Our Story

Where It All Began

I know what you all might be thinking. "Oh, this is going to be boring" or "This is so stupid". Well, yes it's pretty dumb but I figured telling you guys my feelings would help me cope with the constant thoughts that swirl in my head telling me, "you're too ugly for her", "Fatass, you won't amount to anything" and so on, so forth. Point is, I've had enough of bottling my feelings up. Half of you guys have probably already stopped reading by now, that's fine, you just won't get to see the best kept secret at the end of the chapter. Shall we begin?

It all started on May 17, 2000. The day I was born. Buuuuutt, I know nothing of that time, so let's skip around a bit to the major events of my life.
I was four when I received my first set of stitches, I broke through a toy bridge and smacked my face on the concrete. Split my lip near in half. Mom rushed me to the hospital as I was screaming bloody murder with blood dripping from my mouth onto my new white shirt. We pulled up to the hospital and I was rushed in by my mom (notice how my father isn't around) she was nearly in tears as they stitched me up. I got seven stiches that day.
At this time I wasn't old enough to realize that my biological dad was a drug addict and a woman abuser. My mother left him when I was four because of the fact. I never had seen him do any of this stuff but my mother was trying to get him to be a active member of my life. The last time I ever saw him and he had to push my mom around. She was crying and it made me sad. I haven't seen him since and I honestly don't want to either.
My age is now around five and my mother has hooked up with the guy who is soon to be my step-dad. He was the loving, caring father I always wanted! That was until I hit around the ages nine or ten, that's when the abuse came into place. It started off as just little hits with his hand to my ass. Then they started to progress into hits to the sides and arms and legs. But apparently that wasn't enough, he began bringing a belt with him at all times. He'd hit me till I bled at times. He hit me for the simplest thing, like the time I dropped a can on my own toe and he smacked me upside the head.
The beatings continued until I was thirteen. The last time he laid hands on me was when he tackled me into the side of the shed and sliced my arm open. That is what drew the line. I'd had enough and I wasn't taking shit from anyone.
I got into weight training the following year and I decided I was going to stand up for myself. We had quite a bit of fight, because as my strength grew, so did my attitude.
I'll tell you more about that later on. What really matters at the moment is that I was once a happy child. I'm going to leave off this chapter with a little note "Don't be afraid to fight back. If someone is causing you pain. Tell them to stop. If that doesn't work then knock some teeth out. I'm serious."

Peace, love and empathy

P.S: I'll have another chapter in soon