12 Years of Pain and Counting

Copyright, Puffgreeney

Okay, well, here it goes. It’s not easy to talk about, it’s even harder to read or listen to, but well, I think it’ll help me.

All my life, every aspect that I can remember, has been hell on earth. I was five years old, and my parents had gone out for the evening. My cousin, Charly, was supposed to babysit and put my sister and I to bed. I crawled under my covers as usual, and got a peck on the cheek, nothing out of the ordinary. But then he kissed my lips. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. Next thing, he was sliding under the covers and fondling me, telling me that I was a big girl and big girls are quiet and nice.

Next thing I knew, I was being raped.

But of course I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t know what that was. I just knew that I was in pain and that I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.

This went on for seven years. When I was twelve, he stopped, only because the son of a bitch had gotten me pregnant. I put the baby up for adoption and tried to move on with my life. It was too late. I was dating a man who was twenty and he coerced me into drinking and smoking some pot. I was stupid and thought he really loved me.

When he left me, I hit rock bottom. I sat in my room in the same bed I was abused in and picked up a razor. I set my arm between my knees and made the longest cut I have ever done. I started right by my thumb and slashed downwards until I saw the vein underneath my skin. Then I went all the way down my arm.

Needless to say, I was thrown in the ER, followed immediately by the hospital.

I was 14.

I still cut to this day. I hate it, and I’ve never had a decent therapist. But I can’t stop. It doesn’t even hurt. It gets rid of all the bad feelings, only to replace them with more guilt. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.


Permanent location: