Post by Feather on Dec 9, 2007 14:25:14 GMT -5
. . . my absence. I'm fighting a depression, so I may go M.I.A. at times.
(Story taken from another site)
This always happens. Day after day, I tell myself that the marriage between my mom and stepdad will make all the pain go away, the insults, the rage. . . But it hasn't.
My dad and I had a very special and deep connection. I loved him, and I was his little girl. I was spoiled in affection, seeing we were incredibly poor. I almost died from terrid reflex disease when I was younger. I was to be the second oldest of my mom's kids, if not for a miscarriage. My dad had another son, my half-brother, which made **** rise from the start.
When I was four, my dad died. I of course, should've been heart-stabbed. I was quiet, emotionless. They thought I was mentally damaged, and I was sent into therpay at the age of four, many days a week. I was also expected to start taking responsibilities, since my dad died, and I had a little brother to look after.
Last year, I lost six of my best friends. My cats. One died, so we aquired two new kittens. My mom became sick of them, so she set them lose in Eastern Kentucky Wilderness. My favorites, three I had had since I was two, became nusiances towards my mother as well, so in return, they were shipped off to the pound.
My comforts. My lifelines.
Living up to my mother, perfect, beautiful woman who appeared 20 years younger, and a straight A, successful person, very preppy, and proper, was impossible. Not only that, but from this point, hate grew black within my soul towards her. I've heard I am a complete screw-up, and many other serverely fouled up words that G-rated sites don't permit. Not only that, but I was the target for flying items, and slammed againist stuff because I'm tough. \
I wanted to be who I wanted to be in school. In other words, myself. But being 5'8 in a place were 5'2 is average, I became an outcast. Not only that, but I hate makeup, also shunning me from the other girls. I am also an artist, which people considered 'weird', especially some of the stuff I drew. Being A.D.D. as well, I often find it hard not to be fairly obnoxious at times, which has labeled me 'uncontrollable'. From the years of pain, and yelling, I am emotionless to the face, if not happy or cruel, menacing expressions, so I was also called 'emo' and 'weird', 'freak' and 'giant'.
Finally, I found a window from my pain. His name was Robby, he rode my bus. At first, I didn't care who he was, or what grade he was in. (I was just coming into M.S.) Then, I began talking to a seventh grader named Taylor. We became friends, which meant associating with Cory, her admirerer. They both knew Robby and his closeknit family outside of school, so I began to know him more. He was my height, and carried around that strange darkness with him that I did. Yes he was fairly cute, but I saw him for who he was. As the days grew on, I felt myself liking him. Then strange questions asked if I would die for him. The answer grew to be yes as day by day it killed me to go home after school, being departed from his warm smile and familiar face. Then, as times grew darker, he was the reason I felt like suiside might not be worth it.
I never confessed my feelings, for this year, Cory and Taylor no longer ride the bus with us, for Taylor switched schools, and Cory only rode for her. So we continued to grow closer, more understanding, yet both of us grew noticeably darker. Words weren't needed, for the look as we stared in each others eyes were enough.
He asks me if I like him, I deny. He asks me why I'm flirting, I argue I'm not. I don't convict him for staring at me in the halls everytime he passes me, or in class, for I know the answer. This is because rumors and judgements would fly, and neither of us could take that blow.
Recently, with the stress of assigned seats on the bus, we've grown farther apart. Others watch us closely, and yell jeering comments if they are brave enough. I fear this might come between our friendship. V.V
Now, for the steps.
Brittany and Lily. Devils. Brats. And yet, I'm not allowed to say anything about it. If I did, bing bang, divorce, we go poor, and wind up on the streets. They get everything, they can act anyway. They do something I blamed. I clean it up. Then I get it thrown in my face about how perfect they are, especially Brittany, who is only three months older. And Lily, who is the 'cutest, sweetest little child', who is seven.
My mom has spent the whole weekend slamming doors in my face, and yelling at me. Why? Because she claims she is trying to pretend I don't exist. Just a follow up to the many times she has wished I die, or she dies. She even has the nerve to blame my fathers death on me, and that life would be perfect if I was never born. If I ask why she wishes I was never born, she takes one Christmas present back to the store. The one time I get anything without buying it myself.
I mean, I'm only thirteen!
My ears are ringing from the paining silence that engulfs me. Not even music can drown out my soul. Tears blur my eyes. Bruises from my younger brothers beatings line my sides. My hair lies in a mangled heap along my shoulders. I think of Robby, trying to find that one happy place in the world. Suiside ideas sound incredibly good, especially since I fear Robby may not want to speak to me anymore. The teasings and tauntings of my peers poison my nerves, and the tears become worse.
