My earliest memories are of abuse, torture, rape, and a constant sense of debilitating despair. At four, when my biological father finally left our family, I dared to hope my life would get better. I longed to be like the other children I saw. Their smiles came easy, and jokes, pranks and laughter filled their lives. But I could not relate to them, I only knew fear and an implanted mentality that horrible mysteries were always just around the corner.
Unfortunately, nothing in the coming years proved this mentality wrong. I was raped by strangers or 'uncles" on such a regular basis, I knew I must be a horrible creature to deserve this.I always tried to fight, but how can a small child defend herself against grown men with iron grips and evil eyes?
Because I told someone on an "uncle", even though know one on my father's side would listen, I was forced watched my baby brother get strangled to death, barely escaping with my own life.
When I watched my house burn down, it was not my toys I grieved for, but all of my journals, stories, and what I thought was my only link to sanity.
My first suicide attempt at eight ended with my jump rope braking off the tree limb. When I woke up, know one knew, and I explained the gash in my head as an accidental fall. I was enraged at myself. I could not even kill myself right.
At twelve, I was randomly chosen by some gang members as a target, and was kidnapped off my church's property on Sunday morning. You can use your imagination to fill in what they did to me. Somehow, I woke up in a strange room, so bloody I assumed they had left me for dead, and climbed out a window. I somehow found my way to safety in the strange alleys in the dark of night. My satisfaction was that I had fought hard enough to leave permanent scars across the leaders face, damage the precious manhood of another, and remembered enough for the police to find them. My disappointment was that the attempt to kill me did not work.
I could keep going with such stories that cursed me even up to this year.
Due to repeated suicide attempts, some almost working being declared dead 6 times, I became a regular at the psych wards at hospitals starting at sixteen. That first time I was seated in a conference room full of doctors and other staff to be told I suffered from major clinical depression. I spent an hour fiercely arguing with them. I was convinced this was no disease, I somehow was so full of evil, that I needed to die to end the pain and free the world of me. I did not know what I did wrong, but it must have been something. My arguments were fruitless though.
Eventually I accepted that diagnosis, including all the ones that followed: generalized anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, bi-polar disorder, and a list that never seemed to end.
I never disclosed my deepest thoughts and secrets though. I went to college and got my B.A. in psychology in less than three years. I earned certifications for assorted therapies. I figured if none of these therapist could help me, I would figure it out myself.
Drugs, alcohol, and diet pills became as regular to me as the cocktail of medications I was prescribed. This was something I somehow hid from the doctors attention despite my tox screen upon admission. With a web of lies and manipulation, I never went to a drug or alcohol treatment center, only mental wards.
At my last hospitalization, I must have unknowingly checked a box requesting my medical records. Nothing is more terrifying than reading a joint final conclusion that you are so damaged and unable to control suicidal impulses, that no known treatment can help, and the only solution is permanent institution. Only one psychiatrist, the one I knew best, was able to convince them I should have a probationary period.
I grow tired, so this concludes part one. Just as a teaser, part two is even more overwhelming, but in a different way.
You have had so many sad life expereinces did you honestly watch your baby brother die before you? I hope someone was convicted of such a heinous crime. Have you turned to church? If you read my story entitled " On A Wing and a Prayer my life" you will find that I had gone through some horrible things but came out on top finding peace within. Never give up on yourself Sara.Beth because so many here will not ever give up on you. I didn't give up on me and yes I was diagnosed with clinical depression but I no longer take any medication even though I am a nurse there are so many medications that are pushed that it chills me to the core. Find a group or someone to talk to so many of us will listen.
Someone like you must have so much strength and wisdom, choose the happy thoughts and tell yourself you are worthy, wonderful and brilliant, because you are. So love yourself first and watch how everything changes, you have alot to give.
SarahBeth you have been through a lot, much more then any one human being should have to endure. Please do not give up on yourself. Attach yourself to loving and upbeat people who will love you and give you the respect you deserve. Hang in there, have you been able to give up the pills, drugs and alcohol, if not there is help out there that really works and can bring peace and serenity into your life. You mention that part 2 is even more overwhelming but in a different way. I pray for your sake that it is in a positive way.
Don't give up, SarahBeth. You're not alone in this world. There are other kindrid spirits like you who have endured the same evil deeds. Think of yourself as a part of this group of individuals, these victims of horrific abuse. You are all together, holding hands, encircled by many angels. The darkenss is outside your ring, you are all inside, together. See the abuse in another place, you are looking from the outside. But it's not happening now. It's over. You're safe with your kindrid spirits of others who have felt your pain. It was then, another life, far away now. And you are still whole. A wonderful human being with great talents waiting to come forth. Don't give up, my friend. You are loved.
One thing that helps me with the PTSD and bipolar disorder is the hope that I can help You're already doing that by telling your story... and I don't so much mean the details of the trauma, but the story of the inner strength that you so obviously possess even though you may not feel it at times.
It can be difficult to find your own road to recovery, but ultimately, that's what we all must do. I use creativity and self-expression. That may work for some and not for others. Some turn to prayer, and honestly when people mention that it is a total turn off. I have hope that I will regain my faith, but I know I have to do that in my own time (which is quite common for people with PTSD). But, for those who are helped by it, that's great. It's about finding what works for you right now. Tomorrow it may be different. But, for now you need _______________ (you fill in the blank because you know).
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