Time doesn’t heal everything

What’s my problem? My problem is I have not been able to love another since you left. I can not look at someone with the same sparkle in my eye as I once looked at you. You stole that part of me. They say time heals everything but today marks a year and I’m still just as empty inside. Tell me how it’s so easy for you. Teach me not to care. Show me how to forget.

-R.W.

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Psychosis: A look into my world.

Flames appear to be a trillion puzzle pieces. Detaching and engulfing in flames.
Colors dripping from the sky; I can hear them meeting the pavement. I am crying. She turns to face me and she reflects my own. I begin to wipe her tears.
Nothing. She grabs my hand and places it on my moist cheek.
The shadow man guides me. He holds my hand as I gaze into the open field.
The world isnt real; Made of paper machete and plastic. I am a single speck whose existence has no purpose. I run until I can’t breathe. A furor is eminent.

-R.W.

The Day I Killed Myself part IV

  High school is hard enough in a normal public environment. SUCCESS makes public school look a million times more desirable. Some of you may know exactly what I mean.
  Right off the bat, SUCCESS was a disaster. Apart from the horrendous uniforms, I was an 89 pound girl surrounded by the toughest crowd in town. Anyone who’s knows me is aware of how sensitive I am. I’m a crier, it’s what’s I do best. These kids, they could smell weakness and I wore it like perfume.
  Of course even though my fear was obvious, it didn’t stop me from trying to act tough. I was determined to not be so fragil. I was not going to be walked all over. My main tormenter? A boy twice my size. His name was Tyler.
  Tyler was the petty bully you think of in kindergarten. You know, the ones who pull your hair, call you names, and believe it makes them cute in some way? Usually I would shrug it off but in my 14 year old mind, I had something to prove. I can’t quite recall what exactly he said but I know I went belligerent. I tuned around and popped him dead in the center of his face. He grew quiet and gave me a half confused, half angry look. Then, he grabbed my arm, gave it a twist, and held me on the ground while I pleaded with him to get off. I honestly thought he was going to break it. Next, the officer walks in. Now I know I’m in trouble.
  He calls us to the principals office. “My dad’s going to kill me,” I thought to myself. I wish he had to be honest because this is where I met the guy who manipulated me better than anyone ever has. Even to this day.
  After speaking to the principal, I received a 3 day suspension. I was then immediately sent to the ISS room to wait for my father to arrive. I walked in and took a seat in the very back next to a handsome young man named Evan.
He was beautiful. I remember not being able to keep my eyes off him. He had blonde hair that covered his eyes but yet at the same time I could see how blue they were. If you stared into them too long I swear you’d mistake them for the summer sky. He had these gorgeous, full lips that surrounded the small gap in between his two front teeth and a chiseled nose that seemed to intensify these intriguing features. I can easily remember the sad and lost look on his face that reminded me of myself. I should have known I was getting myself into trouble.
  I think he could feel me gazing at him when he shot me a crooked smile. I’m sure the look of embarrassment ran across my face as he gave me a small giggle. My heart was racing. I wanted to introduce myself but I didn’t know how to speak to a boy. I had never even had my first boyfriend yet. I turned away but now I could feel him staring at me.
  My dad finally arrived and as I stood up to exit the room, he slid a small folded piece of paper into my pocket. Trying to play it cool, I acted as if I didn’t notice, but in reality, butterflies were soaring in my stomach. When I reached the hallway I quickly grabbed the note and unfolded it. It was his number and yes, I was the typical giddy teenage girl who felt like she just won the lottery. I couldn’t stop myself and wasted absolutely no time texting him. 
  Our texts mostly contained asking each other questions back and forth in order to get to know each other better. A couple of days into texting each other day and night, I learned that he was 18. This striked me as odd considering I was only 14 but I ignored all the red flags and decided to pursue a relationship with him.
  With this being my very first relationship, my priorities were out of wack. I was not mature enough to handle grades and having a boyfriend who was much older than me. School became my last concern and my grades quickly started deteriorating. I was failing nearly every class and honestly didn’t really care at the time. Everything else took a back seat to Evan.
  With our age difference my father didn’t approve of us seeing each other which made everything more difficult and took a lot of sneaking around. I was sleep deprived as the only way I could see him was to sneak out in the middle of the night. At this time though, I was still a virgin. Sex crossed my mind plenty of times, but I knew I wasn’t near ready or mature enough to be doing it. Evan had other ideas though. I remember every time the topic of sex was brought up, he’d tell me that the only way to make a relationship last was not only an emotional connection but also a physical connection. With him being much older, I believed him.
  The day came and I promise my body to him. I convinced myself that I was prepared to give the most sacred part of myself to a man whom I barely knew, as if someway this could replace the memories of my childhood abuser. Maybe if I gave this part of myself to Evan, I could pretend my step dad never did what he had done. So I let him fuck me.
  I never knew how bad it would hurt. The entire time I was thinking, “how could anyone enjoy this?” The pain was so intense that I just knew I was bleeding all over my bed. To my relief that wasn’t the case but the physical pain didn’t even compare to the emotional pain I felt. I can never forget crying afterwards. Hating myself because my virginity was the last piece of my childhood I had left. I wanted so badly to take it back. I didn’t know the emotional pain would get much, much worse.
  A few weeks later my report card came in the mail and not surprisingly I had mostly D’s. My dad was reasonable on a lot of things but grades was not one of them. He knew as well as I did that the relationship I was involved in was the reason. My punishment? I could not see or speak to Evan ever again unless my next report card showed some improvement. I lost it. I had just given the most important part of myself to this boy and with that came attachment and my emotional well-being could not handle this.
  I laid in bed for weeks crying. I knew my dad didn’t understand the kind of hurt I felt as he had no idea I lost my virginity to this young man but yet I hated him. I wanted so badly to make his life a living hell and what I did next, achieved just that.
  Now keep in mind that at age 14, I had never driven a car before. I had absolutely no experience behind the wheel of any vehicle but one night, I grabbed my father’s keys and snuck out my window. I was very quiet entering the car. I sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes to gather my thoughts on just what was happening. After giving myself a small pep talk, I started the engine and was on my way to Evans house.
  To be continued
 

