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Pamela

Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit

Copyright, Pamela

I got to work late for the first time in a year and a half. Within that time, I had been coming to this grocery store diligently and working with a smile on my face. Customers wrote comment cards, saying that I was a sociable person and co-workers that I had never met knew my name.

“Nicole, why are you late?” My boss, Sue, came up to me, staring directly into my eyes.

“I called…” I was hesitant with my words as little things tended to set her off.

“That doesn’t matter. Where were you?” She asked harshly.

“I was at Emergency.” I glanced down at my leg, and quickly back up to her face.

“Why were you there?”

“I had to get stitches in my leg about a week ago, and they split apart so I had to get them redone.”

“What did you do now?” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side.

“I slipped… on some ice… landed on a piece of metal.” I said, twisting my ring around my finger.

“That does not justify my line ups.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? You’re sorry! Sorry doesn’t cut it young lady. Now, go to your cash.” She turned her heel and walked away toward the courtesy desk, not even glancing back. I walked toward cash one, the punishment cash.

My first customer asked me what the conversation was about. She was a regular shopper and I was used to seeing her around the same time every week. I explained to her what had just happened.

“Can you suspend this order for me? I have something that I need to quickly attend to.”

“Okay…” I started the next customer’s order, watching where the woman was going.

She picked up her purse, and the next thing I knew she and Sue were having a heated conversation. I raised my fingers slowly to my forehead, trying to massage away the headache that I could feel coming on.

After my shift, Sue pulled me aside once again.

“What the hell do you think you are doing? Telling customers about our personal business. I am so disgusted with your professionalism right now!” The hands went back onto the hips.

“She asked so I told her. You have always said to tell customers what they want to know.”

She turned around and walked away once again, but this time out of the store. I was left standing there, with three minutes left of my shift. I swiped out early and walked upstairs to change out of my work uniform. Suddenly I collapsed. I don’t know what happened. My head began spin and I felt like I was being pushed back in time. F L A S H.

***

When I got out to the car, both my parents were there. I found this rather unusual, as my mother usually put the onus on my dad to pick me up.

“Hi honey! How was work today?” My mom turned around to face me with a fake yet surprisingly welcoming smile on her face.

“It was all right.”

“Was Sue the Shrew there?”

“Yes…”

“Was she mean to you?”

“No mom. We didn’t talk.” My dad smiled at me in the review mirror and reached for my mother’s hand.

“We have a surprise for you…” My dad? A surprise? My dad never said much, and this was an especially rare occurrence.

“You know how we weren’t going to be able to make it to visit family over Christmas?” He asked.

“Yes…”

“Well, your mother and I both managed to get the time off, so we are going to head out tonight.”

“Right now?!”

“Yep, the suitcases are in the trunk!” He laughed happily.

“But that’s all the way in Ottawa!”

“It’s only four hours! We got you a coffee.” My mom handed a Tim Horton’s Cappuccino over to me and my father put the car into drive.

Driving long distances with my parents has not been an enjoyable task since I was three. Back then, we sang Sharon, Lois and Bram the entire way, and I sat in the back mooing at cows as I saw them in the fields. Now, they sing to their drug addict seventies music, like Dr. Hook and the medicine band, and Pink Floyd, as I sit in the back and watched the milk slowly sink to the bottom of my coffee, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

“Where are we staying?” I asked as we neared highway 416. There was only about an hour left.

“Grandma’s house.” They responded in unison.

“But aren’t grandma and Steve in Florida for the winter?” I asked.

“We’re getting the key from Aunt Suzie.” My mother responded. My Aunt Suzie was my grandmother’s sister, who only ever talked about her seven proposals that she had before she gained about three hundred pounds after marrying my uncle.

I shook my head and pulled out my journal, which I kept in my bag at all times.

***

“I don’t understand why my parents insist on putting me in this position. Maybe I should tell them what happened… if I did tell them, I wouldn’t have to be here right now. It would save me from all of these feelings that keep flooding back as I get closer and closer to Grandma’s home.

