Time to Give Up.

When I was a kid, I used to dream of being an adult. I used to look forward to the days when I’d have freedom to come and go as I wished, when I could do whatever I wanted, when I could be my own person. When I was a teenager, I used to dream of being an adult, when I’d finally have my life figured out, when I’d have worked through my issues and I’d have a speck of happiness. Today, I’m an adult, and I no longer have dreams.

The freedom I always dreamed of was taken away from me by this illness that takes over me, that controls my every move and thought, even when I think the moves and thoughts are my own. Sometimes, I don’t even realize how I’m being moved by this, until I see how erratically I’m acting or how uncontrollably my thoughts are racing. It’s then that I realize that I can no longer make my own, free decisions. Everything I do, is, somehow, influenced by this thing that has become a huge part of me.

The life I wanted to have figured out never really happened. Of course, I can never get through with any plans, because I have become an insecure, weak person, with no will power to go on. Of course, I’ll never try hard enough for anything I really want, because I’m terrified of failing and just proving by actual facts how much of a worthless piece of shit I actually am. I’d rather fool myself by not trying and give up half way through so I don’t have to deal with failure and rejection.

And the speck of happiness I wished for? I don’t even remember what it is like, to be happy. Okay days are the best I hope for right now, and they’re mostly so rare. It’s been literally fifteen years I haven’t been happy, and I see no light ahead of me for that happening any time soon. All I feel is hopelessness, rage, resent.

I feel hopeless every time I feel like I do now, like my meds are stopping working. It’s what? The 8th time? The 10th? The 15th? I don’t even know anymore which time it is, but it doesn’t really matter. It happens over and over and over again. And all it does to me is prove that this will never end. The instability will never end, the pain will never end. I’ve tried DOZENS of meds that will eventually fail me. I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried changing major, moving half a world away, I’ve tried EVERYTHING. Nothing. Ever. Works. This will never end. How can I feel anything but hopeless?

I feel rage and resent that no one notices. No one. Not my family, not my friends, not my boyfriend. I walk among them every day. To some of them, I talk about dying and suicide. Heck, last week, I wrote this long awareness post for Suicide Prevention Day and posted for everyone to see, talking about suicide and its facts and how you should pay attention to people around you. But no. They don’t see. They couldn’t see a cry for help if one bit them in the ass. Yet, when I kill myself, I bet I’l get a bunch of shocked Facebook posts on my Wall, “Why did you do this? You were always so happy and making people laugh.” I wish I would be around to see the repercussions of it.

I wish I knew what makes me so worthless and invisible to people, why is it that no one can spare some time, or no one can get into it deep enough to deal. I wish I knew why I’m not worth it, people’s time, people’s love, people’s care. I tried, you know? I’ve always been such a good friend. Everyone talks to me about everything, and everyone leans on me. But when I need someone, there is never anyone around. I just… I can’t.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m not strong enough. I’ve spent most of my life hurting. I’ve spent my childhood, my teenage years and half of my twenties. HASN’T IT BEEN ENOUGH? Can’t it just go away? Why do I need to keep struggling to go through every day? Why does this have to be my life?

I know, no one said it would be easy. But I didn’t sign up for this. I’m tired. I’m done.

Sad thing is, there’s so many things I want to do. So many things I want to say. So many things I want to be. But I can’t. I need to go.

It’s time to give up. It’s time to throw in the towel. I’ll see you next time.

Not that anyone cares anyway, no one reads this.

Who are the real “High-Risk” kids?

Do you know there is such a thing as “high-risk” children when it comes to the risk of being sexually abused? Any idea of who they are? I’ll give you a moment to think about it…

Any idea yet?

They’re usually children from lower income families, uneducated parents, often single parent family. Wait before you think I’m generalizing it. I’m not saying single parents of low income and little education can’t take good care of their children or protect them from abuse. But there are actually studies that suggest children from those environments are more likely to go through some sort of sexual abuse.

That’s what I have a problem with. Everyone in the school system, social working system, medical system or whatever are warned of those kinds of high-risk children. My professor of Child Development Psychology talked about these high-risk children. That’s great for them. Even though they’re more likely to be hurt somehow, there are people looking out for them, in and our the school system. They’re also more likely to be protected from it.