-R.W.

The day I killed myself part III

I can’t recall much about my first visit with a psychiatrist. I vaguely remember answering a series of questions that demanded the answers of: not at all, rarely, sometimes, often, or always. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s all wiped from memory. What I can recall is what happened after my visit.
  About a week after seeing the psychiatrist, I was admitted to Pinnacle Point Behavioral Health Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas. I remember having to wear the most atrocious pair of scrubs that were at least 3 sizes too big for me and made of what felt like paper. The halls were empty with plain white walls that made you feel like you may lose your mind. The rooms were always too bright and too cold to sleep in. I would stay up for hours shivering until I could no longer hold my eyes open. Wake up was usually at 7 which means I had about 3 hours of sleep each night. My emotional stability was thinning by the minute. I missed home, my friends, and mostly my father.
  Each person was assigned a therapist. Of course, I was the one who received the less helpful of the two. I can’t even remember his name but I do remember everything else about him. He was nice I suppose. He always greeted you with a smile on his face that made you feel more than welcome. His advice on the other hand, was the worst you could possibly give someone. “Fake it to make it”, he’d say. ” Pretend to be happy so you can leave.” Then, informed me I was starting a medication called Zoloft.  At the time I was only focused on going home that I followed every bit of his horrible advice. Which, I suppose, was the worst thing I could have done.
  By the 5th day at Pinnacle Point, I was ready to put on my fake smile and cheery attitude. I pretended like I was enthused about everything even though in my mind I was counting down days until I could go home. Everyone looked at me like I was making a large amount of progress but on the inside I was holding on for dear life to any amount of sanity I had left. Every visit with the psychiatrist went as followed: He’d call me in, I’d greet him with a smile, he’d ask how I was feeling and my reply was always “great! Much better now.” For a few days he questioned my honestly but with no break downs or panic attacks I had him convinced. Within the next few days, they cleared to me to go home.
  On the way back, I truly did feel happy. I could see my friends, sleep in my nice, warm bed, and eat meals that didn’t taste like card board. For a minute, I almost felt cured; As if I just needed a reality check or maybe the medication had something to do with my new found happiness. I wasn’t entirely sure but I knew I enjoyed the feeling. Unfortunately it was short lived.
  After being sent to a behavioral hospital, my school decided it was better for me to finish the year in an alternative school called SUCCESS. The name strikes me as ironic considering no one there has actually achieved any sort of success. It’s known for children who were kicked out of school for fighting, bad marks, skipping class, becoming pregnant, and of course, the emotionally unstable. However, I had no idea my life would go completely down hill starting from the first day. It is here that I met someone who would destroy me. Who would set me back even further. Who left me lower than anyone ever has.
To be continued