I can’t tell them. It would hurt them so much, and I don’t want to do that because they mean so much to me. I don’t want to see my mother cry; I don’t want to see my father’s thin lips. What else am I supposed to do? Just keep it all inside and act like nothing ever happened? What exactly happened? I still don’t know what to call it… I was so naïve at the time, I didn’t realise that things like that happened to people. I thought that it was just in the movies, that in reality shit like that never happened.

I feel my entire body tensing up right now, I feel the stress building inside me and I just want to let it escape. Crying doesn’t help. It never helps. I am numb and I need to feel something. I need to scream, I need to do something to relieve how I am feeling.

Last night I tried to figure things out. I sat on my bed; papers scattered in front of me, and decided that I wouldn’t put it off any longer. I needed to tell mom and dad exactly what had been going on. Obviously, that didn’t happen.

I don’t want to tell them. I want to put it all behind me, act like it never happened. With every passing day, that grows harder and harder. I cry myself to sleep at night for reasons that I’m not aware of and I am trying to deal with things in ways that aren’t normal; ways that I am not ready to admit to.

My parents don’t know anything. They don’t know that I am doing drugs, they don’t know I am drinking, they don’t know how I feel. They are under the impression that everything is perfect, that I am still their perfect teenager.

It’s hard to live up to. Being an only child, feeling like you can’t do anything wrong because of other people’s expectations. I want to live up to that, I want to seem okay, which I think is why I have always been so good at hiding things.

I have a list of excuses already thought up to explain suspicious injuries. Falling down the stairs, skiing accidents, cat scratches, slipping on ice. People buy these excuses because they perceive things to be the ways that I want them too perceive them. I have them believing that everything is all right and that I am just prone to accidents. It seems like a good story.

Now we are almost there, and I haven’t been there in almost two years. I haven’t been there since he did… that… this is going to be just a wonderful holiday.”

***

Unfortunately, we had to walk through the garage to get inside the house. Yellowed insulation could be seen poking its way through the cracks and the cramped space was very damp. Hammers and saws hung on the walls, sometimes moving slightly from the force of the wind that came through the open garage door. In places nails had been hammered into the cement, making the rock crack from the centre out.

A workbench lined the far wall, covered with dusty boxes of decorative birds and flowers. Empty bottles of rum lay flat on the table while the full ones were hidden behind some expired Ontario license plates on the crowded shelves.

The air was thick with moisture and smelled of the wet, mouldy driftwood that was decaying in the corners. In one spot of the roof, a small crack had accidentally been made; causing a drip that could be heard if you listened carefully. I didn’t want to remember. My hands began to shake and I quickly stepped inside the front foyer. I stopped briefly to look around. The birdhouse that Steve had made stood in the front hallway and a musky odour enveloped me, bringing me back to the year before last, the last time I saw my Grandmother’s husband. I headed up the stairs, to the small spare bedroom.

I took the cushions off the pullout couch and leaned them up against the far wall. I reached for the handle to pull out the bed, but it wouldn’t move. I tried again, with more force and again and again, but nothing was happening. My mother poked her head in the room.

“Honey, I must have forgotten to tell you. That bed is broken so you are going to have to sleep in Steve’s room. I left some extra blankets on the bed.”

I nodded, picked up my suitcase, which my mother had packed for me and headed across the hall. It was now roughly three o’clock in the morning and I was exhausted. I picked up the phone to explain to my best friend where I was and…. No dial tone.

“Shit, she canceled the phone line.”

I was now completely isolated.

***

“I am so scared right now. I am sitting on his bed, looking through his things. Something is so wrong, so unbelievably wrong. I want to cut right now and I can’t believe that I just told you that because I have never actually written that down before. I am so stupid… dealing with emotional things by hurting myself? How does that make sense?

“Quod Me Nutruit Me Destruit” — What nourishes me also destroys me.

