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I was born in a broken family

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of suicidal thoughts, anorexia, bulimia, family problems

Only read if you feel like you’re ready to know what I think on a daily basis. It’s not pretty, and not for the light of heart.

I was born in a broken family. When I was born, I was 4 pounds, ten ounces, and had a twin. Key Word: Had. Unfortunately, they died before they were capable of seeing the light of day. Anyways. I was premature, and extremely small. My childhood nickname was always “Peanut” for that very reason. At Eleven months old, I was taken from my mother, and forced to live with my grandmother. I have not spent a single birthday with my mother. As I grew older, new people came into our home. Strangers. But they lived with us, so they were “family”. I guess.

My father wasn’t a father to me for the longest time. It took a fight between him and my stepmother for him to realize that. He had a strict schedule: Wake up, eat, go to work, play video games, sleep, and repeat. He left no time for his own children. He was always tired, always grumpy, and very easily triggered. And when he got triggered… He got physical. I wouldn’t call it abuse, because he really was just looking out for my well-being and trying to help me understand things in his own specific way.

Eventually that stopped, after a long time of this happening, but it didn’t matter. Not even a year after he finally fixed his mistakes, I went on vacation with my siblings and my grandmother. When we got back? …Everything was gone. They had taken everything that belonged to them and left. First my stepmother, then my father. I know they left for a very good reason, and I understand that, but… That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt like hell every time I think about that word. Especially since one of my number one fears is being abandoned. I’ve been abandoned in so many ways, so many times. But anyways. I don’t know how long I cried that night, laying my head in my sister’s lap, crying until I had no more tears to cry.

Sobbing until I had no more breaths in my lungs. I cried for days after that, weeks even. It was all a blur. All I remember thinking, were these things: “They left me.” “They don’t want me.” “I meant nothing to them.” (Did I want to think these things? No. I knew they were doing what was best for them. But did I? Yes. Because that’s how my mind is. I can’t help it.) “I’m stuck here. With HER.” Who is “her”, exactly? Well. The very being that stole me from my own family. My terrible, frightening, mentally abusive, Grandmother. You know the whole Grandmother stereotype, she bakes you treats, feeds you too much, spoils you when your parents leave you over the weekend. Well, not mine. Mine, is a nightmare.

A ticking time-bomb, of which could blow up at any second, as many times as it wants, over the littlest, to the biggest things. I don’t remember a lot from before I got my medication, but I do remember yelling, and lots of it. I remember crying, and lots of it. I remember the feeling of wanting to die, so grating and so overbearing that you just can’t help but WANT to give in. I remember the anorexia I battled, the calories I counted, the meals I disposed of while locked in the bathroom with nothing but the fan, the toilet bowl, and the painful thoughts of needing to be good enough. Not just for others, but for myself, and… That was the scariest thing. Because I knew that I would NEVER be good enough for myself for sure. But I sure as hell tried. But I also remember numbness. The overwhelming numbness of feeling nothing, due to the fact that you’ve felt EVERYTHING there is to feel. You’ve felt everything.

You’ve gone through hoops and hurdles to get where you are, and you think that life is finally going to give you a break? …No. Once you think life is going pretty smoothly, you have the medication you need, your family hasn’t fought in screaming matches until it seems like the real fight is seeing who can scream the loudest without hurting themselves, school is going well, until reality crashes in… Things CAN get worse. And they WILL. And your relative, whom you now label as your “guardian” comes in, crying, and you know there can only be trouble. Those words. Those cursed words they speak… “Your sister has Leukaemia.” And then reality hits you like a truck going over a hundred mph.

Things CAN get worse. And. They. WILL. Suddenly your grades are dropping, your friends are constantly asking you if you’re okay, and even though you respond, “Yes”… Deep down. you know you’re NOT. And you know you never may be. And those dangerous thoughts kick in again, and you cry out for help the only way you can. But no one can hear you anymore. So, you continue your days, acting happy, improving any way you can, but it’s just not enough. The thoughts aren’t leaving. You start to wonder if they’ll ever leave… Or maybe if you can just shut them out yourself forever… But you can’t. Not when everyone is depending on you to do great. To succeed. You need to pursue your career. You need to succeed. You need to do it. You. Need. To. Do. BETTER. And there’s that word again. Better. You can always do better. It’s never good enough. Do better. Do better. DO BETTER. And now you’re on repeat. Doing better. That’s now your motto. And you’re not sure how to change it anymore. You don’t know what to do, after becoming stuck in this seemingly never-ending loop of doing better… Now it’s all that you know… And all you can do. Until someone. SOMEHOW. Breaks you out of this nightmare…

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