Tragedy

I was never very well liked as a child. I was a poor, fat kid living in a rich bitch town. My brother constantly made fun of my weight. Constantly. I didn’t have many friends either. The kids in my school picked on me all the time. I was alone, but I was happy. I was strong enough to not let their comments get to me. I just let them roll off my shoulder and I continued on with life.

Everything changed in an instant. I was 10 years old and had just walked home from school with my 7 year old sister and her best friend. When I unlocked the door and stepped into our condominium, I quickly noticed the neither of my parents were home. I called my mom at work and she informed me that my dad should have been home. He wasn’t. She told me she’d be home soon and quickly hung up. Within 10 minutes, she was home.

My father came home about an hour later, drunk off his ass. I could smell the cheap vodka emanating from every pore on his body. He stumbled into the house; almost face planting in the doorway. I wanted to laugh, but when I looked into his eyes, I suddenly felt threatened. I knew this was going to be bad. My mom, being the stubborn, independent woman she is, instantly marched straight up to him demanding to know where he had been. With that, the fighting began. They screamed at the top of their lungs. My throat would bleed if I screamed that loud. I suddenly felt protective of my sister and her friend. I dragged them upstairs, locked them in my room and told them not to come out until I said so.

As I came back down the stairs and saw my parents, they’re noses were practically touching. I didn’t know what to do, so I just watched. I was terrified and shaking. I had never seen them fight like this before. As I was mustering up the courage to step in, my dad suddenly wrapped his hands around my mothers neck and pinned her against the wall. I stood there, frozen, in complete shock. I had never seen such violence. Pure rage filled my father’s eyes. My mom strained to look at me as she choked out for me to call the police. As I went for the phone, my father looked at me and simply stated – “You call the police and I kill her.” I instantly froze. Again, what could I do? I mean, I was only 10! Now, I’d have already grabbed a baseball bat and knocked the drunken bastard out. But back then, I was so young and naïve. I did as I was told, as any good child would, and stood there. Motionless.

I watched as my dad beat my mom. He hit her over and over again. She was bruised, bleeding and broken. When I say hit, I don’t mean smack. He punched her like she was a man. She screamed. Screamed in pain. Screamed in horror. Screamed because she knew I was watching. She was scared. I could see it in her eyes. It was hard for me to watch but for some reason, I couldn’t look away. There was one moment when my mother turned to look at me. I don’t know what she saw in my face, but the fear in her eyes quickly turned to determination. As I saw her whole demeanor change, she went running up the stairs. My dad followed my mom, and I followed my dad.

Mom attempted to run into my sister’s bedroom, but my dad was too fast. He threw the door open before she could completely close it and threw my mother over the foot of my sisters bed. I heard it crack as my mom’s spine folded over the footboard. My mom reached for the phone and my dad grabbed it, throwing it against the wall causing it to shatter into a million pieces. The beating went on. My dad dragged my mother into their bedroom by her hair and locked the door. All I could do was sit outside the door, lost and helpless as I listened to my father beat my mother. I could hear the sound of his fist hitting her face. The sound of walls breaking. The sound of her body being thrown around. And finally, the sound of screams. The sounds of her screams have never left me. They were screams of agony, pain and fear. I hope I never hear those sounds again, ever.

Eventually, my mother opened the door and came out running. She ran down the stairs and I stood there confused, not knowing what to do. My dad took me into the bathroom and locked the door. My mom was pounding on it, trying to break it down. I think she was afraid that my father would hurt me, but he just wanted to talk, to say goodbye. I sat there, on the toilet as he kneeled before me and told me goodbye. How could this be happening? My family had always been so happy and now, suddenly, it had all fallen apart. My father was leaving, for good. He said he wasn’t coming back. I’d never see him again after this moment. I hopped off the toilet and wrapped my arms around him. I didn’t want to let go but my mom was screaming and my dad still needed to say goodbye to my sister.

As we opened the bathroom door, my dad went after my mom. Punching him repeatedly in the chest and yelling, “What did you do to my daughter?” Nothing had happened. I told her that but she was just so angry, and who could blame her? Again, the fighting continued. My father ran down into the basement and came back up with his 12 gauge shotgun, fully loaded and ready to go.

As I watched my father step out from the basement doorway, shotgun in hand, I remembered the year prior.