The problem is, these “high-risk” children are only called that because they’re the ones whose abuse are actually exposed. The so-called “normal” families, the ones who have higher incomes, educated parents are much better at living concealed, fabricated lives, filled with lives, in which sexual abuse is never exposed when it happens. And their children? They have no one to protect them, because “things like that don’t happen to children like them”

Having PhD parents who make over 100k a year won’t protect children from being sexually abused, and I know that first hand. The problem is the mentality of people who will never look at those children, who have such comfortable home lives and think something so nefarious may be happening to them.

That makes them even more afraid to tell, that makes them even more willing to believe the lies their abuse will tell that no one will ever believe them, because they have known their whole lives that children like them are not raped and tortured and beaten. Other types of kids do. Not them. No one will ever believe them.

So, who’s high-risk? Who’s at risk of not being protected or believed? Who’s at risk of having to keep a secret their whole lives out of shame and doubt and not ever knowing if they’ll be believed? Because “things like that don’t happen to kids like you,” they have been told.

Unless someone changes that, they’ll always be unprotected. And at risk.

When Young Successful People Kill Themselves

Even before I the tragic suicide of Lee Thompson Young, I was talking to my family about how many young famous people are dying by their own hands lately. This is something that always caught my attention, something I always sort of identified with, in a way.

Not that I’m successful, of course. But I guess that it’s because when you seem to have it all, it’s easier for your pain to go unnoticed. And that’s something that really gets to me. When I write, that’s the kind of character I like to approach.

My whole life I have been the kind of person whose pain has gone by unnoticed, while most of the time, I can’t go into a room without catching people’s attention. It’s just who I am, you know? I’m mostly an extrovert, I’m chatty, bubbly, I talk a lot. So, people just don’t see what’s under the surface. I seem to have it all.

That’s why when I see someone like Gia Allemand killed herself, something inside of me twists. I had actually never heard of the girl before, but I was reading about her, seeing her pictures, and mostly, reading the comments about her, and pretty much all of them were: “Why would someone like her, who was beautiful, bright, rich, funny end her own life?” Why would someone who had it it all just kill themselves?

And that hits me to the core. Because it just shows how shallow people are. How superficially they look. Obviously, the girl didn’t have it all. Obviously, she wasn’t happy. It makes me wonder, when was the last time someone actually sat and asked, “Hey, Gia, how are you feeling? How have things been with you?” And meant it. Because it makes all the difference, to have someone that cares. That means it.

I was reading about Lee Thompson Young, and most of the comments, were, like Gia’s, that he made everyone around him just feel good! And, it makes me wonder, could no one see the sadness in his eyes, as he brought the smile to someone else’s?

Of course, I’m not blaming anyone. If someone really is set to kill themselves, there’s little anyone can do to stop them. That’s an illusion people like to put at the back of their guilty minds, that there’s something they could have done. Really, they couldn’t.

Still, I like to call attention to it, because it really makes a difference, to someone who’s living, and hurting, and thinking of killing themselves, when someone sees their pain. Especially someone who seems to have it all. As I was saying, when I write, I like to write, often, about beautiful, “richsh”, intelligent characters, who have issues, troubles, who need to succeed in life like everyone.

I know, that seems mostly unrelatable. I guess it’s because I’m sick to people look at the underdog. Everyone knows that the people who are being bullied need help. Everyone knows people who aren’t ‘successful’ — I’m talking career wise — may need help. Everyone knows people who are far off the socially imposed beauty standards — which I in no way condone — may need help.

But what about the people who are… just there? People who walk every day with smiles on their faces, with relationships, great jobs, happy families, beautiful looks? Who pays attention to them? Sometimes, they need help, too.

When a young successful person kills themselves, everyone is judgmental, about what a waste it is. About how they threw everything away. About how they have so much. But how different are they from you and me? Just because I’m about 10 sizes bigger and still trying to find my place in the world? Just because you have to work three jobs to make ends meet? Just because your sister’s best friend gets picked on at school every day. Is our depression more dignified than theirs? Are we allowed to hurt more? Is our suicide justified?

Bullshit! I say people who seem to have it all end up going unnoticed and that’s much harder on them. It’s hard for someone to ask for help, if they feel no one will understand their needs. For one, I feel for them. I feel for their success, and for their pain. I can’t imagine. I just hope they found peace.

