Week 16- Breaking the Fast
I sat there, unable to speak, as the therapist watched my every glance, sweat, and shift in movement. If I drank water, she wrote it down, noting the time. It was as if my thirst was an indicator of strife. I’m fourteen, I get thirsty. I guess therapists write everything down.
She took my diary. I don’t write the important stuff down in that one, because I know that my parents read it. I have a hidden one, a notebook they think I use for school. They’ll never find it; it’s in the best hiding place. I only take it out late at night, because I know that if they find it, I’ll be taken away again.
No one ever listens. Mom says she can’t deal with me, dad just keeps hurting me. I don’t have a place in either home, in either family. I think I was adopted, because everyone hates me. Terry, my dad’s wife, says it’s because I’m fat. I’m not, but everything is always my fault because I’m ‘fat’.
The therapist is glaring at me. She asks me about the cookies. The cookies I didn’t eat. I almost wish I ate them so the pain that I felt over them was warranted. My face has healed by now, but it still doesn’t help that every time I think of it, I can just feel the beating.
The beating I always get.
The punches, hits, hurts.
The bruises that never last long, but have been hurting for years.
I’m here because I wanted it to end, because I wanted to get out of this pain. They found me all bloody, but said I hadn’t hit anything substantial. It felt good, knowing that it was all going to end, and then they snatched me up, called the police, and stuck me in this place for a week. They had bandaged me up, told me to take off my clothes, and had me searched to make sure that I didn’t hide any razors in places that I didn’t know you could hide things. I’m only fourteen.
The therapist starts to talk. I grab a piece of paper and start to draw. I pick red, because it reminds me of my almost escape from all of this. I draw a heart, but I scratch it out. I draw a house. I like drawing houses. The house is perfect- white picket fence, perfect trees, and such a happy portrayal of what I wanted.
When this session was over, I overheard the therapist telling my dad it was all for attention. I sighed.
______________
I sneak in the house, not wanting anyone to wake up. It was just like every night. 1am, and up again at 6am to sneak out. It was just to sleep, they knew I was there. I was eighteen, I needed sleep. I had just graduated, and there was only two more months of this until college. It would be ok. I fall asleep in my jeans, something I characteristically did with the short hours that I slept. I had a job interview the next morning.
I woke up at 2am to screaming. The kitchen was a mess; the kitchen that I had not used in over a year. I put the pillow over my head; I couldn’t deal with the screaming tonight. My door opened. I didn’t know what happened. The punching started, and it didn’t end until after the damage was done.
I grabbed for my phone. He saw me. I braced myself for the punching again, hiding my phone under my body. I bit him to get him off of me; he staggered back to his room. I couldn’t breathe, my nose was streaming blood. I called my boyfriend. He didn’t answer.
I kept calling and calling, eventually calling my mother, and my boyfriends best friend. He came and got me, I left.
______________
I sat there, unable to speak. They look at me, and I know I can talk about anything. I’m twenty one. I start with when I was ten, when it happened. I moved to when I was fourteen, when it was the worst. I shifted to sixteen, when I went to jail because of him. I told of eighteen, when I got away from it. I spoke of twenty, when the emotional weight of the situation caused me to take the whole bottle of sleeping pills. They listened, and wrote nothing down. They listened, the one thing I always needed.
The hour of their time has passed, and they still allow me to speak. I tell them of twenty one, of what I’m doing with my life, and how excited I am for the future. I see smiles. I tell them that I’m still broken, but that I’m breaking away from the pain. I had been on hold for eleven years, and I was coming back.
They looked at me, clapped, and the next person stepped up to share their story.
She took my diary. I don’t write the important stuff down in that one, because I know that my parents read it. I have a hidden one, a notebook they think I use for school. They’ll never find it; it’s in the best hiding place. I only take it out late at night, because I know that if they find it, I’ll be taken away again.
No one ever listens. Mom says she can’t deal with me, dad just keeps hurting me. I don’t have a place in either home, in either family. I think I was adopted, because everyone hates me. Terry, my dad’s wife, says it’s because I’m fat. I’m not, but everything is always my fault because I’m ‘fat’.
The therapist is glaring at me. She asks me about the cookies. The cookies I didn’t eat. I almost wish I ate them so the pain that I felt over them was warranted. My face has healed by now, but it still doesn’t help that every time I think of it, I can just feel the beating.
The beating I always get.
The punches, hits, hurts.
The bruises that never last long, but have been hurting for years.
I’m here because I wanted it to end, because I wanted to get out of this pain. They found me all bloody, but said I hadn’t hit anything substantial. It felt good, knowing that it was all going to end, and then they snatched me up, called the police, and stuck me in this place for a week. They had bandaged me up, told me to take off my clothes, and had me searched to make sure that I didn’t hide any razors in places that I didn’t know you could hide things. I’m only fourteen.
The therapist starts to talk. I grab a piece of paper and start to draw. I pick red, because it reminds me of my almost escape from all of this. I draw a heart, but I scratch it out. I draw a house. I like drawing houses. The house is perfect- white picket fence, perfect trees, and such a happy portrayal of what I wanted.
When this session was over, I overheard the therapist telling my dad it was all for attention. I sighed.
______________
I sneak in the house, not wanting anyone to wake up. It was just like every night. 1am, and up again at 6am to sneak out. It was just to sleep, they knew I was there. I was eighteen, I needed sleep. I had just graduated, and there was only two more months of this until college. It would be ok. I fall asleep in my jeans, something I characteristically did with the short hours that I slept. I had a job interview the next morning.
I woke up at 2am to screaming. The kitchen was a mess; the kitchen that I had not used in over a year. I put the pillow over my head; I couldn’t deal with the screaming tonight. My door opened. I didn’t know what happened. The punching started, and it didn’t end until after the damage was done.
I grabbed for my phone. He saw me. I braced myself for the punching again, hiding my phone under my body. I bit him to get him off of me; he staggered back to his room. I couldn’t breathe, my nose was streaming blood. I called my boyfriend. He didn’t answer.
I kept calling and calling, eventually calling my mother, and my boyfriends best friend. He came and got me, I left.
______________
I sat there, unable to speak. They look at me, and I know I can talk about anything. I’m twenty one. I start with when I was ten, when it happened. I moved to when I was fourteen, when it was the worst. I shifted to sixteen, when I went to jail because of him. I told of eighteen, when I got away from it. I spoke of twenty, when the emotional weight of the situation caused me to take the whole bottle of sleeping pills. They listened, and wrote nothing down. They listened, the one thing I always needed.
The hour of their time has passed, and they still allow me to speak. I tell them of twenty one, of what I’m doing with my life, and how excited I am for the future. I see smiles. I tell them that I’m still broken, but that I’m breaking away from the pain. I had been on hold for eleven years, and I was coming back.
They looked at me, clapped, and the next person stepped up to share their story.