My Broken Life

My story isn't very tragic. I didn't grow up in an abusive home, well not really. I didn't grow up with a daddy who liked to sneak in my room at night. I grew up in a semi normal family with a mom and step dad. I like to paint my mom as some monster in my head to excuse my actions, to give me a reason to be so full of hate and anger, but really she is just as broken as I am. That's me. Broken. I wasn't always like this. I had a happy childhood, friends, family. Everything you could want. And then it all changed. I started feeling hate and rage and depression at about 13 when my mom got sick. They all told me to get ready to lose my mom that day and I guess I did in a way. She was different. I was different.  To me she had died. They said that being in the coma messed with her brain, that it made her different. People like to use that word a lot as a label. Different. It isn't a big word, but it is a life changer. You see, I was so full of hate and anger at everyone for my mom being sick and I had no where to vent it. So I vented it on my mom and on my arms. We would yell and scream and spew hate at each other like it was fun. Daring each other to go one step farther with every thrown insult or slap across the face. Do it. Just do it one more time. Then, I found cutting. It was amazing. It was like slicing a blade across my wrists or thighs took all the pain away, it washed away with the blood. I was tearing away at the brokeness with a blade. But pretty soon, the one or two small scratches that I could blame on the dog or cat weren't enough. I needed to go deeper to find my release, to find that serenity and numbness that hits you when you feel the cold blade cut into your flesh. So, I cut deeper and more and more until my wrists were my battle field against myself. Daring myself to just go deeper. I wanted to die. Plain and simple. End it all. Fade away into the black peaceful nothingness that is death. But I was scared. What about my mom? My Mimi? My dad? What would they think of me if I gave up. That's what kept me going. Pushing me deeper and deeper into self hate. I would scream at myself over and over in my head, like a scratched cd on loop, "You fuck up. You're nothing. You can't even kill yourself right." So, one day. I tried and failed. I shattered a picture frame and tried slitting my wrists with the glass, but it wouldn't go deep enough. So, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and laid down on my bed, but my friend realized something was off and came to my rescue. Later after swallowing 2 bottles of charcoal and fighting my way out of the groggy haze that was an od I laid in a hospital bed as they told me I was crazy. It wouldn't have killed me anyway. I had failed. The pills weren't the type that would you if you over dosed, just make you sleep it off. Yay me. I was so stupid I couldn't even end it. So, I was put into a mental health facility and given ways to make myself better. All I learned was how to hide the cuts better and how to fake that I was okay. I mean they really did try, but I would look at the people around me in group and wonder what reason did I have to be so sad and angry? The people around me began sharing their stories of pain and heartache and mental illness and I just sat there feeling like I was intruding. The doctors tried to fix me with labels after speaking to me for all of two minutes. Believing me every time I told them it was an accident, that I just wanted to sleep. So the labels began. Bipolar: No she isn't manic enough. Plain ole depression: No she is a self harmer. Then they landed on the winner. Dysthymic disorder with obsessive tendency. Basically, ready? I am chronically depressed and I obsess over things. Like if something is done the right way I have to do it over and over again until it. I feel like if I don't clean certain things that something bad will happen. Its not full blown OCD I don't think. Like I don't go around and freak out if the boxes of cereal aren't lined up right but oh well. Its just a label. I mean they wanted me to be better and there for a few weeks I was. But not anymore. I hit an all time low the other night. You see I am now the mother of a beautiful nine month little boy and the wife to a failed marriage. All at the age of twenty two. How many people can say they were married and divorced with in two months? But I'm not going to shove that sob story down your throats. I told myself awhile back that my life was like a horrific car wreck and I was the person driving back that couldn't take their eyes off of it. Okay, hold on to your hats kids because this is where it gets tricky. You see the twisted metal and burnt rubber are like my thought process twisted and mangled mess of destruction that follows me where ever I go. The broken glass the shines brightly in the sunlight, that's the happy things in my life. The things that matter. But the kicker is. There is more mangled metal then there is glass. And i can prove this. The entire time I am writing this my little boy is in his high chair squealing and giggling and laughing and it makes me want to smile. But my brain is trying to find something to use to slice into my flesh. To let the pain and anger out through a wound in my skin. Trying to debate on a knife that isn't very sharp or broken glass from the baby food I just fed my son. Here is a label for you: Fucked up. Broken. Those are my labels. But starting today I'm going to change that. I am going to be: Better.

Wish me luck, kiddos. And I wish the same to you.