I can't say why, but I've decided to compose a short life history of sorts. I'm just alone and bored on a Friday night, and instead of sitting here, sad and pathetic, I will sit here and be productive...to some extent.
So...I was born (well, technically removed...like a tumor. I was a c-section baby.) on December 15th. My parents were young and broke, and we lived in a crappy apartment in Blacksburg, Va. We ended up moving to Staunton when I was about 3, I think, because my dad was offered a job that would pay a substantially larger amount of money. I was raised to believe in God, accepted Jesus Christ as my savior when I was 4, and went undiagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome (which is considered a higher functioning form of autism) until about 2 days ago.
In first grade, my very best friend was a girl named Crystal. We were like soul mates. We both loved animals and Lisa Frank, and spent every recess sitting in the cement tunnel theorizing about life (well, as much as any 6 year old could theorize). She lived with her dad and grandma just down the road from me, and her dad walked her to our townhouse almost every day so we could play. My parents and I ended up moving a few neighborhoods away into an actual house, but I still saw Crystal all the time.
So I got on the bus one morning, gripping my newest Lisa Frank tin tightly in my hands, bursting at the seams awaiting the moment I could show Crystal. She wasn't on the bus that day, and I didn't see her at school. I arrived home, eyes downcast, hoping she would feel better and be in school the next day. As I walked into the living room, I realized both of my parents were sitting in silence, just staring at me. I immediately assumed I was in trouble and tried to remember if I'd done anything horrible in the past few days. My dad asked me to sit down, and my mom started to cry.
They then explained that a kerosene fire had burned Crystal and her family alive, and completely destroyed their home. I never understood death until I saw her tiny coffin lowered into the ground a few days later. I stood in complete bewilderment as I watched them cover her with dirt, knowing I would never see my best friend again.
By the time I reached 5th grade, I didn't have a single friend. I was also failing in class, because I already knew all the material and became bored(they discovered this by testing my knowledge and I was pretty smart for a little kid). I'm not absolutely sure why I didn't have any friends. I do remember one day when a new student came to our class. She was from the south, and had an accent, and for some reason everyone decided to make fun of her. I was the only kid in class who realized how idiotic this was and befriended the new girl. Then two weeks later everyone else decided they liked her, and she stopped being my friend to be friends with everyone else. This is the first moment I lost faith in humanity.
By the time 6th grade began, my relationship with both of my parents had deteriorated. My mom was suffering from undiagnosed bipolar disorder and depression, and my father was spending all of his time with his mistress and her son. My mom was usually in the den with the door shut, making it clear she wanted to be left alone. With dad gone all the time, I usually sat alone in the living room watching television. On occasion, mom would be on the other end of the spectrum and we would watch television or movies together. But I reached a point that I was deathly afraid of both of my parents, and often considered running away. My first suicidal thoughts began occurring around this time. I was about 12 years old.
My dad began taking me on dates with his mistress and her son, but he lied about their names. He told me I wasn't allowed to tell my mom what we were doing, because she would blame me, and we would both get in trouble. He said that if this happened, neither my mom or him would love me anymore. I kept his secrets out of fear; never out of respect or love, or even with a sense of protection. I began to hate both of them for the things they did, and the only release I could find was in writing, music, and various forms of visual art.
One not so special day, I awoke to the sounds of my grandparents' voices downstairs. Excited, I jumped out of bed and made my way to the living room. Usually when I saw my grandparents it was nothing but hugs and kisses and unnecessary showerings of gifts. This day, everyone seemed angry, and no one even noticed I was there. I sat in the corner, watching everyone argue. As the events of the day unfolded, I discovered that my dad had called all my grandparents and told them that my mom had gone completely insane. He said she was promiscuous, engaging in sexual acts with a large number of men, and that she had forced me to participate. This was all completely untrue.
Just a few months before this day, my mom had seen a doctor and had finally been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After taking medication for the last 15 weeks, she had become the mom she always was when she'd been on the good side of her disorder. Even as young as I was, I understood that she had a chemical imbalance, and that it was being medically treated. I could then see the reason behind her actions and learn to forgive them.