Pappy had taken my sister and I up north for a week. We stayed in the cabin that pappy shares with “Uncle” Jimmy, the one they use for hunting trips. He’s not really my uncle but he’s pappy’s best friend and I’ve known him my whole life. Pappy’s friend Dennis and his two sons had come along with us as well so my sister and I were the only females on the trip. I’ve always been a tomboy, a daddy’s girl, so staying a cabin that was run off a generator was awesome to me! I loved every minute of it. We had gas lit sconces all around the house, no TV, no video games…Just us and nature. It was amazing. My favorite part of the whole experience was the clay pond that was on the side of the cabin. The pond was only about a foot deep by 10 or so feet wide but it was swarming with frogs! Frogs were, and still are, my favorite animals so I was in heaven! Tina and I would spend the better part of our days sneaking through the pond and catching them, only to let them free again. There was one frog, amongst the hundreds that were in there, which was our favorite. We called him the “King Frog” because he was black and the rest were green. Tina and I would hunt high and low until we found him! I remember building a castle right next to the pond and making a slide that went down into the pond. We always put the “King Frog” on top, when we found him that is. Then we would have all the other frogs slide down the slide and into the pond. They never actually slid down the slide, seeing as it was made of clay, but they hopped instead. That was good enough for us!

It was a week of firsts for me. My first taste of alcohol, I had accidentally taken pappy’s orange juice from the table instead of my own. My first jalapeño, which I had proceeded to eat the entire jar after that while my sister watched in marvel. My first time eating ostrich which was amazing! We made ostrich burgers and had to lie to my sister and tell her it was beef so she would eat it. My first time driving an off road vehicle and also my first time crashing and off road vehicle. I managed to tip over the 3 wheeler with my sister and I both on it. She walked away unscathed but my leg was pinned under the engine! My first snake! I had found him slithering along Bojo Lane while walking with pappy and he let me catch him and keep him. I named him Bojo, of course. I carried him all the way back to the cabin and pappy found a coffee can to keep him in. Of course I filled the can with grass and rocks to make it a nice home for him. Pappy even let me bring him home but mom wouldn’t let me keep him.

It was also the first time I had ever shot a gun. That gun to be specific. I knew the power it had, the damage it could do. I had seen the pellets bore themselves into a tree when I had shot it. I could only imagine what it would do to a human body. As I snapped out of my reverie, I realized that my father was now standing with the gun against my mothers head. He was screaming at her at the top of his lungs and tears streamed down her face. I truly thought I was going to lose my parents at that moment. I would lose my mother to my father and my father to prison. My sister and I would be orphans. Who would care for us? I’m assuming my grandparents would but, that’s not fair to them. They’ve already raised their children. I could only imagine the agony they would feel on a daily basis when they looked at our faces and saw my mother. My mother who had been murdered by my father, the man who was supposed to love, honor and cherish her.

In that instant, I saw my fathers expression soften slightly and the gun twitch in his hands. I’m not sure what caused him to second guess himself. Maybe it was my mother, or me, or maybe his buzz was just wearing off from all the energy he had exerted while beating my mother. Whatever it was, I didn’t really care. I took advantage of that moment and ran up the stairs. I grabbed my sister and Erin and we made our way towards the front door. As we reached the bottom of the steps my mom was already running towards the door. She flung it open and we ran. None of us had shoes on but it didn’t matter. We ran our hearts out until we reached Erin’s house, my father chasing behind us and screaming. Somewhere along the way, my father had backed off and disappeared. Still, to this day, I have no idea where he went or what he did. Erin’s mom, Colleen, brought us back to the house. My mother wouldn’t risk going inside so we just hopped in the car and drove straight to my grandparent’s house.

The next year was a whirlwind. My grandpa changed the locks on our house so we could stay there during the week and attend school. We stayed at my grandparent’s house on the weekends. It was hard to share a small room with both my sister and my mother but we had some crazy good times.

During the summer between fifth and sixth grade, we stayed with my grandparents pretty much 24/7. I didn’t know it at the time, but my grandparents were in the process of buying a new house and signing the deed to their current house over to my mom. I truly couldn’t have asked for a better set of grandparents and I’m sure my mother would agree. Next thing I know, we were getting the house. Until my grandparents moved out, we spent the week there so that we could attend our new schools, and went back to the condo on the weekends. It was hard to say the least but we made it…mostly.

The First Time

The first time I cut myself it was a complete accident. Shortly after the incident with my parents, softball season started. I was at the game sitting in the dugout and I was utterly bored. They wouldn’t let me play because I was sick but I refused to not show up. I remember walking into that game being sad because it was the first game that my father had ever missed, ever. He was always there.