It Doesn’t (Always) Get Better

Don’t get put off by the post title, this post isn’t going to be nearly as uninspiring as it sounds, I promise 🙂

First off, this isn’t about sexuality, despite the obvious reference here. The title of the post comes from a recent argument I had with someone. It was the usual “It gets better” argument, something that has become a mantra to people, a way to comfort others, which started off from the advice to teenagers that will get out from a difficult situation on nonacceptance — whether it comes from themselves or others — and their lives will improve, and it started being used to people with depression from other sources, mood disorders, mental illnesses. Except people don’t seem to realize there’s a clear flaw there.

Look, I’m not gay or trans, so, I can’t say how hard it is, or how it gets better. But, from a stand point of view, and from numerous testimonials, I’m guessing, it does get better. Or at least, you have the possibility of getting better. At some point of your life, you can see the light. You can see a way out of the darkness, you can see happiness.

Which is leading me to the second part of the argument I had. It all started when someone said, another classic, “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary situation.” Again, flawed. Because not all situations temporary, are they?

I’m not here to condone suicide, though you know I’ve thought about it. I’m just saying, that while some things are temporary, some are not. While some things get better, some do not. And that’s where my problem with these motivational speeches lie.

When you’re Bipolar, that’s not temporary. That’s something you’re going to have to deal with for the rest of your life. There are meds that can help you manage it, but it’s always there. It’s always there when you snap at someone for no reason, when your boyfriend wants to have sex and you don’t because your libido doesn’t exist from the meds, when you feel yourself building up to (hypo)mania and see no way of stopping it. It’s always there when someone talks about Bipolarity and you can tell them all about it, and they look at you weird, because they have no idea how you know so much about it, “It’s for a story,” you say. It’s always there when you realize that you have so many drugs on you that you don’t know what’s you anymore. But you can’t quit them. Ever. For the res of your life, it’s going to be there. So, no it’s not temporary. It’s something you have to live with every day.

And some people, they go through every day. I do. Some days are harder than others. Some days aren’t even that bad. We keep going. Thing is, though, some people want to be done with it. Can we blame them? Can we walk up to them and say, “Hey, it’s a permanent solution to something temporary?” When you KNOW that they’l have to live every day of their lives… managing? How is that fair? That speech?

And “It Gets Better?” When I was 10, I started getting depressed. I didn’t understand it, but I get it now. When I was 12, I was thinking about killing myself. I don’t know much of what I thought back then, because I used to rip my poems (wish I didn’t!). When I was 16 and had my first very, very bad bout of depression that I remember, I waited for things to get better. I got therapy. I got meds. But they didn’t.

I graduated High School. Things still didn’t get better. College wasn’t all that great. I lived abroad for a while. Nope. I changed college majors. Maybe that was it, you know? Another very bad crisis. I got a job I loved. Still not better. I even got a hell of a nice boyfriend. Not. Better.

But, you know. maybe that’s it. Maybe realizing that things do not get better is a good start. Because when you stop expecting them to, you live each day, as a single day, you live each good isolated moment, and that’s it. Of course, there are frustrating days, and days I hate the world and lots of ‘why mes’. But… knowing that, that sometimes it doesn’t get better, it helps. It helps me enjoy the good, instead of looking for better. Maybe that’s it. The good and the bad, all rolled into one, in seconds, minutes, hours and days.

And I keep living. Until I don’t.

The Perfect Kid Syndrome (AKA Signs of Abuse People Often Miss)

I’ve been thinking about this lately.

As the few of you who actually read this blog know, no one ever noticed when I was being abused. And I guess blaming people for that is natural, even though deep down I know it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really — the only person who’s at fault was the man who raped and tortured me for those years. Still, in my case, there was an aggravating factor for people not noticing, that is more common than most of us will realize, and that’s what I want to call attention to.

I wasn’t an easy kid. I was hyperactive (though not ADD or ADHD — I was tested and passed okay) and apparently I was just too smart for my age and got bored easily. So, I was creative and got into trouble quite a bit. My mom was called at school often enough, and I was grounded all the time. Mind you, I wasn’t a bad kid, I just wasn’t an easy kid.

Then, when I was ten years old, this man came into my life. At very first, I don’t even think things changed very much, but, soon, oh, but they did. Teachers, parents, school counselors are often ‘trained’ to look for the classics signs of abuse: children misbehaving, grades dropping, acting out for attention. But what when the complete opposite happens? Because that’s what happened to me.