Back to that day....My dad was standing before my family, spreading a horrendous pack of lies with no hint of remorse in his voice. My mom of course became outraged and attempted to defend herself before the jury. The yelling and pushing and throwing scared the shit out of me. I didn't understand this behavior. I ran, practically hyperventilating, into the bathroom and shut the door. I sat on the closed toilet, rocking back and forth, tears streaming freely down my face. I heard a few more shouts, a door slamming, and then silence. A few moments later, my dad came into the bathroom with his mother. They both knelt in front of me on the floor, took my hands, and began to pray. That was the moment I stopped believing in God.
In the trunk of my dad's car, my mom found journals full of prose my dad had written. He wrote in great detail about how he despised my mother for the way she looked and the things she said and did. He also wrote about how amazing his mistress was, and how lost in love he was with her. He detailed his plan of how to rid his life of my mom by having her committed to a psychiatric hospital in North Carolina (where her parents lived), and how he and I would live with his mistress and her son and become one big happy family.
Now, I look exactly like my mother. I have a few minuscule physical traits of my father's, but I could be my mother's twin. After hearing the explanation of how he perceived her physical traits, about how hideous she was to him, I suddenly felt ill. This was the moment I started believing I was ugly. And it doesn't make much sense, because I've always seen how beautiful my mother is. And if I really do look like her, I should be beautiful as well. But after hearing those words from my own father, I knew I was hideous. This is a fact I still believe, wholeheartedly.
At the end of the day, my parents had agreed to work it out. They were going to go to marriage counseling and try to salvage what was left of their relationship. My mother secretly had no intention of doing this. Her plan was to save as much money as possible without my dad knowing so that her and I could get the hell out of there. Little did she know, my dad had an even more sinister plan under his belt.
Exactly one month later, on my parents' 13th wedding anniversary, my dad woke me early in the morning. He claimed to have errands to run, and that he wanted to get something special for mom for their anniversary. Of course I went with him. We ended up driving across town to a rural neighborhood across from my future high school. We pulled into a driveway, and I realized I had no clue where we were. When I questioned my dad he said, verbatim, "I'm leaving your mother. This is our new home."
I sat in confusion, unsure of what the proper response would be. My first instinct was to run, so that's exactly what I did. I jumped from the car and began running up the street. Of course my legs didn't carry me fast enough, and my dad grabbed me and dragged me unwillingly into 'our new home'. Once inside I was greeted by his parents, brother, sister-in-law, and aunt. I couldn't think of a single thing to say or do, so I began unpacking dishes and placing them on shelves while I tried to devise an escape plan in my head. Just as I saw an opening to make a run for it, my grandmother grabbed me by the arms and started dragging me to her car. I struggled; kicking, screaming, crying out for anyone to fucking help me. She shoved me into the backseat, and my dad stood guard at the car doors while she climbed in the front seat and started the car. I tried to escape at a stop light, but the child proof locks were on, and my attempts to roll down the windows and even break the glass were in vain. I had been kidnapped.
Two hours later, I'm at my dad's parents' house in the middle of nowhere. Once inside, my grandmother let me go to the bathroom, and then locked me in the back room that had no windows. I sat in the corner under a desk, knees pulled up, rocking back and forth like a cornered animal. It is one of the most pathetic moments of my life. According to the clock in that room, I sat in that corner rocking for 4 hours until my dad showed up. He came into the room and led me out to the phone. Mom was on the line, but my grandmother was in the other room listening in on the call. We didn't say much, but she did tell me I was coming home the next day.
The next day was the fourth of July. I have always had an intense fondness for fireworks, so the fourth of July was something I looked forward to quite eagerly. My dad didn't take me home until late that night on purpose, just to be inconsiderate to my mom. I missed the fireworks.
After all of these events, my mom was awarded custody by the court, and for months afterward my dad only had supervised visits. My grandmother could have been arrested for kidnapping, but my mom decided to be a better person, and agreed not to press charges as long as I was returned safely to her the following day.
About 6 months later, my mom and I lost our house because the mortgage payments were far too much for her to make, and my father had yet to make child support or alimony payments. That house was filled with nothing but bad memories anyways, and we moved into an apartment across town. I barely saw my dad. Maybe once a month I would go stay a night at his house. He moved frequently, and I later found out that every time he moved, it was because his mistress was moving, and he wanted to be closer to her. He hid them from me, assuming I was too stupid to know that they were a larger part of his life than I was.
I came to understand that the only reason my dad ever had me over to his house was because he was still paying child support. I am almost certain that if he hadn't had that last legal obligation to me, I would have never seen him again. Plus, he didn't want God to smite him.