It seems like the room is shrinking, like it is locking me in here, forcing me to feel emotions that I don’t want to feel. Sometimes I get this feeling - I don’t know what it is — when I feel lightheaded and dizzy and I feel numb all over, sometimes like I’m floating, sometimes like I’m sinking. The only thing that can break it is a scratch on a forearm, on a leg, on the stomach. It’s just something to release me, to let me feel again and I hate myself for doing it.

Finally getting this down on paper is going to be the end of me, especially if my parents read it. Than I would have do cry or die, or something to that extreme because I would definitely not be able to look at them again.

How am I supposed to sleep in here tonight? He touches me, abuses me, than I am forced to sleep in his bed. I put myself into this situation, it is all my fault. Everything always is.

***

I pulled open the drawer and lifted out a dusty black photo album. I blew on the front cover, and slowly opened it up. He stared at me from the front page, wearing an army uniform. Flip the page, a love letter from my grandmother, and a father’s day card from his daughter. I felt a stinging pain crawl up inside me and fester inside of my head.

I took my hand, scratched my nails hard against my stomach, felt nothing. At that point I knew that I should have brought something with me. Need to write something else…

***

It’s a hard thing to explain. The feeling that you have when you are somewhere that brings back a lot of memories that you really wish you could forget.

I am torturing myself by sleeping in his bed, looking through his things. I don’t really know what I wanted to find, good things or bad. I guess that I am looking for something horrible, something that will justify my feelings.

I am finding old pictures, old love letters and memories from when he was in the army, from when he was a child.

Omigod. It’s overwhelming. So overwhelming. Shit, I think I am going to break. I really think—I don’t know what I think. I need to get out of here.

Maybe writing a letter to him would make me feel better. I need to feel better…

“Dear Steve,

I have all of these amazing memories of you. The time you built a tiny pool in the backyard because I was afraid to swim in the lake, the time you wanted to take me out fishing but crashed into my parents’ car on the way out of the driveway. I tried to only remember the good things, because they do outweigh the bad. But the bad things keep coming back, invading me, forcing me to think about them. I wish that you didn’t affect my perception on things so greatly.

I can’t blame all of this on you, after all, most of it is my fault. Why can’t I come to terms with that?”

***

I woke up early the next morning to my mother calling me for breakfast, not knowing when I had finally fallen asleep. I could smell the overwhelming stench of bacon and eggs and hear the Christmas music blaring from downstairs.

I crawled out of bed, put on my housecoat and stumbled out the door and down the stairs.

“Morning…” I said groggily.

“Good morning sweetie! How did you sleep?”

“Pretty good…”

“Santa Claus was here!”

“It’s funny how you are more excited about that than I am!” I laughed.

“Shall we eat first, or start by opening the presents?” She asked me. Since I wasn’t hungry, it was obvious which one I was going to choose.

We gathered around the living room, each with presents on our laps.

“Nicole? Why don’t you open your present first?” My father asked me as he pulled out the camera from a drawer that was beside him.

I began to tear open the brightly coloured wrapping paper and I could feel mom and dad watching me as I held up a new cell phone.

“Thanks… it’s really nice. I like it.” They smiled and dug into their own gifts. Christmas was getting worse by the year.

After the presents were opened, I decided to have a bath. I needed some space, some time away from the family. When I got into the bathroom, a razor sat on the bathroom counter. I smiled as I locked the door.

Sitting in the bath, I slowly took the blade out of its plastic case. Just a little scratch on the leg wouldn’t be that bad…

“Oh shit…” I whispered.

I had made a mistake, had cut too deep and I knew that something was terribly wrong. Blood spilled out, tricked down my thigh to my knee. It wasn’t stopping.

I got out of the bath and wrapped toilet paper tightly around it. It bled through so I added more, until it I couldn’t see red anymore. I changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed back downstairs to the kitchen.

“Mom, dad? I am just going to pick something up from the corner store all right?”

“Okay honey. Take your cell phone.”

***

Waling down the street, I realized that I had finally reached my breaking point. I called my mother.

