Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
I was 15 living at my stepdads house. Not even officially my step dad, she did marry him til years after she left him when I was 12. He was the only dad I'd ever known. The only dad that had ever wanted me back around.
I got myself into school, on my own at 15, and he let me raise myself. Which is what I wanted before I knew what I wanted.
I got myself in all sorts of messes. I learned a lot about who I was and what I stood for.
Until I got into a mess I couldn't get myself out of.
I got raped. In my dad's house. By a man he trusted.
Instead of standing up for myself, I ran. And I ran hard. I lived with my sister Lana because she offered me shelter. She was the only person to see the bruises on my chest, and I didn't mean to show them to her. She just happened to walk into the bathroom at her house while I was in the tub trying to scrub them away. She's the only person with definitive proof it happened, but only if she remembers it.
I was a shit with her too. I turned 16 a week later, and lost my mind. She put up with me for two months and then she kicked me out. For good reason (I wouldn't hold a job and pay for food/rent). My family didn't seem to care or believe that I'd been raped. Mom didn't care, I couldn't tell dad (not face to face at least, it was a two part deal of not wanting to crush him because it happened in his house and how mad I was for him being so drunk and allowing this dude to live in our house that did that to me). I think the guy still lived at his house months later, but I really lost all contact with my dad for months after that.
I lost my shit. Raped at my dads, sister kicked me out.
I moved in with the only guy that I new had a place I could stay. I spent three months there...it was like a teenage version of Funny Farm. NO one gave a shit about what we did, yet everyone was against us. We were a band of misfits, and we clicked. That's where I met Bobby.
Bobby had 2 kids. He was only 18. He lived with his girlfriends parents and their kids. Two blocks away.
Him and I got close. He became all I had, or wanted. We spent three months together this way. Me as the misfit sidekick/slut. Maybe I was being misled, but I really feel he wanted to get out of there.
We were chasing drugs and fun, and that's just what we did.
Bobby and I spent a night at his mom and made plans, with his mom, that we were going to move in with her in two weeks. We talked for hours with her about how we were going to do this, and the plans to make it happen. The date was set (it seems so foolish now to say it, but we really had a date...before he got sick).
A week later, Bobby came down with pneumonia. He has asthma, so it hits him especially hard. Within 24 hours, he was in the ER. They put him in a medically induced coma. Said it was best
I spent the next week somewhere between depression and them pumping fluid out of his chest using these nasty puss filled tubes. He was so bloated and unresponsive. I remember vividly his mom coming up to me and telling me that they are going to shut off the machines because he was in septic shock and he was going to die.
I wrote poems about him, that was all I could do. I had no "proof" of my love for him. I was and illegitimate lover and an illegitimate family member and an illegitimate person.
He was my way out, and he was dead. I loved him. He died just along with everything else I'd ever known.
I fell even farther. I felt more alone than I ever knew was possible. How could anyone understand how a slighted slut, bigot, misfit could feel? I wasn't allowed to feel.
At his funeral, some our friends tried to run me off the road because I told his girlfriend and mother of his kids (when she confronted me at the funeral) I loved him and I wasn't sorry for it. But no one in my family were there nor there after it happened.
The night of his funeral, I got drunk at my friend Jennifer's house with his best friend. Lots of Jack Daniels until I puked on the dress she let me borrow. His best friend took me into the bathroom and cleaned the puke off me...
We end up in the shower together, and then on Jennifer's floor. I wanted to take this whole world on, it would fuck me, I wanted to FUCK IT and the closest thing to Bobby was his best friend.
You wouldn't guess what happened next. I'm having sex on the night of Bobby's funeral with his best friend Brian, and the mother of Bobby's children, that he hadn't officially left yet and knew who I was to him....walked in while I was fucking his best friend.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsYrPtDrX8o Yeah, that lends credence to my story that I loved him. That we were going to be together forever.
FUCK ME!!!!!!!!
Well, Brian did. He fucked me for the whole three months I lived with him. He only lived two blocks from Bobby's mom's house. And I became a major meth head. Bobby's mom was a meth shooter.
Why the fuck would I care about anyone when no one cared about me? I guess this is life. Or at least this is what I thought at the time.
It wasn't until I broke up with Brian that I got into being a shooter myself. Without the help of Bobby's mom, I found it on my own.
I was 16 years old. Alone. Putting needles into my arms. IT'S NOT SOME FUCKING BIG MYSTERY WHY I FUCKED IT ALL UP. I WISH MY PAST WOULD STOP HAUNTING ME.