As I was sitting on the bench, I was disassembling a mechanical pencil. It’s the only thing I could find to pass the time and I was extremely frustrated that they wouldn’t let me on the field. As I pulled the center cylinder out, I found a spring. It was fused into the plastic and as I tugged to get it out, it slipped out of my grasp and cut my finger.

It hurt, not badly, but there was still pain. Surprisingly, I liked it. It hurt in a good way. I enjoyed the pain. Even more than that, I enjoyed watching myself bleed. I enjoyed watching the warm, gooey red substance spew from my body. It was…liberating. I felt free for a short moment. Free from the pain, hurt, loneliness…

It started as an accident and escalated from there. Once I found out how to be free from the torture, I was addicted. I couldn’t stop. I cut at least once a day, at the bare minimum. It started with harmless scratches. Just enough to bleed but eventually, that wasn’t enough. I moved on to bigger and better things.

Because of my age, I couldn’t get my hands on a razorblade so I tore apart a razor for shaving and used that. It was brand new, still sharp. I remember idolizing that small piece of metal as I watched it shimmer in the light. It was my own personal god, my safe haven. I knew once I pressed it against my skin, I would be free. I remember thinking exactly that as I placed the razor against my wrist for the first time.

I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t nervous. I was excited. My excitement only grew as the moment I had been anticipating so vehemently grew near. I placed the shiny piece of metal against my skin, and with moderate pressure, I drew it across my wrist. I smiled brilliantly as I watched the blood flow freely from my wrist. I was free. I was home. I was happy. I slowly swiped my finger over the cut, wiping away the blood so I could watch it emerge once again.

(NOT FINISHED)

The Beginning of the End

Sixth grade was a rough year for me. I had moved into a new home in a new city and knew absolutely nobody. I was riding the bus to school for the first time and had to make all new friends. I didn’t want to tell anybody about what happened so I chose not to stay in contact with any of my friends. I completely cut them out of my life so that I could start over and forget what happened.

Within my first week of school, I had made my first friend. Her name was Danielle and she was awesome! She asked me if I wanted to stay the night on Friday and I eagerly went home to ask my mom. I told her all about Danielle and where she lived before asking her permission to stay the night. My mom said no, absolutely not. I pouted and asked why, like any 12 year old would, and she simply told me that she had a bad feeling about it. Now, I completely understand what she had meant, but at the time I was simply furious.

I pouted, begged, pleaded, screamed and even guilt tripped her until she finally agreed to let me go. The next day, my mom dropped me off at Danielle’s after school.

Danielle stepped out onto the porch and I hurriedly grabbed my bag, kissed my mom on the cheek and told her I loved her. I flew out of the car and up the steps as the tow of us squealed with excitement. I looked back and waved to my mom as I followed Danielle into the house. She suggested that we go for a walk as I was throwing my bag into her room. I obliged and we hollered at her mom on our way out.

Now, Danielle lived in a trailer park. Not one of those nice ones where everybody takes car of their homes, but the run down ghetto ass kind filled with druggies, drunks and all around trashy people. As we walked the street, we came to a park where two guys and a girl were sitting at a picnic table. Danielle nudged me and informed me that it was her sister and her friends before running to catch up with them. I quickly followed behind her and she introduced me to everyone. Her sister, Jeanette, and the boys, Jason and Ryan all smiled and said hi to me. I smiled in return and sat at the picnic table. We didn’t do much the rest of the day, just hung out, goofed around and talked.

We finally headed back to the house as the sun set and the streetlamps flicked on. All five of us walked back to the house and made our way to Danielle and Jeanette’s room. Jeanette made herself comfortable on the top bunk, Jason, Danielle and I did the same on the bottom futon. Ryan was in the bathroom jacking off. I thought that was a little weird but nobody else seemed to care so I let it go. When he finally emerged from the bathroom, we folded out the futon to make room for all of us. I sat back in the corner next to Ryan and Danielle and Jason were on the other end.

I was feeling extremely awkward because Jason kept staring at me and making comments on how much older I looked. He kept insisting that there was no way I was twelve because of the size of my boobs. Now, those of you that know me know that I have HUGE boobs. When I was twelve, I was already a DD cup which is very unusual for a child that age but I began to develop younger than most girls do. I continuously ignored his comments. I knew how old I was, obviously, and there was no way that I was going to be able to convince him of this fact. I chose to ignore him and turn my attention to Ryan instead.