“Mom, don’t say anything. I just cut myself and I am heading to the hospital. It makes me feel better, because everything is just so messed up. I have gone through some things that you don’t know about, but I will tell you eventually. I am sorry.”

“Honey, what are you talking about? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, mom. Don’t worry.”

“All right honey. Be back for dinner.”

She didn’t understand.

***

F L A S H. I opened my eyes. Was that a flashback? Is that what a flashback is? Oh my… So dizzy, so very dizzy. I must write, I have to write. Pen… Paper… stumble to locker. Sit.

***

Nicole is sitting in her work’s change room right now and something really strange just happened. She just lost a span of time. Doesn’t know if it was a couple seconds, a couple hours… doesn’t know anything. She is so afraid.

She wants to cut herself so bad right now, I can tell. The expression on her face says it all and I can’t stand to see her like this. I am afraid of what she will do because you never can tell with her. One minute it seems like everything will be all right, the next, she hurts so much, if she starts crying she won’t stop.

Nicole is afraid that something is really wrong with her. She hates to hurt herself, but needs to hurt herself to get at least a bit of emotional gratification, even if it only lasts a few moments.

In the past year she has gotten into drugs. She doesn’t purposely do anything harder than shrooms. Only that along with weed about three of four times a week. She loves to drink and hates herself for all of this because she can feel herself getting addicted. It’s the same with cigarettes. She knows they kill her. She knows that they are wrong… but she can’t help it. Along with cutting and beating herself up emotionally, they are her ways to cope.

Nicole feels so fucked up… she knows that she is screwing herself over but she just can’t stop. I know she honestly thinks that she needs to be hospitalised and this scares her because she wants to be normal. She wants to be as happy as everyone else seems even though she knows that they think the same about her. People think that she is perfect… miss honour roll student, great friends, great boyfriend, full of teenage fun girl… It’s a hard reputation to live up to.

What she hates the most is that she knows she can’t blame it all on Steve. She was beginning to be screwed up before he sexually assaulted her. She has all of this tension building inside of her that is just begging to be let loose, and someday it is going to explode in some inopportune place, at some inopportune time, whether she likes it or not. I really worry about her. I just wish that someone else would too.

Even the people that Nicole tells her deepest secrets too, they don’t even know the half of it. They don’t know how afraid she is about her risk of becoming an alcoholic, they don’t know how afraid she is about it being possible to not make it into university and becoming some bum on the streets. They don’t know how afraid she is at all.

Nicole is so scared about dying. It’s pathetic to her but it’s true. Dying is meant to be painful and Nicole thinks she deserves pain; after all it always seems to come in her direction. She is also afraid that something isn’t right. She has these crazy flashbacks, crazy thoughts, crazy feelings. She doesn’t feel sane anymore.

***

I threw the piece of paper down onto my lap. “What the hell am I going to do about this… especially if my own mother doesn’t believe me?” I ripped a corner off of the paper that I had just thrown and left a note for Sue.

“Sue, I quit. Nicole”

Crazy

When I walked into my grandma’s house after Aunt Joyce dropped me off, a wall of cigarette smoke hit my face. Although I really didn’t like the smell, I craved a cigarette. I decided that I would sneak off after dinner.

Their house was very cluttered and dusty. My grandparents were elderly pack rats which wasn’t a very good combination. All their lives they have kept everything that may be useful, and all their lives, they have never used any of it.

“Hi Kate! You’re just in time for dinner!” My dad greeted me as I walked into the living room.

I smiled politely and sat down at the dining room table beside the plate of pickled herring and my nose crinkled. I hated fish.

“So how are your Aunt Joyce and Uncle Karl?” My dad asked me, glancing up from his plate.

“Good.” I answered. I looked down at my food, which suddenly made me feel sick. “You guys, I’m not very hungry. Do you mind if I just go downstairs and play on the computer?”

“Of course not dear. Just take your plate to the kitchen.”

1.

