Hi, I just registered here. First, let me apologize in advance if I'm unclear, boring, overly talkative or offensive in any way, or if there are unfinished sentences (er... a bit hard to explain). Also, a trigger warning for descriptions of abuse and mentions of suicidal thoughts/attempts.
I want to confide in someone about my past, and the anonymity provided by the internet seems like a perfect cover, right?
I think I was abused as a child, up until my last year of high school. I'm sure my experience isn't nearly as awful as some of you have faced, so I'm sorry if it seems I'm making a mountain out of a molehill...
I was a terrible student - took years for me to be diagnosed and treated for my medical/psych. issues, and even then, my academic habits and grades showed little improvement. I thought it was perfectly reasonable, then, that my mother and father would scream at me and threaten to kill me or send me back to my birth country. I hated it, but I found it completely understandable when my father tore apart my belongings in front of me, lifted me by my shirt collar and yelled in my face while hitting me, punched me in the stomach so that I couldn't breathe, dragged me through the house by my hair; when my mother wrapped her hands around my throat and came close to strangling me, when she would slap me repeatedly and call me a worthless piece of **** and why did they ever adopt me when I was just a waste of time and money; when either of them threw items ranging from pencils to crock pots at me. Every time, I would wonder why I was so useless and incompetent. I would look at the knife block in the kitchen and wonder how *mod edit* , or consider *mod edit* whenever I took my bath - my parents would be better off with me dead, I thought. I mean, they said they wanted to kill me anyway, so why not do it for them? A small part of me would speak up and resentfully whisper that I shouldn't do what they wanted, shouldn't give them that satisfaction. I believe that small part helped me stay alive.
Then, one night I accidentally cut myself with my razor. It hurt, and the little cut bled a lot for its size. I cut myself again the next night, this time on purpose. I don't know why I did it, but I guess I'm glad I did, because cutting myself that one time was enough to convince me that I didn't have the guts to commit suicide, not because I was afraid of killing myself, but because I disliked where I might end up afterwards. The moment I began bleeding profusely into the bath water, I began to have thoughts: 'I've been such a bad person that I'll be sent to hell immediately. Or maybe there is no afterlife, and I'm just going to end up in a void of nothingness.' Both options seemed quite unpleasant, and the latter honestly sounded incredibly boring. Yeah, life's pretty boring too, but that
I don't know why it stopped. Why did it get better? I don't understand. My parents don't hit me anymore. They hardly ever scream. I'm still only an average student, but even when I did things that were way worse than I had done during the times of abuse, they didn't yell or threaten or hit me. Sometimes I can yell back at them and all they do is looked surprised. Why did it change since that last year of high school? I'm not complaining, but I'm confused about it so confused it doesn't make sense to me why is it like this
Sorry to bother you all, and thank you for listening to me ramble. I wonder if we can edit posts. I guess I'll see once I've submitted this, huh?