Ten years ago it all started. My first memories. Parents fighting, father shouting, locked in a cupboard, kicked, punched, screamed at, thrown against walls, forced to do things I didn't understand and didn't want.
My dad was unemployed on and off for the first few years. My older sister cried because she couldn't get new toys, new clothes, couldn't go out and do things with her friends; because there wasn't enough money for those things. I cried because my Dad didn't leave the house in the morning. I couldnt care less about those things, I just wanted him to leave.
I was seven when he first raped me. I loved him so much. I didn't hate him. I just wanted him to love me. I competed with my sister who he never touched. He never shouted at her, he never hit her, he never touched her. I'm glad. I would take it all again for her.
I was ten when I started to self harm. And twelve when I first started starving myself. By thirteen I was a drug addict and later in that same year I was raped daily by my 17 year old boyfriend, Marc, and whoever he allowed to help him out. That lasted three years. My dad never stopped in all this time.
And then he left. And not so long after Marc left for university. I found someone new, Zach. I loved him. His step brother raped me while he was sleeping. Once, twice, three times. I never said anything. Later Zach killed himself. I'm glad I never told him.
A friend died of cancer due to drug abuse. Marc came back for the funeral. Decided to stay. He raped me again. And again. He still lives less than half an hour away from me. I bumped into Zachs step brother at his grave. It never stops.
The dreams don't stop. The hallucinations. The fits and freak outs. I can't help the panic attacks or the weird sick fantasies. I can't stop hating myself and I can't stop blaming myself.
I've rambled on for long enough.
Thanx for readingx