Kate is sitting in her grandparent’s basement right now and it’s not a good night. She has been covering everything up all day and is really sick of it. Nobody knows this, but she hurts so much. The pain is crawling inside her and eating her up but she won’t do anything about it because she doesn’t want to hurt the people she cares about. She would much rather feel like shit than make everyone around her feel like shit.

She wants to cut herself so bad right now, I can tell. The expression on her face says it all and I can’t stand to see her like this. I am afraid of what she will do because you never can tell with her. One minute it seems like everything will be all right, the next, she hurts so much, if she starts crying she won’t stop.

Kate is afraid that she might be depressed. She doesn’t want to be, but she wants to hurt herself, needs to hurt herself to get at least a bit of emotional gratification, even if it only lasts a few moments. She looks like she is going to break any second and tell someone what is going on, even though she tries to hide it; desperately at times. In the past year she has gotten into drugs. She purposely doesn’t do anything harder than hash. Only that along with weed about four of five times a week. She’s also into alcohol and hates herself for all of this because she can feel herself getting addicted. It’s the same with cigarettes. She knows they kill her. She knows that they are wrong… but she can’t help it. Along with cutting and beating herself up emotionally, it’s her way to cope.

Kate feels so fucked up… she knows that she is screwing herself over but she just can’t stop. I know she honestly thinks that she needs to be hospitalized and this scares her because she wants to be normal. She wants to as happy as everyone else seems even though she knows that they think the same about her. People think that she is perfect…. miss honour roll student, great friends, great boyfriend, full of teenage fun girl…. It’s a hard reputation to live up to.

What she hates the most is that she knows she can’t blame it all on Karl. She was beginning to be screwed up before he sexually assaulted her and even tough she tries so hard to hide it from herself, there is this place deep down inside her, where she knows all of this bullshit isn’t because of that. According to her it is nobody’s fault but hers. She has all of this tension building inside of her that is just begging to be let loose, and someday it is going to explode in some inopportune place, at some inopportune time, whether she likes it or not. I really worry about her. I just wish that someone else would too.

Her sixteenth birthday is tomorrow. She should be happy, but I know that she is scared. Kate has such eyes that are full of expression that if you look closely, you can see everything. The people who know her best don’t even know this about her. Even the people that Kate tells her deepest secrets too, they don’t even know the half of it. They don’t know how afraid she is about her risk of becoming an alcoholic, they don’t know how afraid she is about it being possible to not make it into university and being some bum on the streets. They don’t know how afraid she is.

Kate is so scared about dying. It’s pathetic to her but it’s true. Dying is meant to be painful and Kate thinks she deserves pain, after all it always seems to come in her direction. She is also afraid that something isn’t right, She has these crazy flashbacks, crazy thoughts, crazy feelings. She doesn’t feel sane anymore.

***

I am there again. This can’t be real, it can’t be. I was already here and I don’t want to be here again. Why can’t I go back to where I should be?

It all seems so real; the pungent odour from the cement walls, the damp cold feeling of the floor seeping through my feet, the sun shining through the garage door.

He’s coming closer to me. Oh my God, he’s right there. What am I doing here again? I’m not here, I can’t be here. I was at home, doing my homework, I want to do my homework again.

“Don’t look so afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Run, Kate. Just run. Why can’t I move? Why is it so hard to just lift up my feet and run?

He brushes my hair out of my face and I flinch. Why is he doing this again?

“Just sit down right here, and relax. You’ll be happy that you did.”

Suddenly I am back at my house, sitting on the floor beside my bed. I am sweating a bit, and my eyes are burning. I am trying to control my breathing, when I pick up a piece of paper and a pen from the table beside me.

2.

I wish that I could talk to you, yell at you, just so everything would be good again, and we could have a general understanding of how each of us feel. I don’t know (or even begin to understand) what is going on inside you. Fear pain, realization… maybe you’ve just given up and don’t care. Whatever it is, I want you to know that I still love you and nothing you do could ever change that. How could I hate you after everything that we’ve been through?