Eventually my dad moved in with his mistress, who is now my stepmother. And she had not just a son, but a daughter as well. On the day of their wedding, both of her children were included in the ceremony. I sat utterly alone in the back of the church. Not even a member of my own family sat with me. I was dressed all in black, mourning the loss of my father. I knew that after he married her, the last shred of hope for him would be completely shattered. I cried on my lonely pew in the back of the church, unable to understand how everything had reached that point. My uncle and grandfather came to me after the service, took my hands, and prayed with me. I still didn't believe in God.
After their marriage, I rarely saw any of them, and it suited me fine in a way. My mom had since married my step-dad, who has always treated me like his own daughter without even being asked to do so. I was content being with my mom and step-dad, because with them I could feel safe and appreciated at times, and I knew I wasn't simply being cast aside.
By this point, my mom's father had died, and left us all destroyed by his loss. My mom's parents were always so good to me that losing him was like losing a piece of my soul. A year after he passed, my grandmother (who I always called granny), became extremely ill, almost dying herself. After she recovered, she moved up to Virginia to live with my mom and step-dad and I, and we moved from our apartment into a house that was big enough for all of us.
*As a side note...when my granny was sick and in the hospital, we were already in North Carolina for Christmas. I had taken my cat, Mischief, with me because he'd been sick and needed medicine every day. We had to board Mischief in the vet in order to drive to Wilmington when they transported my grandmother. When I dropped him off, he put his paw on my cheek and kissed my nose. The next morning, the phone in our hotel room rang. I knew one of them was dead, and I hated myself for being glad that my cat had died the previous night and not my granny. Remembering it now makes me feel so ashamed of myself, I don't even have words.
By this time, I was about to be a junior in high school, and I had just finished moving into a new house with mom, granny, and my step-dad. By this point, I was one of those kids the other parents were afraid to see their children bring over for dinner. I was already tattooed and pierced, I had black and red hair, and wore clothes that not many people would consider stylish. I'm sure on some level I was simply expressing my inward turmoil and confusion in an outward manner. On the inside, I was extremely intelligent. I could sit in class and absorb an entire text book full of information in a matter of days. Then the rest of the semester, I was bored and unfocused, my thoughts wandering to far off places. I also felt that I wasn't supposed to show people that I knew anything. Everyone expected me to be an idiot, and no one liked the smart kids. I knew that I was smarter than most of the smart kids, but I shrank down into myself and shut my mouth.
I was fortunate enough to be accepted into SVGS (Shenandoah Valley Governor's School). I was accepted into both Math and Science and Arts and Humanities, but chose to go into the Arts and Humanities with a discipline in visual art. Somewhere in my twisted mind I thought that I would be among more like-minded individuals in those surroundings. I was totally wrong. I have always seen art as something that should not be censored. It is the utmost expression of life and understanding, of perspective, emotion, and humanity itself. Eighty percent of what I tried to create was censored and trashed before I could even finish it. I wasn't even trying to be purposefully inappropriate or shocking. I was simply taking what was inside my head and projecting it into visual display. That was when I started to question my sanity. If everything I thought was something that needed to be hidden, then maybe I needed to be hidden. And from that point forward, I was hiding.
For the next two years, I traveled quite a lot. I went to New York City three times, Atlanta, GA, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, France, and more locally to D.C. and such for art showings. I remained hidden in my shell, showing not one soul what truly inhabited me. My father continued to ignore me as my stepmother constantly pushed her way into my life, only to tell me what a heathen I was and to continuously try to save my eternally damned soul. I had plenty of friends, but didn't completely connect with any of them. My granny remained sick off and on. My daily schedule for my last two years of high school went like this:
Get up at 4:30am to get ready for school. Make granny breakfast and be to SVGS by 6:45am. Leave SVGS at 11am and drive home. Make sure granny went to the bathroom, had food, etc., and get back to regular high school for afternoon classes by 11:45am. Leave school at 2:45, go back home, make granny lunch, get ready for work. Be at work by 4pm, get off at 11pm. Go home and do humanities essays and concentration portfolio work until 1am. Sleep until 4:30am. Do it all again.
My step-dad worked out of town Sunday through Thursday every week, and mom had a full time job. Mom was usually at work in the mornings and afternoons, and I had to be up early for school anyways, so I just took care of it. I didn't mind caring for her, because I loved her dearly. It did take a toll on my health, and I was sick pretty much 24/7. But illness became second nature, and I could still function at work and school, so I didn't worry about it.
