How to get through a really bad day… without cutting?

I make the title a question because I don’t really know. I’ve been cutting myself since I was eleven. It’s the only thing I know that gives me some relief and calms me down.

But I want to stop. Not because I’ve come to some sort of realization or anything of the sort, but because I’m in love with someone and this person doesn’t like when I cut. I mean, if I can’t stop for me, I might as well do it for someone else, right?

But it’s shown to be extremely hard when you want to slash yourself open and you’re not able to. Because that’s exactly how I feel right now: I want to Slash. Myself. Open. I want to cut my thighs so badly and so deeply I can see fat. I know this is graphic and disgusting, but, maybe, by talking about it, a little of my desperate urge can go away.

My hand literally shakes as I wish to slid it against my skin. I need to see blood. I need to feel… something. Dear Whatever Is Out There, I need to feel something.

What do I do? How do I make it go away? All these feelings, all this pain, this thing that takes control of me, that takes over my body, my heart and my soul?

I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.

Memories of a distant past

I don’t remember much of what it’s like not being hurt. It’s been happening for such a long time, that it’s become all I know. Six out of fifteen years is a very long time to go through something like what I’m going through. It sort of erases memories of your past, especially sensory memories like feelings.

I don’t remember what it is like not feeling scared all the time. Honestly, I have no idea what it is like not living with this horrible, impeding fear that takes over my life. It’s all I know how to live with, and, in a way, it’s actually really sad. I don’t remember what it’s like sleeping through the night or not waking up from nightmares. I don’t remember what’s it like not feeling constant and extreme anxiety. I don’t remember what it’s like not  hating myself, because these are such strong feelings that I carry with me all. the. freaking. time.

I don’t remember what it is like looking in the mirror.

I don’t even remember when it was the last time I looked in the mirror, when I saw what I looked like. I can’ stand the sight of myself, the idea of seeing this body I have to carry. I hate it with such strong passion, I can’t bare to look at it.

I wonder what it is like, looking at yourself, and putting on make up, brushing your hair and getting ready to go to school. Isn’t that what girls my age do? Isn’t that what I used to do? (minus the make up part, I was too young for that!). I can’t remember that, though. I know it happened, because I have memories in my head that once, that’s what I did, but I don’t remember what it feels like.

What is it like to look at yourself?

What is it like not being in constant physical pain? Not being in constant emotional pain? Not being in pain at all? I wonder… I really do.

Can I talk to you?

Okay, good, thanks. Maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m not very much of talker. You know, when it comes to opening my mouth and using my voice to speak. It’s pretty impossible telling someone in the flesh what’s happening to me for obvious reasons: he’ll kill us. So, I end up not talking about many things, because most of my feelings are intertwined with what I go through at home somehow. I mean, how could they not be? How could I possibly separate the normal emotions of being a teenager from the overwhelming feelings that come with being sexually abused? Is that even possible?

I don’t know. But I know I’d love to talk to someone. I’d love to tell how horrible I feel about myself, how I feel ugly and worthless and useless. I’d love to have someone look into my eyes and say… something. Maybe even something nice. I’d love to actually get a hug someday. Wouldn’t that be grand?

Meanwhile, I talk to you, because you’re a virtual, non-animated, unconditional listener.

I’m tired, you know? Of living the life I live, of hiding myself  and what  really goes on every day in my life. I don’t really have friends at school, because kids make fun of me, but I still work so hard to maintain some kind of a reputation. I still work so hard to fake it. It exhausts me. Wearing this stupid mask every day is like wearing a 100 ton costume. An I can’t ever take it off. What would  even happen if I took it off? What would people see?

A girl who’s completely broken, bruised? A girl who’s ugly, disgusting, depressed? A girl whose funny remarks and weird jokes are simply her way of coping with all the pain she lives in? I’m terrified of what would happen if my mask ever went down. I think the repercussions of it would probably be as great as if I told the truth. I don’t know if I could handle that. everyone knowing.

Still, I yearn for deep connections and conversations. I yearn for bonding. I know it can never exist if someone doesn’t know the real me. So, I stay alone. So, so, so alone.