People say that it often takes something bad to happen so that you can change and evolve into something more complete. Even though you have changed me and I have grown immensely because you you, I refuse to thank you. I’ve had to go through so much pain, put my family and friends through so much pain, and you haven’t had to deal with anything.

If it was up to the person in my heard and there wasn’t a million different factors affecting my decision, you wouldn’t be free right now. But there’s Aunt Joyce, my heart and ten thousand other things that that I wish didn’t have so much control over me. Now it’s almost over, and I’ll be the first to admit it, I’ll miss you like crazy.

Hi is Kate there please?

Speaking.

Hey Kate, it Marie.

Hey! What’s up?

You busy?

Yeah, I’m just doing homework…

I just wanted to know if you wanted to come out and smoke a gram with me. It’s really good.

I probably shouldn’t. I have a lot of math to do…

Shit, c’mon Kate! You’re so stupid sometimes. It’s just school. You can do it later. Whose more important, your best friend or your math homework?

Okay, I’ll meet you halfway in about fifteen minutes…

Sounds good hon! See you then!

3.

You shouldn’t feel bad for other people’s actions, especially when they don’t concern you. It’s not your fault. People love you and care for you and you don’t have to worry about all of their bullshit. Work hard. Excel. Do what you want to do with your life and don’t let them hold you back. It’s not up to you to make her life better or to realise her self-esteem, only she can do that. You have become to attached, you have to pull yourself away towards freedom, and stop being taken advantage of. It will hurt both of you, but deep it side, you know it’s for the best, and you hate yourself for it.

“Kate, can you help me carry in the suitcases?”

“Sure mom.”

When we got inside Aunt Joyce’s house, her and Uncle Karl were watching a movie. They paused it and came to greet us in the foyer.

“Merry Christmas! It’s great to have you here!” Exclaimed Aunt Joyce. She hugged each of us and continued to smile.

“Yep. I have a feeling it’s going to be a great Christmas.” As Uncle Karl spoke, I winced, but thankfully nobody was looking.

“It’s been a long drive. I’m going to have a nice, hot bubble bath okay?”

“Okay Kate! I’ll make some popcorn for when you get out! We’ve rented some movies that I think you will enjoy!”

I walked into the bathroom with my bag still hanging off my shoulder. I locked the door and emptied the contents onto the counter. I helped myself to a few gulps of vodka and took out a small red notebook. I started the bath water and continued to sip my drink.

4.

Here again. Where? Just here. No further explanation needed. I’m so tired and I just want to go to sleep, but I can’t because all of these memories are just flooding back at once. Pictures everywhere, and other reminders that only cause me to cringe. Why do I keep coming back here again? I wish I was at home, curled up in my warm bed, watching television, and not having to worry about my body or facial expressions. That alone is exhausting. The fact that he’s sitting in there watching a movie with my entire family is making my mind think some crazy thoughts. Only a few more days of this madness and it will be over for another year…

I am in my room, with the door locked. I am trying to work on my independent study, which is due tomorrow, but am unable to concentrate.

I am looking around my room at all of its sentimental value. Canadian flags celebrating Canada Day, empty bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade displayed on the shelf from New Year’s Eve, cards and pictures of friends on the walls, why do I always miss the past?

Things are changing so fast… I feel like I need to have a memento of everything or else I will forget.

Why am I questioning everything? Why can’t I just accept life the way it is? Why am I addicted to so many things. I need something to drink or smoke. I need to be intoxicated.

5

Lately, life has been pretty nice, but I find myself questioning things a much or even more than I used to. I know that I will never be the same as I was in the past again, but I liked that person so much better. It’s crazy, I know.

Time is passing by so fast and I find myself looking back at things that only happened a few years, months, weeks, hours, minutes, seconds ago. How did I get to be here?

I used to picture things so differently than what they are now and I think that I actually like the difference and that scares me.

