on or get help. I promise I am not trying to make a saint out of myself, because you best believe I have a long way to go on my road to recovery. There are plenty of programs and means to help someone with their troubles and woes, trust me I have had to contact a few myself. (That’s me stepping off my soap box and admitting nobody is perfect and certainly not me). If you chose not to seek out for help than you aren’t giving up on yourself, you are giving up on everyone else…those who never gave up on you. I struggle with my own set of dark creatures within as you have gotten a foretaste of, wounds that go deeper than skin itself; However I realized that I could never drag my family, friends, and anyone else who might be an admirer of me through my discomfort. I only wanted to end my suffering, not inflict it on other people....that is cruelty at best.
It is a terrible battle and let me attest to this statement, it is a really terrible battle to do tackle on your own. But I promise, it is worth it.
I don’t believe that we should glorify those that decided to take the easy way out and push their problems onto those around them. Granted Robin Williams was such a profound influence on the people of the world, he is not someone to be made a hero. It sends a negative message to those who have contemplated suicide that ending your life is okay, when in all reality is not. You are essentially telling people that hey, he was a really cool guy and he is finally at peace with himself….then you give this morphed perception to another depressed person that they too can be at peace and be memorialized like a total star. The end of their suffering begins a whole new suffering for the rest of the world. 

You keep saying “RIP *insert name her*, I LOVED that guy”

 But did you take the time to tell him you loved him the day before it all came crashing down? Did you take the time to notice that he was on the edge of jumping off the cliff of oblivion; did you take the time to ask him if he needed any help?
 It’s an extremely taboo subject especially amongst military members who are forced through dreaded suicide briefs every so often.  We receive classes and courses on the matter, but do we ever really TALK about the issue at hand here? Do we ever actually take the time to notice the signs or do we dismiss those who we believe want attention or are just “really weird”….did you see the cuts on that girl? Did you notice how he keeps talking about being alone? Did you even care? Did you?

Nobody noticed when I changed myself completely, nobody bothered to ask me if I was doing well when I was just barely scraping by. Nobody saw the black circles under my eyes from sleepless nights…or maybe they did…maybe they turned the other way.

Keep in mind, not everyone is searching for attention or if they are then they probably have other problems that need to be tackled. Stop treating Suicide like it is okay and stop worshiping those who commit it. The rest of us have to pick up the pieces when it’s over and it’s not very pleasurable trying to put them back together after such a cost.  

Cool metal inside my mouth

Seems my life has gone a little south.

Biting down hard to keep the sobs away

I remember how I got here today.

Shattered and torn from my past

I don’t have any reason to make it last.

The slow sensation as I begin to pull back

Descending into a slow self-inflicted attack…

Walls splattered with evidence of crime

But erasing me is only a matter of time.

Jerked awake from my bed,

The nightmare is over, I am not dead.

50 shades of reality

I would like to start off by pointing out the fact that originally I had no desire whatsoever to read the 50 shades of grey series, however upon plenty of coercion by my dear friends I finally caved to see what the hype was all about. Can’t knock it till you try it right? After pushing through some of the writing and ridiculously in detail sex scenes I finally finished all three books in just under four days. It was actually really hard to get into at first but once the story really started to pick up pace I was hooked. Call me a follower but I hopped on that band wagon right around the second book. It was a difficult thing to put down, and I was engulfed by the powerful message behind the book.

Now, let’s address this whole stigma that some may carry over what they might think the books are about. Bondage, S&M, Dominance….blah blah blah. Yeah we get it; it’s a very sexual book and some of the scenes you probably don’t agree with. I DON’T EVEN AGREE WITH THEM. I think that a lot of that stuff is downright creepy and definitely not in my realm of the bedroom.  However, if people took the time to actually read the book and not just drool over the written pornography or banish the book all together because they don’t agree with the character’s sexual preferences then they would find a whole lot more to the story itself. When I say I had to push through the first book, I was serious. I thought it was ridiculous and it was driving me insane that this girl was letting him treat her that way whether it is in the bedroom or not. What kind of naïve dumb little girl are you???

 Am I right?

