May 2002
Home
Bayhollow, Ontario
"Why can't I shave like the other girls?" I pouted and folded my arms across my chest. "It's not fair!"
"I understand your frustration, Amaris, but you have threatened to kill yourself too many times. I'm not letting you use a razor alone." My foster mom got her purse, and coat. She said goodbye, and I stayed seated in the armchair in the living room.
I stared out the octagon-shaped window at the sky. "Please, God, just let me die. Why won't you let me die? You should have let her kill me!" I screamed, through a river of tears. "Please. Please, let me die."
I was taken from the woman who made my world go around, only to find out that she was a terrible person. I was upset that I couldn't do anything to make myself feel better. There was no quick fix, there was no way to erase the awful memories that haunted me, day in and day out.
There was only suicidal thoughts and trauma left, of the life I had once known.
YOU ARE READING
You Can't Break Her
Non-FictionThey say it's hard to find yourself after a traumatic experience. What if for the first six years of your life all you knew was traumatic experiences? How do you find yourself then? Amaris is a friendly child born to a mother with no patience for ch...