What am I to do anymore? Should I even bother?
I've written a novel it seems.
(Story taken from another site)
This always happens. Day after day, I tell myself that the marriage between my mom and stepdad will make all the pain go away, the insults, the rage. . . But it hasn't.
My dad and I had a very special and deep connection. I loved him, and I was his little girl. I was spoiled in affection, seeing we were incredibly poor. I almost died from terrid reflex disease when I was younger. I was to be the second oldest of my mom's kids, if not for a miscarriage. My dad had another son, my half-brother, which made **** rise from the start.
When I was four, my dad died. I of course, should've been heart-stabbed. I was quiet, emotionless. They thought I was mentally damaged, and I was sent into therpay at the age of four, many days a week. I was also expected to start taking responsibilities, since my dad died, and I had a little brother to look after.
Last year, I lost six of my best friends. My cats. One died, so we aquired two new kittens. My mom became sick of them, so she set them lose in Eastern Kentucky Wilderness. My favorites, three I had had since I was two, became nusiances towards my mother as well, so in return, they were shipped off to the pound.
My comforts. My lifelines.
Living up to my mother, perfect, beautiful woman who appeared 20 years younger, and a straight A, successful person, very preppy, and proper, was impossible. Not only that, but from this point, hate grew black within my soul towards her. I've heard I am a complete screw-up, and many other serverely fouled up words that G-rated sites don't permit. Not only that, but I was the target for flying items, and slammed againist stuff because I'm tough. \
I wanted to be who I wanted to be in school. In other words, myself. But being 5'8 in a place were 5'2 is average, I became an outcast. Not only that, but I hate makeup, also shunning me from the other girls. I am also an artist, which people considered 'weird', especially some of the stuff I drew. Being A.D.D. as well, I often find it hard not to be fairly obnoxious at times, which has labeled me 'uncontrollable'. From the years of pain, and yelling, I am emotionless to the face, if not happy or cruel, menacing expressions, so I was also called 'emo' and 'weird', 'freak' and 'giant'.
Finally, I found a window from my pain. His name was Robby, he rode my bus. At first, I didn't care who he was, or what grade he was in. (I was just coming into M.S.) Then, I began talking to a seventh grader named Taylor. We became friends, which meant associating with Cory, her admirerer. They both knew Robby and his closeknit family outside of school, so I began to know him more. He was my height, and carried around that strange darkness with him that I did. Yes he was fairly cute, but I saw him for who he was. As the days grew on, I felt myself liking him. Then strange questions asked if I would die for him. The answer grew to be yes as day by day it killed me to go home after school, being departed from his warm smile and familiar face. Then, as times grew darker, he was the reason I felt like suiside might not be worth it.
I never confessed my feelings, for this year, Cory and Taylor no longer ride the bus with us, for Taylor switched schools, and Cory only rode for her. So we continued to grow closer, more understanding, yet both of us grew noticeably darker. Words weren't needed, for the look as we stared in each others eyes were enough.
He asks me if I like him, I deny. He asks me why I'm flirting, I argue I'm not. I don't convict him for staring at me in the halls everytime he passes me, or in class, for I know the answer. This is because rumors and judgements would fly, and neither of us could take that blow.
Recently, with the stress of assigned seats on the bus, we've grown farther apart. Others watch us closely, and yell jeering comments if they are brave enough. I fear this might come between our friendship. V.V
Now, for the steps.
Brittany and Lily. Devils. Brats. And yet, I'm not allowed to say anything about it. If I did, bing bang, divorce, we go poor, and wind up on the streets. They get everything, they can act anyway. They do something I blamed. I clean it up. Then I get it thrown in my face about how perfect they are, especially Brittany, who is only three months older. And Lily, who is the 'cutest, sweetest little child', who is seven.
My mom has spent the whole weekend slamming doors in my face, and yelling at me. Why? Because she claims she is trying to pretend I don't exist. Just a follow up to the many times she has wished I die, or she dies. She even has the nerve to blame my fathers death on me, and that life would be perfect if I was never born. If I ask why she wishes I was never born, she takes one Christmas present back to the store. The one time I get anything without buying it myself.
I mean, I'm only thirteen!
My ears are ringing from the paining silence that engulfs me. Not even music can drown out my soul. Tears blur my eyes. Bruises from my younger brothers beatings line my sides. My hair lies in a mangled heap along my shoulders. I think of Robby, trying to find that one happy place in the world. Suiside ideas sound incredibly good, especially since I fear Robby may not want to speak to me anymore. The teasings and tauntings of my peers poison my nerves, and the tears become worse.
What am I to do anymore? Should I even bother?
I've written a novel it seems.
