Story #4

It's hard for me to write about this, knowing other people will actually read it, opposed to when I write for myself. :) But... here I go.

From the moment I was born, I was doomed to be dysfunctional. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was, and still is, a very immature, irresponsible, outward appearance oriented person. She's basically still a teenager at the age of 48. For the first 4 years of my life, I naturally don't remember much. I do remember however, feeling like the only person who loved me was my Great-Grandmother. I was devastated when she died when I was only 3.

We moved, with my mother's inheritance money into an old house in the country. Here, my father's alcoholism reached its peak. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, creeping downstairs and watching them scream and yell. I believed it was all my fault.

My father was very verbally abusive when he was drunk. He would joke about me, and tell me disgusting things that I shouldn't have been hearing...such as one night, I was sick, and I woke very late. My father asked me if I was wearing underwear under my nightgown. I remember sheepishly replying that no, I wasn't. He then told me I had better watch out, because his friend would really like that. And then they all laughed. I was probably 6 at the time. I was always a very intelligent child, reading at a very young age, speaking at a very young age and so on. I understood exactly what he meant.

My mother and father got divorced, and I was relieved. My mother and I lived in the house for awhile, and then began a journey that didn't end until years later. We moved and moved, I think she was just trying to find happiness somewhere. Never found it though. So we moved. 

I became very manipulative for a little girl. I convinced her to let me not go to school. One year I missed over 85 days. Yet still, I passed every year. My mother's weight went up and then down, and then up again. I myself, gained weight. I was just chubby, but little children are cruel, and I was made fun of a lot.

My mother went from boyfriend to boyfriend, because I think she herself has a little bit of BPD, and she desperately needs men in her life so she feels better. When I was 8 years old, very alone, very lost... my mother met one man that would end up changing my life. We moved from our little apartment to his mansion, and everything was great at first. The roof on this house was connected all the way around, and led to various windows and rooms. One of those was mine. Not long after we moved in, this 6'7" man, started climbing in my window at night, and molesting me. This went on every night for 4 months or so. The abuse was very severe. Not only the sexual, but he was also very verbally and emotionally abusive. I remember him telling me that no one wanted me. "No one will ever want you, because you're just a stupid little pig. You're ugly and worthless, and everything's your fault. You're nothing to everyone, they all wish you would die. Everyone hates you Sarah, everyone. You're nothing. You never will be anything." It goes on.

I became very withdrawn. I showed all the signs of abuse, yet no one ever picked up on them. Of course not, because they didn't care. I remember threatening my mom, telling her I was going to kill myself. Run out into traffic, find a gun and shoot myself. Very childish threats. She laughed at me. Then she cried. Then she laughed. And she tried to stop me. I was very confused because she was very confused. And no one wanted me anyway. The only reason my mother left that relationship is because somehow, the school became involved. What I told them, I don't remember. That whole period in my life is a dark mass. I do remember my 9th birthday though. I accidentally left the wheel of my bike touching the driveway, when I was called inside. The man screamed and yelled at me, and locked me in my room. I remember just sitting on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the wall, praying to God to take me away from this place, for the entire day. I was in there for hours and hours, and then my mom came up, and gave me a small box with some stickers inside. Happy Birthday. But then she left, and I was still there. She said she couldn't get him to let me out.

When we finally left, we moved from shelter to shelter, hiding from him. But my mom still didn't know what caused it. She's very easily led, and when the school told her that if we didn't hide, I'd be taken away, she did what they said. We finally pretty much got away.

I went from school to school, never opening my mouth to talk to anyone. Some called it shyness, I thought of it as pain.

I had what's technically called something I can't remember, but is basically a huge blackout about that time during my life. I didn't remember anything that happened to me. And then, the dreams came.

Soon, I knew. I was 12 then, and very overweight for a child that age. I told my mother. But she didn't know what to do. She cried and hugged me, but then told me that somehow it was my fault. I agreed. It must be. Things like that don't happen to good little girls. Only the bad ones.

We moved on. I remember waking up every morning to see my mother, with her face centimeters from the bathroom mirror, crying about how ugly she was. My mother is an incredibly beautiful woman. She modeled and all that nonsense earlier in her life. I started to think I was ugly. I already knew I wasn't worth anything, of course! I must be ugly as well.

When I was 13, and had moved 16 times in my life, my mother decided I was too much for her. I was a very confused, angry, hurting person then, and I took a lot of it out on her. I moved in with my dad, who had stopped his alcoholism and whatnot.

Things aren't that much better here. I'm 16 now, and every day's a struggle. I started cutting when I was 14. People say it doesn't help. But God, it does. It takes so much away from what's inside. It helps to see that you're alive. So kill the beast, mar the beast, scar that inner demon that never sleeps. 

I was diagnosed with BPD around 15, and I have a wonderful therapist who understands me as well as she can. I surround myself with friends who don't truly care for me, or understand me, and I always get hurt.

My first true love happened around when I was 15/16. He was my first. I told him about my past. Told him how much I needed love and trust and..him. He cheated on me. I can't blame him now, he was scared. I would have been scared too. I am scared.

Life is like a constant war with myself. Everything's always so dark, and I wear this mask that hides me from everyone. I just want so much to be loved, to be needed, to be wanted. Everything's my fault. I try again and again, to find someone who loves me, and I get hurt. I always get hurt. So many people have hurt me, but it must be my fault, right? The bad girl gets her punishment. Inside my head, my thoughts run around, bashing against each other, and into the walls of my brain. I cry, I laugh, I smile, I yell. I never know how I feel. I'm so scared of abandonment. 

My mother left me, by the way. Of course. She moved away with a man, who abuses her. But she won't listen to me. I hurt inside. I can't explain the hurt to anyone who hasn't felt it. It's the most intense pain I've felt in my life. Sometimes I just float right out of my body, and watch the fake me function. I can't stop it. 

I'm on my meds, I've just started a DBT group. Everyone thinks I'm so much better. I have this one friend, and she's the most beautiful person I've ever known. She understands me and I her. She's in a mental hospital right now. But, you know...that makes sense. People are constantly remarking on how "beautiful" I am. Yet, I find myself hideous. I hate everything about me, and can't find anything to love, even when I look. Why would anyone love me? I can't find a reason. But, I just want someone to, so much. I'm so very alone. And terrified of my life. I don't remember yesterday, I can't see tomorrow, and I've spent most of today daydreaming. I want so much to become something meaningful. I can't fly. My wings drag along the ground, and I just want something to repair their rips and tears and let me fly. It's a fight with my eyes to open every morning. Sometimes, I don't. I wish I didn't have to live, I wish I didn't have to be one of those "survivors" everyone praises. They say I'm so strong. Yet, they can't see the weak little girl inside, ruined and soiled, and crying out for someone to love her. I'm still invalidated every day. I'm still told I'm going to gain the weight back, I'm still told that I'm lazy and worthless. 

My step mother once put a razor blade on my stomach and told me to use that because "that would finish the job". Ah well. Yes, I told my father. He took the razor blade and never said anything about it again. Besides the fact that she must have been "pissed". Ah yes. So damage me some more, why don't you. People think I do things for attention. I admit, that craving love and affection and a desperate need to be needed may come off as attention seeking. No one trusts me, they say I lie, twist the truth around. But everything I see, is different from what they see, I guess. Because I don't think I lie. Sometimes, I even wonder if anything ever really happened to me. I don't know what to do, and I don't think I ever will. But to them, I'm better. So, sure, I'm better. Just don't look inside. It's a sick place.