Addiction

Addiction comes in many shapes and forms. It becomes this thing that has an unbearable hold on you and you begin to obsess. This is my honest to goodness story, not a glorification.

Life deals us all very different sets of cards - some good, some bad. Now, don't get me wrong, my life wasn't always darkness and pain, there was a lot of light and happiness, one just outweighed the other. I know many love to say things along the lines of, "It's easy to dwell on the bad and overlooking the good." or whatever bullshit they like to tell you to make light of your situation. My personal favorite is, "There's other people out there with worse situations." Of course there are, but you know what? That doesn't make my s**t any less important - it doesn't make me any less important.

Being born into a family you just didn't belong in is a weird feeling. It's a lonely feeling. for the first half of my life I spent it trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be. All I ever wanted was to belong. I wanted to be a part of the most exclusive club to me, a natural right everyone has, I wanted to feel like I was family. I mean, I share blood, DNA, traits, and a last name with these people. I'm flesh and blood for Christ's sake. At the end of the day, I was never good enough. Everything I did was wrong. I was useless, worthless, a disgrace, a disappointment.

Every good deed I ever did was easily overlooked, but when I fucked up, oh, when I fucked up they saw me. When I fucked up, it was as if I committed bloody murder. I not only got laid into by one parent, but both. For my parents, there was no fine line between discipline and abuse. They used anything and everything at their disposal to rectify the situation as they saw fit.

Of course my dear ol' dad was the physical enforcer for the grunt of it. He would kick, punch, threaten, pistol whip, hold me at knife point, the works. Now, mom was a constant abuser. She would get physical also, but her favorite was verbal. She would belittle, criticize, demean, starve, and anything else she could think of. It didn't matter that I got perfect grades and academic awards. It made life slightly bearable at times, but not by much.

When they looked at me, they saw their meal ticket. They never let me forget that they brought me into this world, that they gave me life, and that I owed them by making something of myself so I could take care of them and provide them with a bottomless pit of cash. I was to marry well, have several grandchildren, and support them all at once. That was my sole reason for life.

Sometimes I would make a big mistake, sometimes it would be spilled water (not even milk, but water) and they would beat me black and blue. I've suffered broken bones, bruises, fractures, you name it, I had it. They always made sure not to harm my face, no, never anywhere anyone could see. Even when the rest of my family knew what was going on, no one ever did anything. All I got were stares of disgust and snorts here and they. They all looked at me as if I deserved it.

Regardless of whether or not they agreed didn't matter. My father was the head, he was the authority, no one would ever go against him. In my family fear ruled. Fear equals respect. Fear equals loyalty. Fear equals everything. My life was a show for the world. In public, to the world, we were happy. We dressed to the nines, we behaved with manners, we minded our p's and q's with no hesitation and if we ever forgot, we were "disciplined" to make sure ti didn't happen ever again.

I've suffered from insomnia from an incredibly young age and it's something I still suffer with to this day. When I was about 4-years-old, my dad was getting ready for work and he was ironing his shirt. He saw that I was still awake, but instead of putting me to bed, he made me pull down my pants and burned me with the iron on my backside. When I was about six or seven, I swore to myself that I'd never shed one tear for those people. I'm 25 and it still hasn't happened.

The first time I attempted suicide, I was 8-years-old. I took a leather belt and hooked it over my head, I tied it to the rack in my closet and tried to hang myself. I failed. The rack broke and my parents found out and beat me even more. The next few years was filled with much of the same. I still continued to do well in school because it was my only outlet, school was my escape from my own personal hell at home.

At school, I was the s**t. I was the top student, I was every teacher's dream student, I had friends, none of which I could ever really connect with or relate to, but friends nonetheless. At school, no one thought of me as nothing, no one saw me as a disgrace or embarrassment. I was loved and cherished at school. As I got older, I still wanted my family's approval. I wanted their love and care and attention. I wanted to be treated the same as my siblings. I still wanted to belong no matter how many times they told me they found me in a dumpster.

When I was eleven years old, I began working. I babysat and did odd jobs for money and began supporting my own damn self. At eleven, I had my own cellphone, I purchased my own clothes, fed myself, and took care of all my own needs without their help. When I was old enough to get my workers permit, I got one and got a job at a busboy at a Chinese restaurant while still attending school, making my grades, and participating in extracurricular activities. I wanted to limit my time at home as much as possible and it worked for a good while, until they caught on.

You see, with my parents, they don't even get up to get themselves a glass of water. I'd been washing dishes since I was tall enough to reach the faucet with the assistance of a chair and I'd been doing laundry for just as long. With my busy schedule, there was no one to do that for them, which in turn pissed them off.

I was 12-years-old when I started cutting. I found a box of razors in my dad's tool box. They had just beaten the living hell out of me for whatever I did this time for the umpteenth time for the week and their words were starting to get to me. I began to believe them. I was worthless. I was stupid. I was fat. I was ugly. I was useless. I was a horrible daughter. I was all the things they said I was and I didn't deserve to live. I was numb and lost and hurt and confused. All I wanted was to feel. All I wanted was to match the outside with the inside. I thought maybe the physical pain would outweigh the emotional and it wouldn't hurt so bad.

The first cut was small and shallow. I didn't know what I was doing, but somehow, it felt right. I felt something. It stung, it burned, it hurt, but what mattered was I felt it. That small cut didn't take the pain away so I made another, this time longer, deeper. As the blood rushed out, I marveled at it. It was a deep crimson and it glistened in the dim light of my closet. There I sit on the floor of my walk-in closet and admired my cuts. With each cut, it was easier to breathe. With each cut, I began to drift into a calm and I felt better.