I did notice that Marie didn’t have a cigarette on Saturday, but I didn’t want to ask her about it (Provoke the craving) Was that the wrong thing to do? I don’t know what’s right and wrong anymore and I really wish I did. Things would be so much easier. No more damn consequences. No more regrets. I would be able to just lay back and give myself credit for the few yet equally brilliant things I have done. Just set aside the negatives for once; you didn’t mean to do it, you know that now. Get over it and be who you want to be. Can you not care about the people who care about you? (No) That’s what I thought, I still don’t understand what I want. I don’t think I ever will but do I really want to know? Isn’t life about growth and self-discovery? Good and bad experiences evolve you into something more complete. (as mentioned earlier.) You can’t change that or turn back time to trick fate because it has the ultimate control, whether you like it or not. Does anyone care?

I wish this damn conscience (Let’s call in Mac. Yeah Mac.) I wish Mac would just shut up for a change and let me do what I want to do. Why do I let Mac have so much control over me? More importantly, why is Mac always right? Why can’t Mac make up her mind right now?

My aunt has given this ring to me, to show that she cared, but she doesn’t know the story behind it.

Karl gave it to her three years after they got married. I remember how happy she was, and the way her face glowed. I was only small, but I knew that something wasn’t right.

“Dear, I want you to have this so you will always remember how much I love you.”

That’s what Karl said to Aunt Joyce, but has also said to his previous wives, who eventually ended up throwing the ring at his face, when they left him for the last time.

6.

Wow, I never realised that so many emotions could surface inside a single person at once. I just put that ring on (The one with the big, ugly stone in it) and I really don’t know exactly how I felt. My stomach just tightened up but I wasn’t angry, more disappointed I guess you could say. Memories came flooding back (the one where I’m running around as a two-year-old in my underwear, wearing a sunbrero and my aunt’s high heels) and I wonder why he had to change things so drastically. Did he not think that it would bother me? Did he think that I haven’t been educated enough to tell? Did he think that I was asking for it? Was I asking for it? (Shut up Mac, you aren’t a part of this.)

Seriously, that question will always be asked inside of me because people who weren’t there don’t necessarily understand the circumstances. I shouldn’t have gone into that damn garage and I shouldn’t have tried to prove to myself that it didn’t really happen. The truth is, it didn’t happen and there’s nothing anyone or I can do that will ever change that. If I ever told anyone this, they would think I was crazy but what hurts even ore is the feeling that things aren’t completely closed. The feeling of wanting to see him again, to talk about it, to give him yet another chance even though I know deep down that he shouldn’t deserve it. It disgusts me that I want to hug him, tell him I’m sorry for all the hurt and pain we have caused each other, and ask him if we can start over. Just the idea of holding him close, and imagining what he must be thinking… no, I won’t stop writing no matter how much this hurts. I need to deal with these emotions inside of me for once and top letting them take over me. I promised myself that I would start dealing with things on my own and that’s exactly what I am going to do. Yeah sure, these are big things to have to deal with at any age, but I am strong enough to do it. Things have been a lot worse than they are now and I can’t turn back. Not now, not ever. I have so many people behind me; My parents, my best friends… me. I can’t disappoint anyone. Just take a deep breath and blow everything out of myself for one last time. I know I can do it.

July 24. 2000. What a horrible day.

I woke up at six AM and headed downstairs. My father was already up since we were going to go on a motorcycle trip. He smiled and poured me a glass of orange juice. I smiled back, drank and wet upstairs to get dressed.

Maybe today wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe today I will finally get through an entire day constructively instead of destructively.

I picked up a pen and started to write down the first truly happy thing I have felt in a long time.

7.

Today is the day that tells me I have made it through four years. Four years since it all started. It’s been hard, no doubt about it… but along the way there have been those people who have helped me through it all. Those are the good people. The people who don’t destroy others lives, but help them regain their strength and with that their sanity. They help people like me realise that they aren’t crazy, they just have to come to terms with some of their experiences. I am in the process of finally dealing with everything that has been going on, and believe me, I still have a long way to go.

 

Permanent location: http://www.psyke.org/personal/p/pamela