Well the real story is about sexual and physical abuse and the pain that some may carry from these events throughout the entirety of their lives. These are wounds that can eventually turn into scars and ruin people’s perceptions on relationships, sexual encounters, and life in general. In case you didn’t read it and are actually reading my blog I will give you a small run down on things, Christian Grey had a less than ideal upbringing with his mother dying as a raging alcoholic who brought home various men that sexually, physically, and emotionally abused him at the young age of five.  He was then adopted into a loving family whom he didn’t know how to love back and he ended up growing up to be this cold and closed off man to the world only exercising his physical needs through dominant sex. This attractive young girl ends up coming into his life and tries to change him from the tortured soul that he is and bring him to life from all of the years’ worth of pain he has bottled up inside.

So it’s basically a love story, and yeah that’s sounds totally lame but it’s actually interesting to see the changes one will make for the person that they love especially for someone who ends up saving you from your misery stricken hole that you reside in. Look I get it, maybe it’s just not something that you want to read or that you really have any interest in knowing about. But I would like to reconcile this terrible name that has been shammed upon this series of remarkable (In my opinion) books that tell a tale similar to mine. You never know what a person is dealing with or what kind of terrible things they went through in their past, you can’t be so quick to judge a book by its cover…Pun intended.  

In closing I would like to share an experience so that you may have some ‘food for thought’ to chew on.  A high school girl who is oddly promiscuous and open about her sex life, everyone calls her a slut and labels her cheap. Little do they know that she was being sexually abused at home for years by a close relative unsure of what the meaning of love, sex, or touching boundaries really were…

You can’t judge people by who you think they are, you actually have to get to know them and read between the lines. You have to scratch through the surface and dig deeper to understand why people are the way that they are and what their reasons are for doing what they do. 

"Every Saint has a past 

and every Sinner has a future. "

-Oscar Wilde 

A cry for help

Dear Anonymous,

                I am writing to you in regards to someone, someone like me. I need someone to listen, to feel, to pain, what I am going through. I need someone to hear my side of the story, to really fully understand what I went through all these years. I can’t be the friend, the mentor, the good person anymore. I need that person, I need you.

As time goes on, I lose myself in the disappointment and utter loneliness of my pathetic and seemingly useless life. I don’t know when this all started or how it even came about honestly, but eventually I did start to slip away, and as I continue to slip and fall down this unnatural darkness, I feel nothing but emptiness from the long wasted feelings and memories of a long lost past that I once knew. I continue to drop deeper into the pit of yesterday’s non-believers, and tomorrow’s corpses of regret.

Although it may seem that some days I have it all together; in my catastrophic and gray mind I find only sadness to fill it with. My head throbs only a daily basis from all of the horrid bottled up feelings that I possess from a life that I once survived. Living in such a manor has caused irrevocable damage to my mind, body, and spirit. There is nothing but desolation left to rattle around and drive through what is left of this damned body that I consume.

My life means nothing to you at this point, and you have not ventured far enough inside of my twisted memories to have any sort of obligation or ties to my trivial existence. Although I must warn you, the following recollections I am about to unload on you might terrify you, it might cause you to have feelings that I don’t mean to evoke out of strangers, and it might cause you to want to be my hero. Rest assured, I am not looking for a hero in my life, perhaps just someone at random that I am not associated with to tell all of my woes. I don’t believe in heroes, I don’t believe that anyone can help me, I don’t venture as to think that you can even understand, but some part of me hopes that I am wrong. Some part of me hopes that someone somewhere out there can relate to my hardships and is drowning in a black hole like me. I could never wish this sort of life upon anyone; however the company would be pleasant. I need to know that I am not alone, because after all, I have always been alone.

Let me start with an early memory, this is sort of a feat for me to do considering everything I suppress seems to get lost in the pool of thoughts that hold my poison mind. I usually leave it at just that and never revisit them, unless it is forced out of me at night with the old fashioned night terrors that I have endured a decent portion of my existence. 