Ryan and I sat facing each other and talked excitedly about Linkin Park. He had put the Hybrid Theory CD in which was now playing softly in the background. I really got along well with him. We spent some time laughing and enjoying ourselves when I looked over to realize that Danielle and Jason were making out. I rolled my eyes and turned back to Ryan whose eyes were half closed and he was right in the middle of a big yawn. I smiled warmly and told him to go to bed. He said his goodbyes and left.

I looked over to my left to see Danielle and Jason still going at it. Rolling my eyes, I climbed off the futon and lied on my stomach on the floor. In the process of moving, I suddenly registered the sound of Jeanette snoring softly, she had fallen asleep on the top bunk. I propped myself up on my elbows and grabbed the book Cut out of my bag. I flipped open to the bookmark and began to read.

I was so engrossed in my book that I had hardly noticed the body next to mine. Jason had come to lie on his stomach next to me, our shoulders touching. He whispered “hey” and I damn near jumped right out of my skin. I clutched my chest and laughed lightly. “You scared the shit out of me!” I exclaimed as I closed my book and set it on the floor. He laughed and our conversation ensued. I looked up to see a sleeping Danielle and smiled. She looked so peaceful.

As I started to tire a bit, I turned on my side to face him and lay my head on my arm. He followed suit and I couldn’t help but laugh slightly. At first, I thought he was only being nice to me because he was Danielle’s boyfriend and felt obligated to do so. I quickly discovered that I was wrong. As our conversation continued, he kept complimenting me. “You’re so beautiful” “You’re gorgeous” “You have such a pretty voice” “I love your laugh”. I’m not going to lie, I liked it.

After what had happened the previous year, I was so broken and lost that I didn’t know any better. I had no self confidence and was extremely vulnerable. The only person who had ever called me beautiful before was my mother. I was enjoying the compliments and I wanted to suck up all the attention I could get.

As our conversation progressed, his little side comments became increasingly sexual. “Your lips look so soft. I wonder what it would feel like to kiss them” “I love your curves” “Why don’t you have a boyfriend”

(NOT FINISHED)

Confidence

Confidence. Such a confusing word. Confidence? I don’t even know where to begin. Never in my entire life have I ever had confidence. Not in myself. Not in other people. I was depressed. Confidence is just a “silly dream” to someone who is severely depressed. Something you think about constantly. Something you dream about. Something you hope, pray and beg for until you’ve exhausted yourself to sleep. Every morning I would wake up and tell myself

“Today is your day, Kandee. Today is the day that your life will change. You’re going to force confidence upon yourself and be happy!”

And every night I cried myself to sleep. Tears of pain. Tears of longing. And tears of failure. My biggest fear is failure. How could I let myself fail, not only once, but time and time again? There had to be something wrong with me. I didn’t deserve to be here. I didn’t deserve this live, this body, my friends, family… I didn’t deserve anything. So…the question became, why am I here? What is my purpose? I pondered those two questions for weeks but couldn’t come up with an answer. So, if there was no reason for me to be on this earth, why take up space? Why not rid the earth of one more useless waste of space? With that, I was at peace. I was ready to go, to leave this earth. I didn’t know what would happen to me after I died. I had given up faith in god a long time prior so I wasn’t expecting heaven or hell. I mean, if there was a god, why would he do this to me? So I came to terms with the fact that my body would lay in the ground and rot for centuries. I kind of liked that idea. It’s what I deserved. I deserved to be devoured by maggots, walked on and forgotten forever. I really wanted to be forgotten. The sooner the better. I was sure that the only people who would actually remember me would be my family. I knew they would grieve, cry and maybe even miss me. But I also knew that they would get over it very quickly.

Nobody at school would remember me. I doubt if anybody would have even noticed I was gone. Aside from my teachers of course, they’d notice as soon as they took attendance, but even they wouldn’t miss me. Nobody would. Maybe the school would have some sort of memorial but their hearts would be in the wrong place. They wouldn’t have it to remember me; they’d have it to keep up appearances. To make it look like they cared about their students when in all reality, they didn’t.

The Story of a Recovering Cutter

Sunday, January 31, 2010

HORRIBLE DAY

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Bad Day

Friday, January 29, 2010

Cutter's kit.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Blood.

Today

Friday, January 22, 2010

Not finished with this yet!!!!

Tragedy

The First Time

The Beginning of the End

Confidence

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

formspring.me

formspring.me

formspring.me

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Fear

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