Trying to be stronger than I am

Well, I would like to think that I have done quite well this last year in handling my dad’s death, my grandma getting cancer, my dogs death, and all the other bad stuff that has happened. But some nights are extremely hard to handle, especially right now as my dad’s birthday is just a few days away. I just can’t seem to keep a strong handle on the sadness that is swelling more and more the closer it gets to his birthday. A lot has happened in the last year since his passing and I sometimes wonder if I am strong enough to handle it.

July 16, 2012 – Dad passed away

Early August – Started college at 16

August 16, 2012 – Maynard (My dog and best friend) passed away

August 29 – My dad’s birthday

Mid-September – Grandma (Who raised me since 6-ish months old) diagnosed with cancer.

October – My “best friend” told me that they thought I was stupid and hated me

November – Little brother diagnosed with sever childhood bipolar disorder

December – My birth mother told me she hated me and wished she would have aborted me when she had the chance.

Those are just the biggest things to have happened to me over the last year. And I honestly wonder sometimes if I am strong enough to handle all the stuff going on in my life. I am only 18 years old and feel like every time something seems to go good, a million bad things happen. I constantly feel like I am trying to be stronger than I actually am. I try and try and try. For what? To break over and over again?  Some days I really do feel like I need to be stronger than I am. Then I think about all the support I do have and the fact that I can help other girls going through the same thing and I realize that it is worth it to act like I am stronger than I truly am.


Poem to the dead

I thought of you today

But that is nothing new.

I thought about you yesterday

And days before that too.

I think of you in silence

I often speak your name

All I have are memories

And a picture in a frame.

Your memory is a keepsake

From which I will never part.

God has you in his arms,

I have you in my heart.

My life

A little more about me.

I am a California native who decided one day to pack up her car and drive till she found a place to call home. Four days later, I landed in the mid-west and have been here for around 6 mo. I grew up in a small house about an hour outside of Sacramento. I was one of the only white kids in a black neighborhood. That didn’t become an issue until high school though. 

I graduated high school at 14. By the time I graduated I had been jumped 8 separate times. I had my knee cap shattered twice and had my arm broken once. But that didn’t really matter to me. I was sued to it. My parents had left me in foster care at age 6 mo and my grandparents were granted custody. There are several account of “suspicious injuries” on my record that could never be confirmed. I was too scared to tell anyone and lied about what was happening for many years. 

I met my ex at age 13 and we started going out right away. The first 5 or 6 months were okay and then he started verbally abusing me. It wasn’t long until he became physical with me. About a year after we were together he sexually assaulted me. He had me convinced that no one would want me that I spent almost 4 and a half years with him. 

That leads up to around now. Living with my past and trying to help girls get through the same thing I went through.

The very first time.

I remember that first time as though it was yesterday. It has been burned into my mind. I was 14 and you were 16. I remember that it was just after Easter and we had been together for over a year. I remember that it was the first time we were allowed to sleep in the same room. 

I was used to the mean words and the heavy hands. I was used to being scared and not trusting. I grew up in a house with harsh words and hurtful hands but That is something I got used to. When you started doing it too, I thought that that was how all guys should be. I thought that was normal because that’s all I knew. But I do know now, you were wrong and I did not deserve that.

I justified what you were doing when people would ask. I always said, “He didn’t mean it. He loves me.” And you always said you did. You told me you loved me and that I was your perfect match. You bought me nice things and told me I was pretty. But that didn’t stop you from yelling behind the doors and calling me a whore. I believed you when you said you loved me and that you would stop. You didn’t. And I have finally figured out that you didn’t love me, you loved having me. 

I should have seen that everything was leading up to that night. The very first time. A time that is forever burned into my mind. We were on my bed watching a show. White Collar. You kept moving your hand over my breasts despite my pleads for you to stop. You reached lower and I moved away. It made you mad. I remember feeling the pain shooting through my face. You broke my nose. You didn’t care about the blood or the pain. I remember the words you said as you ripped my blouse. It was one of my favorites. You told me that you could take what you wanted from what was yours whenever you wanted.

I remember you tearing at my clothing and ripping into my skin. I remember crying and watching the tears mix with the blood. You were telling me that I needed to stop crying or you would give me a real reason to cry. I couldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t stop you.

I tried and tried telling you I wasn’t ready and that I didn’t want it. You laughed at me. Then you told me that no one would believe me if I told. You told me they would mark me as an outcast because of what you had done. That I would no longer be welcomed. I thought you were telling the truth.

I tried to leave a few days later. You said that I could never leave you now because I was all yours. Forever. That no other guy would ever love me. I thought you were telling me the truth and I accepted my fate. We were together for four years. Four horrible, painful, terrifying years.

I was stuck with you for four years because of the very first time you decided to rape me.

Daddy why did you leave me?

Daddy, why did you leave me? Why was it you? I tried my entire life to become closer to you and it finally happens for me and you had to go.

You left me as an infant to try and survive on my own. I don’t blame you for that. If my mother hadn’t run away maybe you could have stayed. Maybe you would have loved me more from the beginning if everyone hadn’t set you up for failure. But please don’t worry about that because I don’t blame you. Your hand was forced by the situation. You called and wrote and sometimes sent me pictures. I would have loved to have known sooner that I had a little sister, but that’s okay too. I don’t blame you.

You left me as a preteen. Confused. Hurt. Betrayed. But that is fine. A lesson I would have learned in time. I was beaten and battered and bruised by the couple that the courts made you choose. That is not an issue. I became stronger and smarter and faster thanks to you. But you still called and had me visit. Lots of planes and time in the air to make it to wherever you called home at the time. I didn’t mind. A vacation is fun once is a while so I really don’t blame you.

You left me at sixteen, a sad and upset teenager in need of a father. But that doesn’t matter. I still made it through high-school just fine. Two years early for that matter. I got jumped many times by guys twice my size. You left me there alone, with no one to put the fear of God into them. But I don’t care about that. You still talked me through my pain and helped me grow into a better person.

You left me at seventeen. Not a word nor a sound from you. Just a knock on my door at two in the morning in the middle of summer. I thought that the knock was the police looking for my older sister. I felt annoyed that our house was woken up. When I saw the people I knew they were not officers. I remember them asking for your dad and I remember him getting off his bed on the couch. The lady sat us down and told us the news. You had left me again. 

When you left me that  time at 17 I was pretty mad. You had left me for real. A heart attack they said. You were only 36 years old. A father of six. A friend to many. You were one of my favorite people. I didn’t mind at all for all the times you left me over the years. But this time I minded. There is no way you can make this one up to me. You can’t call me anymore, you can’t fly me to your house, you can’t listen to my cries. You can’t come back to me from the grave.

But there is still one thing I want to know. Daddy, why did you leave me?