I was accepted into several colleges; SVA and NYAA in New York, Rhode Island School of Design, Parsons, and VCU. In the end, I chose VCU because it was only two hours away from home. My granny had deteriorated to the point that I felt guilty for going away for college in the first place, and didn't want to be too far away. So VCU it was.
I had been at VCU for one and a half semesters. I went to Memphis, TN to see AFI in concert, and when I got back my granny had been admitted into the hospital. She was not doing well, but she looked me in the eye and told me to go back to school. I couldn't ignore her wishes, and went back to school. A week later, mom called telling me she'd died. I still remember sitting in the dormitory hallway and hearing the words. I just froze, and it felt like my soul split again, another piece of me dying with her. I went home and endured the week of funerary plans, because my mom was completely destroyed, and I knew I needed to handle a lot of the strain. After we buried her in NC next to grandpa, I went back to school.
Shortly after granny died, mom had me see a doctor because my behavior was even more abnormal than usual. I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and associated agoraphobia. I was put on medication, and sent back to school again. My mental state became so completely unstable that I decided to just drop out of college and go home. Her death really killed something inside me. She was like a second mother to me, and one of the few people who ever fully understood me. Losing her was like losing a part of myself, and it took me a long time to heal. I still miss her and my grandpa greatly, and I know I always will.
After I went home, I ended up having to stay at my dad's house. My mom and step-dad were moving to West Virginia, and I knew I couldn't go with them. I got a good paying job and began saving money, because I knew being in my dad's house was causing me a slow and painful death. I remember when I was first bringing some of my things into the house, my step-mom offered to carry a couple boxes. Most of what I owned was books, and she happened to see a book entitled "The Goth Bible". This book is basically a dissection of Gothic culture as a whole, covering everything from scattered beliefs and misconceptions to clothing styles and detailed history. It's a very interesting read. She approached me later that night as I was outside smoking a cigarette. She sat beside me, and asked what the book was about. She completely ignored my response, explaining that is was simply an explanation of a culture, and moved onto the subject of religion. Keep in mind my granny had died no more than a month earlier. She said, "Well let me just ask you this: If you don't believe in God, then where do you think your grandmother went when she died?" I was so taken aback by her audacity that I couldn't say much. I know I sputtered something about it being none of her business, and then I went back inside the house.
I stayed there for two or three months, and my days became more troubled and miserable. Every Sunday I was told I was going to Hell because I chose not to attend church with the rest of the family. I was told I was a nuissance, that I just cost everyone money. I tried to explain that the point of me staying there was to save my money so I could get my own place, but of course no one heard me when I spoke. This usually happens to me when I speak.
So I found a house and some friends and moved to Harrisonburg, since that's where my job had led me anyways. Things seemed to improve slightly. I still hadn't found anyone I could connect with on a deeper level than my copied gestures and behavior. I was at the point that I had adapted to my surroundings so well that I could just mask everything inside and let it slowly boil into madness for the sake of fitting in with someone. I was miserable underneath, but forcing candide gestures on the surface. I met a lot of new people, most of which I choose not to know now.
Then I met 'the cult'. I will refer to them as the cult, because it's easier than spreading their names on plasma. At first I felt accepted. I had been able to disclose certain information about myself, such as certain beliefs and abilities that I possessed and not been told I was certifiable. The sense of belonging I felt overshadowed many warning signs I see now, but didn't then. They wanted nothing more than to exploit my abilities for their own gain. I was slowly starting to see this, and began to sink into myself again.
This is where my story becomes completely unbelievable and pathetic.....
My boyfriend at the time (we'll call him X), was one of those great loves. He was a person whom I met and could see that he knew me for who I really was. He could see what I couldn't show others, and he relished it. I saw many things in him I found to be admirable, and so our relationship spawned into strange fascination. He asked me to marry him three times during our time together, and each time I said no.
Now this man seemed amazing to me. I thought that the myths about 'the one' may not be myth at all. Our time together was always some sort of magical affair. But he was part of the cult, and so chaos ensued when I brought up the idea of stepping away from other members of that group. I have never and will never be the kind of person to tell another who they should spend their time with. I didn't expect either of us to completely ignore these people, but I thought it might be a good idea to create a small distance between us, at least for a short while.