A few days of freedom…

I’m probably the only teenager in the world that likes getting her period. I mean, it’s not like I enjoy it, by any means, because, well duh. I feel miserable most of the time, I have a lot of cramps and a few days long migraine. Still, for these few days each month, I get something I never really get: freedom.

I get freedom to actually sleep early if I want to, or sleep through the night — if I were able to, of course — I get freedom to wear my favorite pjs to bed because I know they won’t get dirty  or torn, I get freedom to do… whatever I want without the impending fear that he’s coming to my room to hurt me. To violate me. To rape me.

What are migraines and cramps compared to freedom, right? I feel like a zoo animal, who gets let out o their cage  once a month to see what’s out there, to enjoy the fresh air, the green meadows and the bright sun (okay, maybe I live somewhere where it snows a lot, but you get the picture), only to be reeled back forceful into its cage to be hurt again.

I hadn’t thought of that analogy until just now, but I think that sums it up well how I feel: like an animal. Not only because of the things he does to me, the things he makes me do, but the way he treats me, the way he completely humiliates me, the way he tosses me around, he keeps me trapped with no possibility of ever escaping.

For a few days, I’ll get to run in the green meadows, see the sun and enjoy my freedom. I always dread when my freedom is about to end, because I know what comes next. I know there’s pain, I know there’s torture, I know there’s nothing I can do. All I can ever hope is that some day I’ll be set free.

Have you ever been raped at gun point?

What about raped with a gun? I have.

Why am I telling you this? Because when I created this blog, I did it for myself. I did it so I could pour my feelings out, not  have to keep them in. I didn’t expect completely random people to read this and send such outpouring amount of love and concern for me.

I’ve been asked several times by now (or told, for that matter): “C, why don’t you tell someone what’s happening?” “You have to tell someone.”

Let’s sit for story time with C.

Obviously, or I hope it’s  obvious, I’m not in this situation because I want to. And I don’t remain in it because I want to. I suppose for someone on the outside, it’s easier to say that I need  to get help, when they don’t really know what’s involved, when they don’t really know what’s at stake.

I can’t count the times I’ve had a loaded gun put in my mouth while I was raped, his finger on the trigger, with him saying if I did anything I’m not supposed to, the gun would go off. The first time it happened, I was nine years old. Nine. He always makes show to show me how loaded the gun is, how a simple flick of a finger would end my life.

Not that I would mind it, of course, because I hate my life. But he also makes sure to tell me he’s going to kill my family. And I know he will, because he’s crazy. I mean, if he killed me, he knew he wouldn’t get away with it, he would have to kill them, too, and then run.

He makes sure I know the gun is loaded while he raps me with it. It hurts. Most times it bleeds. I can’t move and I can’t cry, because my family’s life depends on it. I know that’s what he gets off on. My fear. My stillness. The fact that he knows I’m absolutely powerless to do anything but just lie there and do what he says, whether it’s put up with his violence or blow a freaking gun.

That’s why I don’t tell. Because this goes beyond me. It’s not about me, it’s about keeping them safe. “But, C, what about your safety?” My safety doesn’t matter. This is my burden. for some reason, life made it my responsibility to keep them safe, and I will do it until the day I die, either by my own hands, or by his.

Yesterday and the days to come

I didn’t kill myself yesterday (well, duh!), but I came close. Closer than maybe ever before. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to die as badly as I did yesterday. It was something close to one of the hardest days of my life. And I’ve had plenty of hard days. But I didn’t do it. I don’t know why I didn’t do it, but I didn’t.

I hate this stupid hope that lingers inside me, that doesn’t allow me to take my own life. I hate that even with all I’m going through, I’m still the girl who dreams I’m going to be rescued and live happily ever after. How can this even be? Because I’m so completely broken.

Even as I went through the hardest day yesterday, I kept thinking about some future I might have. I feel stupid and childish. Maybe because even though I don’t feel like and most of the time I don’t sound like, I am just a child after all. It’s hard to remember that sometimes.

