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?