Things started to get weird between us at this point. Not only because I didn't feel comfortable with some of the things the cult had going on, but also because I had turned down the first marriage proposal, and I hadn't given into having sex with him yet. I'm not a prude, I just think sex should come at a certain point. Plus, there is a difference between sex and making love, and I wasn't sure he agreed with me on that point. Anyways...
Weird things started happening. I would have moments when I would suddenly become aware and not remember anything from the past several hours of my life. I'm not really able to become drunk, and I have never taken drugs, other than mary jane. So for this to be happening to me was terrifying. I thought I was really starting to go over the deep end. Things between me and X seemed better though, and we hadn't heard much from the cult. I expressed concern to X about my weird periods of amnesia, and he told me not to worry about it. I was probably getting lost in thought like I always did. Stupidly, I ignored these warnings.
Basically, without disclosing too much horrid detail, it reached the point that I was being drugged unknowingly. I would be aware at times but unable to force myself to move or even speak. I was like a zombie under control of some otherwordly force, unable to call out for help. I was trapped inside myself, watching unspeakable things happen all around me. I was taken advantage of in more ways than one, and have physical and emotional scars to prove it. That is all I will say.
Who knows. Maybe after shooting down the third proposal he decided I was a lost cause, and he would use me for gain in a different arena of his life. Maybe he was just a sadistic prick, and I was a fool for ever believing he loved me. The important part is that I escaped with my life, and left the entire cult behind to await their own inevitable demise.
Two years of my life wasted, I was ruined. I felt my heart implode, and my lungs shrivel and die. My brain shut off completely. I had fled to West Virginia, and I just remember sitting on a mattress on the floor, willing my body to die so that I wouldn't feel the pain any longer. I didn't speak, shower, or eat. I just sat, hoping to slowly decay and eventually expire.
I didn't physically die. I died emotionally. I became a shell that went through my daily routine to satisfy the people around me. I got a job and an apartment, I paid my bills and cleaned up after myself. I lost all faith for a short while. The experience forced me to look at everything I had known through a microscope. I would look in the mirror and break myself apart a piece at a time, wondering what this conspiracy against me was. I knew then that I was paying for something I'd done. Jesus Christ, I must have done something of unspeakable evil.
I decided I would never again feel such hopelessness. I would no longer wish for anything, or want anything I didn't already have. I wouldn't attempt to connect with humanity any longer. I knew then that I was nothing. Just wasted energy on the wrong plane of existence. I had never been so alone in my life. I stayed in isolation for a year and a half.
Eventually I decided that I needed to do something productive with my time. I knew I needed to go back to school, and I couldn't do that in WV. So I decided to go back to VA. I would face my paralyzing fears and return to the place that harbored every evil event that had taken place in my life. I ended up staying at my dad's house, with the intention of saving money to move out. Every time I thought things were looking up, something would happen to make my head fall again.
One fateful night, my stepmom decided to unleash on me. She didn't say much; only that I was a thieving bitch liar who ruined her and my father's life just by existing. I'm not sure why she thought I was a liar. Maybe she knew I lied every time I smiled at her. Calling me a theif was partly justifiable, because I went through a short period where I had to stoop so low as to steal shampoo and other neccessities because I had no money, and knew I had no one to ask. At any rate, the things she said to me that night were pure hate and contempt. My father sat right there as she said it. I asked him if he had anything to say to me, and all he said was, "I don't know what to say right now."
I felt what was left of my heart being ripped from my chest. He made it clear at that moment that he had indeed chosen his new family over his only biological child. I gathered my things and left in the dead of night. I stayed with a cousin for a while, whose husband abused not only drugs, but everyone in the house as well (including me). And after everything escalated in a drug induced stupor one night, I was forced to move on. I am now right back in fucking WV.
I feel so lost that I just keep turning in circles. Nothing ever remains. I'm in another place of loss and confusion, and desperately need to escape. I can't keep doing this. I need something constant, something at least partially stable in my life. Of course stable to me isn't what most would consider stable.
I know I have to get out of here. I know I need someone to understand. I know just those two wishes are a lot to ask for. I also know that I don't deserve it.
This may seem like a long love letter to misery, and maybe that's exactly what it is. I'm only stating the facts. This is what's happened. Maybe I've seen enough ugliness that now I can see something beautiful again. I just need to see the moon rise and cast its preternatural glow to know that I'll be okay. But for once, I think I actually need another human being to tell me everything will be okay and really mean it.
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