www.whyville.net Feb 13, 2008 Weekly Issue

Guest Writer

The So Called 'My Life Sucks Series'

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If you have read the Times before, you may have heard of me. Now I'm back this week! Before I had three notable articles. "The Darkest Night" was my first and many would say my best thus far. "The Emotional Waterfall," which I personally liked . . . it was rough with feeling though. And finally "A Love Worth Crying For . . . Or Is It?" which was less emotional but a sad and "different" part of my life. These were the chronicles of my worst times.

"If you can't handle me at my worst, you sure don't deserve me at my best" - Marilyn Monroe

But, strangely, these are my best times. When I'm feeling down, upset, chocking to death on my tears; I write. It's my release, my oh-so-sweet escape. I can write down all I feel and see it later. I can also share it with others. Many have seen my articles, deeming them the "My Life Sucks Series".

I'm here to say I refute this and also to say, you're somewhat right. I must admit that I'm unhappy. I have never felt a moment of true, unfettered happiness. Something deep inside keeps me from it. Just when it's so close, I can feel the decadent radiance coming through my body, approaching my heart . . . something takes it and snaps it away. My life is not the best. Who's is? But I have been asked, "Why can't you be happy? I was abused and I put it behind me."

Well, everyone's situation is different. Me, I have a towering stepfather that scares me. He yells at me. I can't control the tears. They come, unwarranted but yet strangely welcome to my cheeks, flaring up and inspiring me. My strife, the so called tragedy of it all makes me inspired. I like to craft the strife I have into something you can read. You can feel. That is why I'm here.

I'll let you inside my mind, tell you my soul's deep unlocking secrets and you just sit back. But what can happen? I always thought it was odd. I mean the moments of my creativity live inside horror. Why do I find this so fascinating? Why would someone EVER want to sit there and just write on the times they wish never happened?

Even though all these times made me cry, brought me to my knees . . . they were beautiful. Gorgeous actually. How could I ever think such a thing. I know it's running through your mind. I know that you kind of want to lock me up in a psychiatric ward. But I might have you wait for a moment on that.

Gorgeous - Dazzlingly beautiful or magnificent
Tragic - Having the elements of tragedy; involving death, grief, or destruction

How could these two words really ever get on the same level, to describe the same thing?

I know that every time it hits me, every time I feel the familiar sting; feel the tears dip out of the corners of my eyes; I just feel like a tornado inside. I want to destruct . . . I want to open up my mouth and yell; scream. Tell them what I have been waiting to tell them for so long. But I always stop. Because I am paralyzed. I can move, just I can't do that.

If you need to ask why you'd never really understand. The feeling of being afraid Of having to make up excuses to others you love for the horrible things your abusers commit. I can't remember all the bruises I have had to lie away . . . all the phone calls I have hung up on . . . all the times I had to cancel. And all this to prevent the inevitable . . .

I know others you know may be in a similar situation . . . many are. But every time it's different. Yet why can you hear all of their silent screams simultaneously? I want to be here to just be a voice. To tell you all how it feels to be the one on the cold tile floor beneath them. Because . . .

One day it could be you. Or one day . . . you could do this to someone.

There's actually a proven cycle in abuse. The abuser and the victim have small disagreements and this causes tension in the relationship. Soon after much build-up the abusers breaks and causes an abusive incident. After, the abuser is calm and tries to win the victim back. They're really playing a round of boxing. The victim is sucker-punched every time.

Mostly the reason why this abuse happens is because the abuser sees the victim as property. Theirs to sexually abuse; to yell at . . . and inevitably scar. The abuser feels powerless in other parts of life . . . and guess who's the scapegoat? They are mad at the boss; the fact that he can't make his bills . . . anything. But he can't yell at his boss or not pay his bills. This is his release. For them to feel release; they must cage another.

There's some abuse information, but don't worry there will be more. Because I'm back. And here to stay.

The snow outside my window looks so inviting. Fluffy and new, yearning for me to jump into it and rejoice. I squirm, dreaming of all the wonderful times that lay in the simple blanket of white heaven. Something shatters my happy dreams . . .

The terrible weight in my heart. It keeps me down, keeping me trapped and suffocated. I can't say what I want; I can't do what I want. As someone tells me what to think I save my opinions for later, savoring the fact that I am thinking so many things. Also enticed by the idea of freedom. To be free and say what I want instead of biting my tongue in fury or steeling myself from the tears. They're inevitable, yet I always try to keep them back . . .

They are coming; I feel my eyes tremble as I fight a battle to keep the tears behind my glossy eyes. It's a battle I always lose. My eyes tremble as my body curls up, vulnerable like a newborn baby. They're in the next room fighting. I can hear the carved and barbaric words. Every time, my stomach lurches.

My cheeks flare up and a slippery soft angry tear escapes the container of my eye. The illusion of it all takes me back . . .

Crying on the floor. I'm so little. Just laying there, a pool of blood around me.

"That's how you start your story?" you ask . . . well let's go back then . . .

I was little and never knew any better. I knew left from right, but it wouldn't help me here. Here all I knew was that with that shiny thing my father held in his hand, he became my worst nightmare. One lived every day. This is the night that I had to go to the emergency room. He would go off-kilter, he never even knew. He dropped me, and I had to pay the price for his foolishness . . .

He says he didn't mean to. I'm too gullible, I can't help it . . . I'm just so little. I didn't even understand. All I knew was that I was growing exponentially weak and my head felt woozy. I also saw the deep red, the color of the red firetruck in my toybox coming out of my head. I didn't really understand it all.

I didn't even see it coming; he picked me up as swift as a summer wind, and I was down just as fast.

"How would that crimson pool look outside in the fluffy, cloud-like snow?" my older voice speaks to me.

It's a miracle we always lived down the street from the hospital, just a eighth of a mile to the tidy shrubs and combed trees. This time of year it was a white wonderland. So innocent and great. As we ran up the cobblestone path, still white with snow deep ruby ellipticals fell onto its innocent blanket.

We went inside. I was hardly conscious but I ended up with a few stitches. Nothing major, but enough.

My mom tells the doctor that he dropped me. "He wouldn't have if he wasn't so wasted," my older heart echoes in my young ears. I brush it away, always denying the truth. Like mother like daughter, right?

It all started with a fight. The fight led to drinking on my father's part. And that led to laying in the hospital room on this wonderful Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas!

*The message of this was to say that sometimes your actions do affect others. My father's actions that night hurt me more than it ever hurt him. I bet he never did remember.

"Cause I've seen love die way too many times when it deserved to be alive . . . I've seen you cry way too many times when you deserved to be alive . . . - Emergency

This is Lyd1212 saying maybe people assume a little too much. *BAM*

Author's Note: Sources for interpreted information: http://www.womensweb.ca/violence/


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