Things at home were not easy. The man who abused me beat my mother and myself, and sexually abused me. I guess the way I found to get some kind of “control” was to fix everything else in my life, because, all of a sudden, I became the perfect child. No more being hard at school, no more being “creative”, bored or anything. I was a model kid in behavior, grades, everything. Maybe if someone had look at the more subtle signs — like how I’d have major breakdowns at a 90% in a science test in 4th grade, they’d seen something was wrong — but they must have been so pleased with my ‘maturing’, they attributed it all to perfectionism and my changing to growing up.

And that’s how my abuse went unnoticed for about two years. I didn’t act out or misbehave or got bad grades. I helped with special projects, aced most tests, got involved with extra-curricular activities and had never behaved better. People were impressed and proud. Not once anyone even thought to ask if there was something going on with me.

Even after my abuser left, this went on. By then, my mom went into a depressive spiral, and it was up to me to do things at home, pay bills, take care of my brother, get us food, for years, or these things wouldn’t get done. I was as perfect of a teenager as a teenager can be. I never defied my parents, I never screamed or argued or acted out — I did everything I child could possibly do to be… perfect. Did I mention I got great grades? Yeah.

By the time I was in 10th grade and couldn’t handle the pressure, I started cutting myself. I think it was the first time someone first realized something was off with me. My friends caught me and begged me to stop. (Though, I remember I religion class in 7th grade that was about drug use that I was so tired I kept my head down, some kids started asking if I did drugs — AS IF, I was perfect, remember?).

The other day, I was talking to a student of mine, she’s about my age, and she was telling me how she went through eating disorders and no one ever noticed. How she tried so hard to be the smartest in her class and the perfect kid or attention, but that never worked. And I told her that the hardest thing is being with people every day that don’t notice what you’re going through. And, then, I told her, that she was the first one in my class I noticed, because she was smart and quiet and perfect, and she reminded of myself. I guess because of I went through, I’m wired to see things different, to pick up on different signs.

What I mean is, many times, people, especially kids, are going through things, and we won’t even realize, because they don’t have the ‘standard’ behavior expected, and that just breaks me. I wish there was more awareness to the different kinds of behaviors we could possibly expect — though I know everyone reacts to different things their own way.

Anyway, I think this is it. I know I hardly ever write here, and people rarely read this, but I hope it can help at least one person.



Falling off the wagon (AKA It’s never only one cut)

Eight years.

It’s been eight years since the last time I lay awake at night imagining the blade sliding across my skin, the blood dripping as it did. I was sixteen then.

A lot of people will tell you that thoughts of cutting will linger for a long time before you actually get to it. That wasn’t true for my first time. The first I did it, it was something so in the spur of the moment, I wasn’t thinking through it. I was so angry at myself I wanted to shred my body to pieces. So, I did.

What’s interesting about that impulsivity is that now, eight years later, I still want to shred my body to pieces when I feel that way. After that first time, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop. Cutting became a way of release, a way of feeling something when back then I didn’t feel much, and I suppose a way of feeling in control.

I didn’t stop until my friends found out. Once I had a breakdown at school and started scratching/hurting my arms in class, and, as I didn’t have anything to cut with I asked my fried to borrow her scissors and went to the bathroom to do it. As I walked out of the stall, a friend was there, and asked me, “What did you do?” I told her, “Nothing, there was a loose end on my pants.” But she didn’t believe me, so, I showed her my cut. She cried. She told people at school and threatened to call my mom if I didn’t stop.

I ended up at the principal’s office that day, begging them not to call my mom, saying I’d never do that again, promising to talk to someone. To my friends, I said if my mom ever found out I’d kill myself. They wrote me many letters, begging me to stop, saying they loved me and didn’t want me to hurt. After that, I was mostly scared to cut myself again. But, buy, did I want to.

I never cut on my arms because I didn’t want people to notice. I was never a neglected kid that could get away with it. I had to cut on the inside of my thighs. But I liked the pain of cutting on my arms better. I did, a few times, because once in a while you can say you bumped into something.

I didn’t want scars, either, though I guess if I’d done my arms over someday I’d just cover it with tattoos.