I got myself into school, on my own at 15, and he let me raise myself. Which is what I wanted before I knew what I wanted.
I got myself in all sorts of messes. I learned a lot about who I was and what I stood for.
Until I got into a mess I couldn't get myself out of.
I got raped. In my dad's house. By a man he trusted.
Instead of standing up for myself, I ran. And I ran hard. I lived with my sister Lana because she offered me shelter. She was the only person to see the bruises on my chest, and I didn't mean to show them to her. She just happened to walk into the bathroom at her house while I was in the tub trying to scrub them away. She's the only person with definitive proof it happened, but only if she remembers it.
I was a shit with her too. I turned 16 a week later, and lost my mind. She put up with me for two months and then she kicked me out. For good reason (I wouldn't hold a job and pay for food/rent). My family didn't seem to care or believe that I'd been raped. Mom didn't care, I couldn't tell dad (not face to face at least, it was a two part deal of not wanting to crush him because it happened in his house and how mad I was for him being so drunk and allowing this dude to live in our house that did that to me). I think the guy still lived at his house months later, but I really lost all contact with my dad for months after that.
I lost my shit. Raped at my dads, sister kicked me out.
I moved in with the only guy that I new had a place I could stay. I spent three months there...it was like a teenage version of Funny Farm. NO one gave a shit about what we did, yet everyone was against us. We were a band of misfits, and we clicked. That's where I met Bobby.
Bobby had 2 kids. He was only 18. He lived with his girlfriends parents and their kids. Two blocks away.
Him and I got close. He became all I had, or wanted. We spent three months together this way. Me as the misfit sidekick/slut. Maybe I was being misled, but I really feel he wanted to get out of there.
We were chasing drugs and fun, and that's just what we did.
Bobby and I spent a night at his mom and made plans, with his mom, that we were going to move in with her in two weeks. We talked for hours with her about how we were going to do this, and the plans to make it happen. The date was set (it seems so foolish now to say it, but we really had a date...before he got sick).
A week later, Bobby came down with pneumonia. He has asthma, so it hits him especially hard. Within 24 hours, he was in the ER. They put him in a medically induced coma. Said it was best
I spent the next week somewhere between depression and them pumping fluid out of his chest using these nasty puss filled tubes. He was so bloated and unresponsive. I remember vividly his mom coming up to me and telling me that they are going to shut off the machines because he was in septic shock and he was going to die.
I wrote poems about him, that was all I could do. I had no "proof" of my love for him. I was and illegitimate lover and an illegitimate family member and an illegitimate person.
He was my way out, and he was dead. I loved him. He died just along with everything else I'd ever known.
I fell even farther. I felt more alone than I ever knew was possible. How could anyone understand how a slighted slut, bigot, misfit could feel? I wasn't allowed to feel.
At his funeral, some our friends tried to run me off the road because I told his girlfriend and mother of his kids (when she confronted me at the funeral) I loved him and I wasn't sorry for it. But no one in my family were there nor there after it happened.
The night of his funeral, I got drunk at my friend Jennifer's house with his best friend. Lots of Jack Daniels until I puked on the dress she let me borrow. His best friend took me into the bathroom and cleaned the puke off me...
We end up in the shower together, and then on Jennifer's floor. I wanted to take this whole world on, it would fuck me, I wanted to FUCK IT and the closest thing to Bobby was his best friend.
You wouldn't guess what happened next. I'm having sex on the night of Bobby's funeral with his best friend Brian, and the mother of Bobby's children, that he hadn't officially left yet and knew who I was to him....walked in while I was fucking his best friend.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsYrPtDrX8o Yeah, that lends credence to my story that I loved him. That we were going to be together forever.
FUCK ME!!!!!!!!
Well, Brian did. He fucked me for the whole three months I lived with him. He only lived two blocks from Bobby's mom's house. And I became a major meth head. Bobby's mom was a meth shooter.
Why the fuck would I care about anyone when no one cared about me? I guess this is life. Or at least this is what I thought at the time.
It wasn't until I broke up with Brian that I got into being a shooter myself. Without the help of Bobby's mom, I found it on my own.
I was 16 years old. Alone. Putting needles into my arms. IT'S NOT SOME FUCKING BIG MYSTERY WHY I FUCKED IT ALL UP. I WISH MY PAST WOULD STOP HAUNTING ME.
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