I was encircled by humans, older humans all glancing apprehensively at me as I am poked and prodded by another much larger human who had a look of discomfort all-encompassing his face. He has a shiny object with three parts he keeps putting the two smaller ends in his ears and sticking the other end on my chest and back, it’s cold every time it touches my skin. I giggle at him while he continues to tell me “deep breath” and I do my best to breathe all of the air my tiny little lungs can consume. He tells me ‘Good job’ every time I do, as if I am the best at it there is. This idea causes my little soul to smile and I am pleased that I am being a good girl for the enormous man. I am sitting in my underwear which is blemished in splashes of what appears to be blood and I have scuff marks all over my small torso. My legs are a deep purple and blue, they are pretty colors but they hurt when the big human touches them with his large oversized fingers. When he finally says something to the rest of the room they all let out a loud gasp and I notice their eyes all seem to fall, one of them being my mommy’s eyes as she looks down as if piercing through the floor looking for answers within somewhere deep that I cannot visually see. I slowly turn to the man who then looks into my eyes and says very calmly, “Can you tell me who did this to you?” I fidget in my seat and stare as the entire crowd of humans leans in closer to hear my answer.

Fast forward a few years I am sitting in a dimly lit home office with firm wooden chairs in a line along a wall and off to the side there is a trivial play area for children that hold blocks, books, and other various toys. I clutch my baby doll close to my chest and bend my knees up to rest on the chair with me as I watch my mother vigorously filling out paperwork on a clipboard, her eyes glued to the paper never looking up at me. My doll is my best friend, her name is Chelsea and she always listens to me when I tell her my secrets and never calls me a liar…unlike mommy. I am not allowed to take her to daycare with me, but she is always there when I get home to tell her about my day. An older gray haired woman steps out from behind a door with a sincere smile and speaks my name very softly, calling out to me and motioning for me to come inside the room. I look up at mommy whose eyes don’t even look up from the clipboard as she sternly tells me to follow the lady into her office.  Rising to my feet I bounce into the woman’s unknown room confidently as if I was completely at home with her. She seems really nice and has a face like my Grandma’s, soft and pleasant. She asks me to sit on a big cozy and not to mention fluffy couch and sets herself across from me in a roller chair. I look around and there is even more toys in this room, I am amazed at how many toys there are, almost overwhelmed in the excitement that I could possibly be playing with them while we are spending time in here. The woman begins by asking me different questions, all of which I am used to by now from all of the other people like her that I have seen; counselors, psychiatrists, all of which are doctors that my mommy said I have to talk to. I give the same answers as I have been, it’s so routine that I drift off and start to fiddle with Chelsea’s dress that she is wearing while imagining her if she were a real person, someone to hold on to while I am being grilled by grown-ups who always seem to ask the same things. When I look up the old lady is staring at me, seems she is waiting on an answer of some kind. She then repeats what must have been her last question, “Do you feel safe?” My eyes dart directly to the window and I see a little boy riding a bike speed by with a giant grin plastered all over his face. When I turn back to her I see a frown and her face doesn’t look as soft anymore, it shows signs of something I don’t understand. Do I even know what it feels like to be safe? I feel so guarded and scared most of the time I can’t distinguish between anything else. I am confused and this question isn’t like the others, it makes me grab Chelsea in a tighter grip and shoot my vision back to outside the window where the bike riding boy no longer is within sight. I leave my eyes fixed out the window as the woman writes on a paper she has in her lap wishing that I could be anywhere in the world, anywhere but talking about what all of these people are so eager to find out about me.  

I eventually outgrew the baby doll Chelsea, or so my mother says I did and I moved on to other things. I suppressed any real records of my childhood in spite of my trips to the doctor’s office repeatedly and the fact that my parents always seem to be on edge about letting me go out with friends. I was rarely allowed out unless it was for school functions or supervised events, which grew more boring and tiring to my racing mind as I got older. I don’t remember how old I was but I do remember the day that my decrepit daycare closed its doors and was torn down. The news reported child molestation and gang relations as well as regular drug use within. All of these things being something that I was well acquainted with all throughout my years of growing up, something that no small human should ever have an understanding of. My mother buried this information with everything else that happened to me and we didn’t really discuss the issue that much. Mom liked to hide her emotions too, which in turn caused me to be a giant indestructible wall to anyone who tried to get inside my head. I never let anyone in on the secrets I was holding, it was all I could bear to keep me from falling down into a pit of darkness that I never wanted to reach. I am safe up high, nothing can get me and nobody can ever know what sort of demons are lurking around inside of me. While fidgeting in my desk at my Junior High School, forcing myself to attempt at concentrating on the teacher’s ramblings I see a few of the other kids passing a small bag of substance around between their group. I am stunned at their bravery to attempt such an act in public school but also secretly thrilled to know that there are others out there with that kind of daring attitude. I am inclined to sit with them from now on and get a taste of what sort of demons lurk inside the little bag. I need an escape from here, to somewhere else, somewhere far far away….