But I guess it’s easier to remember when I feel so alone and abandoned, when I feel there’s not a single soul who gives a damn about me, when I feel there’s no one that looks at me and sees how much I’m hurting. How is that possible that I’m being raped and tortured pretty much every day and not one person in my life sees? How is that possible that no one cares about me?

I’m not a bad person, or I would like to think I’m not. I think I’m funny and I’d say I’m relatively smart. I’m not  the prettiest girl you’ll meet, but I’m okay. I try to be nice and sweet to those I meet. I try so hard. Still, no one cares about me and no one loves me, and it’s very very hard to understand why. Why me? Why does everyone else have people who love them and care about them but not me? What did I ever do that makes me so unlovable and so invisible and so worthless of someone’s  time, care or love?

I just don’t understand it. I know I’m disgusting and gross and just trash. But it’s not like everyone knows, right? Because no one knows my secret. Maybe it reflects on me. Maybe people can feel I’m not worth of love. Maybe people can feel that when they approch me they’re approaching tainted skin. maybe that’s why. I don’t know. I just… I can’t understand it. Can you?

Is today the day I die?

I wanna die today. Not that there’s anything new with that. Most days I feel the same way. But today the urge’s stronger and I can’t help myself. I’ve cut. I broke a promise I made to someone. I hurt myself anyway. It’s not like anyway really cares about me. Not anyone who actually knows who I am.

The girl in the picture isn’t me, but she could be. I have a gun next door, and I can think of little else but shooting myself in the head with it. I wouldn’t go for the side of my head, though. I’ve read extensively about it, about where to soot so I’d actually die and not slip into some weird coma. When I kill myself, there’ll be no such thing as attempting.

I keep thinking about my life and what about it. About everything I’ve lived so far. You know there’s people who say I’m strong? As freakin’ if. Don’t they know what I’ve endured? That I cut myself since I was eleven? That I have so many scars that kids at school are right to call me Freddy Krueger? Don’t they know I’ve been raped so many times I’m looser than a whore? That’s what I am anyway. At least a whore has her own choice. I’m just worthless trash, a piece of meat that has no use for this world.

I’m fifteen. I’m fiffreakingteen years old. How am I supposed to keep living? How am I supposed to get on with this life that is only pain and hurt? How am I supposed to keep going when I have no value? When I’m useless and worthless and disgusting and gross?

How am I supposed to keep living? Can anyone tell me that?

First and foremost.

Hi there!

My name is C. That’s probably not my real initial anyway. I could be called Nicole. Or Jessica. Or Amanda. Or… anything. But you can call me C. I’m fifteen years old and I’m excited to get my driver’s license. Mostly, I’m a pretty normal girl. I go to school, I live in a pretty nice house and I get straight As (okay, so, that may be a little not so normal). I have a little brother that I love more than life. And I have crush a school. I actually just got kissed for the first time this week. That’s like, normal, right?

But my life’s not really normal. Can I tell you a secret? Promise you won’t tell anyone? You have to, okay? Okay, duh! Of course you’re not gonna tell anyone, because you don’t know me! You don’t know if I’m Jessica, Amanda, Nicole or just C. There’s no one to tell. No one. And I’m not supposed to tell anyway, right? Besides, I’m sure no one is going to read this thing anyway.

I’m fifteen, and my mom’s husband abuses me. Maybe when we’re friends I can tell you what he does, but not just now. But he comes into my room, and he makes me do things I really don’t want to do. he”s been doing that since I was nine. Nine freaking years old. That’s my secret.

You’re going to keep it, right? I have to keep it. I can’t tell anyone. It’s a long story as to why. Maybe I can tell you that someday, too. Maybe I can tell you all my secrets like I don’t really have friends or anyone that cares about me. Or that I cut myself pretty much every day. Or that most of the time, I just want to die. But for me to tell you that, we’d have to be close, right? And I just met you. I’m sure you don’t want to know that.

No one wants to know that. No one cares enough to know that. But that’s okay, really. Someday, I’ll be free. Either by going away to college, running away or killing myself. There’s only so much one can do, right? Especially when no one in your life cares about you. But that’s okay. I have you know. Even if you only know me as C. I can live with that. I think.