As you know, I’ve been having a really hard time lately. And it’s not just falling into this horrible depressive pit, it’s also the self-hatred that comes along with it. Did you know that self-harm is directly linked to sexual abuse? Yeah, not really the discovery of the century, I know. But, still, a great percentage of self-harm victims have been sexually abused. Like me. No wonder we hate our bodies.

For the past few months, I’ve been having desperate urges to cut. Maybe this is what I should have felt like years ago, the idealization before actually getting to it. It’s something screaming inside of me, something that tells me I need this to survive. It’s something stronger than me. Some days, I can’t think of anything else but a blade sliding across my skin. And how great it would feel, how much I deserve it, how badly I need it.

I look at my thighs feel literally disgusted. I feel fat and unfittig, and I want to slash them to shreds. I look at my body in the mirror and I feel like it shouldn’t even exist. And it needs to be hurt. And cut. And cut. And blood.

Eight years.

Gone down the drain as I slid a blade across my skin. It bled. I promised myself it would be only that just one time, but as someone who used to cut all the time, it feels it isn’t possible. I thought cutting once would make the urges go away and make me feel better, but they grow every day. And I don’t know if I can fight them anymore.

I’m bleeding so much inside. I need to make myself bleed outside, too.

I’m struggling.

I’m writing here because there’s nowhere else I could possibly share this. No one has any idea what I’m going through right now. Once more, I’m keeping this from my family and my friends, even from my doctor. I don’t know, maybe I’m just hoping it’ll go away, that I’m just going through a bad phase, and it’ll last just a couple of days. But I’ve been hoping this for months now. It’s been nearly four months, and I’m starting to realize it won’t just go away. And it’s not a matter of days or weeks. I’ve fallen into another pit. And I’m still falling. And falling. And falling. And, dear freaking God, I wonder, just how deep will the bottom be this time? 

You see, when you’ve lived with this for almost fourteen years, you’d think you’d get used to it. And, in a way, you have. Or I have. You get used to the daily limitations your depression gives you. You get used to shutting yourself out. You get used to faking smiles, laughs, (it’s faking until you make it, except you never do), you get used to not being able to breathe. You get used to not getting pleasure from anything. You get used to tasteless foods. You get used to self-loathing. You get used to thinking about killing yourself, all the time. Because, really, that’s no way to live. 

It’s exhausting. Faking. All. The. Flipping. Time. The pain is excruciating. And no one really gets it. You pull away from your friends, because you’re in so much pain, and you can’t tell anyone, because they just don’t understand. They want you to try harder. They want you to fight longer. They want you to *do* something, as if you haven’t been for over a decade (when you’ve only been living for 24 years). 

You can’t talk to anyone, because there isn’t much to say. It’s not like you broke up with your boyfriend or had a fight with your mom. It’s not like you’re having issues that can be solved. It’s the same thing, over and over and over again, and even though there are people that will say, “I’m always here for you if you need me.” and you want to believe them, you know that if you actually went to them *every time*, they wouldn’t want to put up with you. 

Because the pain has taken over your life again. The bad days have become more and more constant and have outnumbered the good ones. It’s so rare for you to be okay, or even normal, you dread people asking “How are you?” because you want to shout to the world just how not okay you’ve been. Because you’re so sick of it. So. Fucking. Sick. 

But you don’t. Because people can’t even see you’re sick. You have a mood disorder, you see, and since it’s an “invisible illness” most people don’t take it seriously. Won’t take it into consideration. They think it’s so easy to snap out of it. It’s not like you have cancer, right? (If I had a penny…) 

I don’t know what to do about this suffocating pain anymore. My last crisis lasted two years. Two whole initerrupted years. I don’t know if I can live like this for two years again. You must be thinking, what’s two years for someone who’s lived like this for fourteen, right? But that’s just it. It’s two MORE. It just tells me it’s never going to end. I’ve been on different meds. I’ve been to therapy. I’ve done everyfreakingthing I could think of. And it comes and goes. I’m never getting rid of this. EVER. 

And you know what sucks the most? I have a pretty okay life. I mean, sometimes I feel like a failure like everyone, and sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough with it, but it’s not bad. I have a lot of wonderful people in it. I just… not all the external circumstances matter when it’s so hard to live with the inside of me. I think of killing myself every day once again. And I’m scared this time I could actually do it. 

And I don’t know who to go for help.

And I know, no one reads this, but it’s a safe place to vent, it’s anonymous, no one knows who I am.