Feb 2015
when I was born and named a girl, my older brother decided he hated me. there was nothing to it; he wanted a brother because that way he could take out all the anger planted in him by my other siblings, and he got a sister who idolized him because he could make friends.
when I was three my mom, in a moment of clarity, took me to a doctor after I was sick for three weeks. a nurse heard my heart not beating right and sent me to get seen, six months later I was cut open and sewed clean, a hole in my heart to match the one my father had sealed up by modern medicine.
my mom never forgot that "miracle" or that I told the surgery psych that I was getting my broken heart fixed, and that my father was more worried that I'd live in constant agony than that I might die on the table, in mind or body.
at about four and a half, my dad came and took my brother and I out of my mom's care, because he had a home and didn't want us on the streets if he could help it. it never lasted, homelessness was as commonplace as walking to school for us. I didn't know it wasn't okay to live in a car until I was six.
when I was five I missed most of kindergarten because I lived in a shack on a ranch and had lice, and by the time I was back in class, I was the only one who didn't get basic math and couldn't read, but California doesn't hold kids back unless they have to and I got pushed ahead.
in second grade I made my first friend, and a few months into the school year I made another. I was a girl back then and they thought it was cool that I wasn't girly, so I was allowed. one day on the way in from recess I got called fat and ugly to my face the first time, and when I looked for support, I was told it was true.
I was nine the first time I wanted to **** myself. I ran my fingers over the blades of my father's razor and I wondered how much it hurt to bleed out and if blood stained linoleum and how much it would cost to bury me somewhere, and then I closed my eyes and remembered that my father would **** himself if I wasn't there.
by fourth grade I didn't care what was happening, I just wanted to read and sleep. I never did homework and my friends were only interested in me if I knew an answer they didn't. the teachers were convinced I was learning disabled but I was busy growing up two-parts ignored and one part abused, because the day I brought home my best grades was the day my uncle decided that he'd punish me himself.
when I was twelve I was told my dream was STUPID because I was never going to be good enough, not me, to write what people want to read. I was told that, with the grades I was getting I shouldn't even be allowed to do anything but schoolwork, despite my constant requests for help they wouldn't or couldn't give.
the first time I cut myself, I was in seventh grade. I stayed in my room all day and stared at the scabs, and then I scratched them off and did it again. it felt better to be bleeding outside and crying than to be collapsing inside and crying; there was a physical reason to my methods.
when I was fourteen, I was hospitalized for two days after I threatened to **** myself, and the doctors told me the "rosy glow" I always have was rosacea, and that I was depressed but not depressed enough to take up space there, and sent me home.
I wish I could say I stopped cutting then, but I didn't. it got worse when I moved in with my mom again, because she told me everything I secretly was was disgusting, and the two months she kept me medicated lamented over the high price of $50 for her child's sanity and well-being; even if it never worked, the thought that it wasn't even worth trying hurt more than the razorblades she kept around to tease me with.
I was fifteen when I carved HATE into my left forearm.
it took me time to understand that humans smile and the whole time I tried to learn I was ordered to STOP SCOWLING. it took me time to learn how to talk to people, to understand that unless someone starts a conversation I'm probably not wanted and to trick myself into thinking of character flaws as quirks and of the shattered pieces of myself as ripples in a pool instead of the breaks that they were
I learned to hold my face in a smirk and my arms around myself and that if you laugh loud enough no one looks too hard at the scars that keep multiplying, that if you joke often enough the tearstains on your cheeks are normal and the way you bristle when someone puts their hand up too fast or hugs you first will become afterthoughts, just like I taught myself to be and that no one worries about you not sleeping for a week if you memorize interesting things while you're awake.
when I was three my mom, in a moment of clarity, took me to a doctor after I was sick for three weeks. a nurse heard my heart not beating right and sent me to get seen, six months later I was cut open and sewed clean, a hole in my heart to match the one my father had sealed up by modern medicine.
my mom never forgot that "miracle" or that I told the surgery psych that I was getting my broken heart fixed, and that my father was more worried that I'd live in constant agony than that I might die on the table, in mind or body.
at about four and a half, my dad came and took my brother and I out of my mom's care, because he had a home and didn't want us on the streets if he could help it. it never lasted, homelessness was as commonplace as walking to school for us. I didn't know it wasn't okay to live in a car until I was six.
when I was five I missed most of kindergarten because I lived in a shack on a ranch and had lice, and by the time I was back in class, I was the only one who didn't get basic math and couldn't read, but California doesn't hold kids back unless they have to and I got pushed ahead.
in second grade I made my first friend, and a few months into the school year I made another. I was a girl back then and they thought it was cool that I wasn't girly, so I was allowed. one day on the way in from recess I got called fat and ugly to my face the first time, and when I looked for support, I was told it was true.
I was nine the first time I wanted to **** myself. I ran my fingers over the blades of my father's razor and I wondered how much it hurt to bleed out and if blood stained linoleum and how much it would cost to bury me somewhere, and then I closed my eyes and remembered that my father would **** himself if I wasn't there.
by fourth grade I didn't care what was happening, I just wanted to read and sleep. I never did homework and my friends were only interested in me if I knew an answer they didn't. the teachers were convinced I was learning disabled but I was busy growing up two-parts ignored and one part abused, because the day I brought home my best grades was the day my uncle decided that he'd punish me himself.
when I was twelve I was told my dream was STUPID because I was never going to be good enough, not me, to write what people want to read. I was told that, with the grades I was getting I shouldn't even be allowed to do anything but schoolwork, despite my constant requests for help they wouldn't or couldn't give.
the first time I cut myself, I was in seventh grade. I stayed in my room all day and stared at the scabs, and then I scratched them off and did it again. it felt better to be bleeding outside and crying than to be collapsing inside and crying; there was a physical reason to my methods.
when I was fourteen, I was hospitalized for two days after I threatened to **** myself, and the doctors told me the "rosy glow" I always have was rosacea, and that I was depressed but not depressed enough to take up space there, and sent me home.
I wish I could say I stopped cutting then, but I didn't. it got worse when I moved in with my mom again, because she told me everything I secretly was was disgusting, and the two months she kept me medicated lamented over the high price of $50 for her child's sanity and well-being; even if it never worked, the thought that it wasn't even worth trying hurt more than the razorblades she kept around to tease me with.
I was fifteen when I carved HATE into my left forearm.
it took me time to understand that humans smile and the whole time I tried to learn I was ordered to STOP SCOWLING. it took me time to learn how to talk to people, to understand that unless someone starts a conversation I'm probably not wanted and to trick myself into thinking of character flaws as quirks and of the shattered pieces of myself as ripples in a pool instead of the breaks that they were
I learned to hold my face in a smirk and my arms around myself and that if you laugh loud enough no one looks too hard at the scars that keep multiplying, that if you joke often enough the tearstains on your cheeks are normal and the way you bristle when someone puts their hand up too fast or hugs you first will become afterthoughts, just like I taught myself to be and that no one worries about you not sleeping for a week if you memorize interesting things while you're awake.