I wasn't stupid, or maybe I was, but I never cut where anyone would notice. If I did it out in the open, I would be sure to disguise it so no one would suspect anything. I still have the scar of my first cut on my arm. I have many scars, some deep, some shallow, many many scars. When I would cut, I felt real. I felt like I was alive. I loved seeing my blood pool out of my body and run down my arms, my legs, my stomach. It was a rush. Sometimes I would intentionally squeeze out more blood to see how much I could lose before it began to clot.

I loved when I downed a bottle of Jack Daniels and the warm, amber liquid would burn in my veins and rush out when I would cut. I cut myself like my life depended on it. I needed it. It made me feel better. When I was 13-years-old, my dad held me at knife point because I was on the phone with a boy. He held me against the wall and pressed a meat cleaver to my throat and it took all of me not to force a cut. I was afraid, but not of death. I was afraid that he'd beat me senseless and leave me to wake up in pain the next day. I cut that next day too.

Cutting made things better for me as did drugs and alcohol. As much as i loved drinking and getting high, nothing gave me the same reward as cutting did. I controlled each cut. I could make it as deep and as long and where ever I wanted it. By the time I was fifteen, I had dropped out of the International Baccalaureate Program and transferred to another school. During my sophomore year of high school, my relationship with my parents took a nosedive for the worse.

The last few months of my school year, I was running on fumes, I was bruised and broken and sore from them teaming up on me. For a whole month, I'd been walking on eggshells and tip-toeing around them to no avail. They found me, they beat me, and they left me for dead. By the time I was fifteen, my dad had pointed his gun at me and pistol whipped me so many times I've lost count. I have no fear staring out a barrel of a gun, it doesn't phase me. Shoot me, see if I care.

On the day we were supposed to visit my uncle in prison, which was a 3 hour drive away, they literally yanked me out of my bed by my legs and fractured 3 of my ribs and left me there. I pulled myself up when they had left and had no clue what I did wrong. I didn't want to make it worse when they got back so I spent the whole day cleaning the house and doing laundry. When they got back from the visit, my mom walked through the door and looked at me with disgust and said, "What the f**k are you doing here?" I told here I cleaned the house and she told me I was talking back to her and slapped me so hard my ears were ringing.

Parents are supposed to love you. They're supposed to protect you. They're not supposed to threaten you with knives and guns and beat you until you blackout and leave you there to pick yourself up and drag yourself to your bedroom. I lived in constant fear and pain and suffering. They obviously didn't get the memo. That or I watch way too much TV.

One night, I'd come home from school or work or whatever it was, I don't quite remember, and my room was tossed upside down. They called me downstairs and on the coffee table was my dad's gun. I was told to kneel down in front of them and explain myself. I had no clue what they were talking about and it only pissed them off more. They smacked me, they punched me, they kicked me, they shouted awful things at me. My dad picked up his .22, cocked it, pressed it to my forehead, and pulled the trigger. It wasn't loaded, but I wished it were. I wish he had left one in the chamber and killed me then and there. He raised that gun, and swung it down hard into my temple and blood ran down my head.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just sat there and stared at the table. They told me to get out of their sight and clean my room. I got up and did just that. I locked my door, cleaned my room and went into my closet. I found my razors that I hid between my clothes and began cutting myself. I cut myself long and deep. I cut myself for all the things that I was. Worthless. Disgusting. Fat. Ugly. Mistake. Disgrace. Horrible. B*****d. Stupid. Idiot. Dumb. The list when on and on. After the 23rd cut I lost track. I had laid out towels beneath me so none would stain the carpet and let the blood rush out. There was so much blood. It just kept coming and coming, but I wasn't scared.

I wished it would kill me. I wished I would bleed out and never live to see the morning. Every day I lived in hell. I prayed to God to Buddha to anyone who would listen that I wouldn't wake up the next day. When I would wake, I prayed that something would happen to me that would kill me. I woke up that next morning feeling like hell. I was weak, I was sore from the beating all the cuts, I was groggy from the loss of blood.

I dreamed of my nephew that night and I woke up feeling like a failure. He was my reason for living. He was my sole purpose in life. When he was born I promised him and myself that I would never allow him to grow up the way I did. I would never allow him to feel like he wasn't loved and cherished. It was then that I decided I would runaway. I'd pack up everything I could in my backpack and duffel and run far far away. I did just that.

It's been about 8 years now. There are still times when I drift back into that dark place. There are still times when I feel the urge, the need to cut myself, but I refrain. Some days I pray I don't wake up. Some days I pray for an accident to end my life. I struggle with it every day to continue on and breathe another breath. Once in a while, I find myself in that dark place, but I haven't succumbed to it, yet. I still feel a desire to cut. Even when I get an accidental cut, I like to push out as much blood as I possibly can.

I'm not trying to glorify suicide or cutting or any other form of self-harm. I just wanted to tell my story. I survived. It took time and it's a battle I fight each and every day of my life. I didn't need anti-psychotics or anti-depressants or any other drugs to pull me out of the dark. I found a reason. I survived on my own free will. I wrote about my pain. I wrote about my struggles. It let it out instead of bottled it all up inside me. It didn't matter that no one read my pain. I never told anyone about any of this.

I wish I had someone to talk to. I wish I had someone to confide in. I wish a lot of things, but you know what? I'm here. I'm in the present. I survived. I'm stronger now than I ever was. I know now what love and respect and family really is.

Author's Note

If anyone out there is going through the same or just wants to talk, I'm here. I'm a living breathing testament. I live with my scars and demons every day. I won't tell you that it truly ever ends or that it gets better because it doesn't. The pain stays the same. The scars never fade, but soon you find a reason. You learn to live with all of your pain and soon it doesn't consume you. You learn to deal and you learn to continue on. You'll survive and if you need someone to listen I'm here. I wish I had someone when I was going through all that, but I didn't. Just because I did it alone doesn't mean you have to.