Let's hope for the best

Chapter 5: Numb

During my teen-age years, I raised two kids.

I fought with my dad and step-mom daily.

I didn't have enough money to buy soap sometimes, or clothing, or school supplies.

I had to think about how to make ends meet.

I was slapped or punched almost daily; sometimes I went to school with sunglasses, to hide a black eye.

My teachers turned a blind eye, maybe because my father was a well-known person in my town. I don't know. Or because I never openly asked for their help.

I didn't want to: I didn't trust adults.

No one of them.

My schoolmates weren't bad: they tried to support me... as best they could.

But I felt very detached from them.

Like, they didn't have a clue about what my life was like.

I felt like we were living in two different parallel universes, that would never meet.

I had no time nor interest in looking for any type of romantic relationship with my peers, either.

I never had a boyfriend through high-school: I went, I think, on a couple of dates, then I realized that the guys I was dating and I were universes apart.

And I broke it off.

They were thinking about their new iPads. About hitting third base with a girl, or "home run"- as they used to say.

I was thinking about getting home early, because I had to comfort my brother who had just been beaten until bleeding, or my sister, who had had her head shaved as a punishment- for something she surely didn't do.

They were like that, our parents: enjoyed punishing us for everything that we did, and everything that we did not.

My step-mom particularly liked accusing me of stealing her things, for instance: and then have me punished for it.

Sometimes, as punishment, they forced me to go around naked, and punched and kicked me, and told me I was disgusting.

I am still paranoid, up to this day: I feel uncomfortable even if I borrow something, as if I could ever be accused of stealing it.

Sometimes things stick with us, even when we think they are long gone.

...

To make matters worse, when I was around 14, I started to suffer from excruciatingly painful periods.

I did nothing about it: I had other things to worry about.

But it didn't help me, to spend one week in bed every month, in terrible pain, losing so much blood, that I had become anaemic.

I felt terrible: I was very skinny, pale, and sickly looking.

Luckily, I didn't care about what boys thought of me.

Once, I finally attempted to have sex with a boy, that I had forced myself to date.

He was a good person, by the way: that's why I had chosen him. He was considerate enough not to ask me what all of those cuts on my arms and legs were.

Unfortunately, regardless of all of his cares, the pain was unbearable.

It was not a "normal" first time pain. I felt like I had needles deep in my belly. It hurt so much, I couldn't breathe.

I decided that sex wasn't for me.

I hadn't fully realized the reason why it was so painful, back then.

I just dropped it altogether.

...

So, that was me: severely depressed, living only for my brother and my sister's sake. Sick. Almost a virgin, because I couldn't take the pain of having sex, and I didn't want a boyfriend, anyway.

"Self-esteem" had no meaning to me.

Apart from caring for my siblings, I didn't see any use in me. Years and years of daily insults, abuse, and struggles, had taken away any enthusiasm I had for life.

I had no plans. No hopes.

I was nothing.

I started seriously thinking about suicide.

And like that, I turned 18.

Happy birthday, Bi.