Waking to find light slowly creeping its way into the trailer and onto the face of the man sleeping soundly beside me, I turn to face him with his hands tightly holding my hips. He stirs to life at the contact of my movement and gazes up sleepily dazed into my face with a look of concern. His attention is immediately drawn to the bruises and sunken bones on the left side of my face from the night prior where he had used it as his own personal punching bag while under the influence of the white creature.  He runs his fingers lightly over the wounds and anger sweeps over his face; I flinch at his touch while my eyes moves down to the bed out of his sight and out of his stare. He whispers, “I am sorry that you got hurt again, but you need to stop disobeying me and trying to run away from me. I love you too much to let you go, and you’re mine forever. I will always find you. Do you understand?” I raise my eyes so that they are level with the middle of his face and give a slow unsure nod so as not to upset his wishes. He presses his cigarette stained mouth onto mine forcefully and grabs my arms to my sides in a sign of possession not releasing them even when I wiggle in discomfort. When he finally releases me he rolls over and starts to pull out a syringe full of the white creature and fastens his belt to his upper arm. I watch fervently and fidget while he takes a sip from the beautiful needle and then hands it over to me to follow suit. I lick my lips in anticipation as he then leans over and fasten the belt on my skinny arm and I too taste the prick of the needle as I inject the white creature into my veins.  I begin soaring immediately and all of my worries wash away along with the reality that is surrounding me.

Sitting in a florescent white room with a small bed and a desk scanning the room for any sort of recollection as to how I ended up here. My skull throbs and my body is screaming in torture as if it’s longing for something. My heart is rapidly hammering inside of my beaten chest and my eyes are darting around trying to find the first escape that may be plausible. I can’t stop fidgeting nor the tremors that are erupting through my entirety and causing my unsteady hands to shake hysterically as I stand and start to pace. I feel like crying out or screaming but there seems to be no voice inside of me. Everything feels heavy, the air around me seems to be closing in and my lungs gasp for air in deep breathes while I stumble to and fro from one end of the room to the other. Then begins the voices, the sounds, and the noise that is piercing through my ear drums and causing me to collapse in a heap onto the cold ground. My voice suddenly appears and I note that I am actually screaming, high pitched wails as I listen to the sound waves of every high pitch note that consumes my mind. Clasping my ears with my fragile hands and calling for all of the noises to stop a larger figure steps inside the white room and leans in over me, I feel a slight pinch and then nothing but darkness as it washes over my troubled brain.

These memories are all that I can stand to share with you today, new friend. I have yet to travel to profounder parts of my being to find out the truth and the innocence that was once ripped away from me. I needed to show someone a preview of what haunts me every day as I try to become a newly found being in society, as I try to find the good in the world, which is if there is any. I ponder these memories often and try to make sense of some and try to justify others, but in the end it’s all just a patch of gray that I don’t like to think about. I am a slow spirally death trap some days and others I am a crumpled up mess of blue and black emotions that washes through my delicate being. I have been stuck in a dark hole for many years of my life, waiting to be pulled out as I keep hoisting others up to the light. I have been nothing but a savior to those around me, showing them what it means to have a bright and trusting person in their life. I am still waiting on someone to show me, someone to give me a boost and send me sailing off into a sunset as opposed to drowning silently in the shades of blue and gray. I need someone to listen as I spill out the intensity of my troubles and hear my journey so that I too can continue on with less of a heavy weight to hold.

So long for now,

L.