-R.W.

The day I killed myself. part II

If I’m going to tell you this story, I need to start from the beginning. To what started it all. So let’s back up about 9years. When I was roughly age 10.
  For much of my life I expirienced pure hell but I had no clue that over the course of time it would become much worse and harder to cope with. I endured  physical, mental, and sexual abuse. Although for a long time I had no idea that physical or mental abuse was wrong. It was the norm to me I suppose. My mother did not care that she let bad, sick, evil men into my life. To this day I have received no apology or shown an ounce of remorse.
  At the age of 10 I developed an eating disorder although I was medically considered under weight. I did not see that at the time. The wear and tear of my home life effected me in such a way that I felt the need to starve myself. I’d ask to be excused from my studies so I could go to the washroom only to raise up my shirt and examine my stomach. I’d cry for a few minutes and suck in so that I could see an image that I felt was desirable. I would do this same routine before, in the middle, and after each class.
  A few weeks into my new diet I was caught sucking in my stomach in front of the mirror by a classmate. I told her everything was fine but she could see through me. She went straight to the counselor to tell her what she witnessed. The next day I was called from class and I’ll never forget what happened. She asked me about the incident and I broke down. “I hate my body!” I sobbed. “I don’t want to live this way! I want to die!” The words were fighting to pass my lips.
  She didn’t say another word to me. She immediately called my mother to speak about therapy for me. My mother agreed but it never happened. I laid in my bedroom floor every night crying because I hated myself so much, because my mother hated me so much.
  Years passed and I was able to get myself together. I still had a poor body image but I ate more. My pain turned into violence instead. Could you blame me? Violence is what I was raised on. It was all I was exposed to. My entire emotional well being was created from physical and mental abuse. I wish it were not that way, but it is. That’s life I suppose.
  My pain was released through fighting as well as self harm. I would argue with my mother and father until my voice was raw. It would leave me horse for days to come. Of course, I still had a conscious and felt horrible about the things I said. (Even though most agree that my mother in particular deserved every bit of it.) So I would resort to cutting. It was a mixture of punishment as well as a distraction. To see your own blood dripping down into the sink was the most intriguing sight for me. I wore wrist bands and long sleeves to hide the cuts. It worked for only a short time.
  Summer came and I continued to swear jackets and long sleeves because the cutting had escalated very quickly. My arms and legs were covered and there was simply no other way to hide it. My father began to wonder why I was wearing jackets in the summer, expecially because we reside in the south and everyone knows how bad the summers are here.
  He kept quiet for awhile and finally he couldn’t any longer. He demanded that I take my jacket off and prove to him that I wasn’t hurting myself. I refused and this went on for several hours until I finally removed my jacket. This was the one time I have ever seen my father cry. I truly believe my father to be the one person to every love me and never once hurt me. He immediately called a psychiatrist in order to help relieve the pain I was feeling. This moment would start a very very long recovery process that I’m still working on to this day.
To be continued.

-R.W.

The day I killed myself part I

I remember the the bright light and asking myself if this is what dying feels like. Then nothing. Not so much as a dream or an encounter with the other side. Time seemed to escape me. It was much like going to bed at night. In my mind only a few minutes had passed. Then I awoke.
People. People all around me. Watching me closely with blank expressions. I try to form words but nothing escapes passed a whisper. My throat is raw from the life support and my body is sore. How long have I been asleep? I write on a piece of notebook paper.
  “3 days”, my mother responds aloud.
 

-R.W.