Different

I'm not sure where to begin...

I could start off with an introduction, my name, age, ect. but I happen to like the idea of some form of anonymity.

So—just start off with a 'hi.'

My name isn't important, so you can call me anything.

Now, to the beginning—well, sort of.

I always thought that by the time I reached 35 to 36 years of age, that I would have my life together. I would marry the boy with the pretty blue eyes that I fell in love with at twelve, we would have kids, three or four, but no more than five.

I'm a woman for god's sake, not a miracle worker.

I always imagined that I'd have a job, and would be able to contribute to the world in some way.

I did my best at school, despite the abuse and isolation caused by a lack of understanding, compassion, ect.

I even finally managed to shake the backstabbing &%$#*'s calling themselves my friends.

Life was supposed to be good.

But it isn't.

Instead my life is a mess. I'm going to therapy, every two weeks or so. I'm having suicidal thoughts about myself, again.

Kind of like I did when I was a kid going through all that dumb shit.

I've only tried to actually kill myself three times since I was nine. Once because a teacher at school told me that I should—because there was no way that my parents or anyone else could ever love a demon.

That was what he actually called me: a demon.

Because back then no one had much knowledge and insight into what was wrong with me.

But to be clear—this was also in part because to the rumors that my so called friends spread about me being possessed, and because their idea of holding my head under water at another friend's birthday party didn't go over so well with said kid's parents.

He called me a demon.

Dehumanized me. And then when he knew how devastated I felt—he stood there and watched me walk out in front of a bus that would have hit me.

If the only real friend that I ever had hadn't yanked me out of the way and started screaming and cussing at him.

But things didn't stop there.

They rarely did.

I was targeted by upper classmen. Many of whom would touch me inappropriately. And I would get in trouble for slapping them or kneeing them where it really hurts.

They lied and told people that I wanted them to touch me. Like the fact that I bloodied some of their faces didn't prove otherwise.

I was twelve when I tried to kill myself the second time.

An ex-boyfriend came to the house while my parents were gone and tricked my little brother into letting him inside the house, after which he locked him out and came into my room while I was getting dressed for church and he tried to get me down and rape me.

We beat the ever loving hell out of each other. He had a black eye, a bloody nose, a split lip—and when my mom finally got home from work she caught me pinning him down and slamming his head into the side of my dresser.

She dragged me off of him by my hair, and told me that for letting him in—I deserved whatever I got.

Then she invited him to go to church with us. Where he went in and told everyone that he had just f@%ked me.

My mom was so furious at me that we got into a screaming match in front of the pastor's office and I called her—something that she would definitely slap me for again today—then kicked our pastor out of the office and locked myself inside so that I could call my dad.

Dad came to pick me up, and mom was still so angry at me over everything that she followed me out to the car screaming that I had better get my butt back inside the church and fucking repent.

I didn't do anything wrong.

But the screaming and fighting didn't end there. The moment that she was home she started screaming about me being a slut until I reached my breaking point.

I knew then that I couldn't rely on my parents to help me if I really needed it. I was better off dead just like that teacher had said.

I took two whole bottles of medication.

My epilepsy meds to be exact.

We had just got them filled the day before. So there was over sixty pills in each.

I'd never been so happy to see my mom utterly speechless as she was when I slammed the second empty bottle down on the kitchen counter and told her that what happened next was all her fault.

My brother started crying, he hadn't told mom yet that it was his fault. He was about to, but I simply looked him in the eye and shook my head no. She was to far gone to care about who's fault it really was.

It was one thing for her to blame me and take shit out on me—I was used to it. But I would not let her do so to my brother.

I spent over eight hours in the ER having my stomach pumped, and the entire time I was there, I did nothing but sing the national anthem as loud as I could since it made some of the people coming in and out laugh.

Mom kept trying to come back to the ER and see me, but I didn't want her there. So I gave the nurse a message for her—I hate you.

The next day I was back in my best outfit and at church again—I don't know why mom insisted I keep going, the people there never really cared much for me before this.

And my 'tarnished' reputation certainly didn't garner any damned favors from anyone. It didn't exactly inspire sympathy for the night before either.

I did get justice for the night before and all the grief it caused me—when the boy's mom came to pick him up and I told her what happened.

She was nice enough to hold him down while I beat him with a ball bat.

After that I didn't care much about anything.

I was almost completely apathetic to everything. My parents, my brother- the only real people that I bothered making any sort of connection with were Brandi, David, Will, Sara and Christy Beth—all of whom were new friends. And both sets of grandparents. I didn't care about anyone outside of my circle.

There were few exceptions, sure. But not many.

And those that were, were just as beaten down and abused as I was. So I felt that I had to step in and protect them.

Things went well for a little while.

The rift between me and mom stayed in place. I rarely spoke to her about anything. After all why would I if I couldn't trust her?

Things didn't actually start to get somewhat better until a guy at school conned me into signing papers to quit school.

After all, they were as tired of me as I was of them.

I had decided to simply get my GED and go to college. My parents weren't happy with me, especially when they finally found out that someone had conned me into signing the papers when I was still seventeen and they wouldn't actually be legal until I was eighteen.

They spent months afterwards trying to convince me to go back while I went to GED school.

The first time I failed the test, I scored above average on everything but math. And I missed it my one point that I was refused all because people wanted more money out of me.

I failed every other test after. And now—I don't even bother with it. My parents refuse to help me find a tutor, saying that it would be a waste of my time.

What they don't understand is that all I have is time.

Time to hone my hobbies as a jewelry maker, an artist, a writer, ect. Because I can't work.

To be honest, they're probably right.

Mom used to say that I always lived a half life. And she isn't wrong. I was never able to make friends like other do. I was never able to go out drinking and date like others do.

I can't even drive.

I've always lived a half live. But what no one seems to understand is that a half life is no better than a prison.

I sit. I watch. I wait. Always hoping for something more. Something better.

And always knowing that it's beyond my reach.