Beaten, Betrayed, Violated.

Mental Hospitals

Your parents should always be there for you, and shouldn't ever judge you for things that are beyond your control. I was born with a disorder, and coupled with the trauma my piece of shit parents put me through, my metal state wasn't looking too good. There's only so much anger you can release through working out. I did it for hours each day, only to go to bed, still fuming.
So far, I know some of you assholes might not think things are too bad, but honestly, the little things count too.
I was in counseling for years, since my mother died, and I began telling people that I wanted to go to heaven with her too.
I was told to keep a journal, a private journal filled with my thoughts, poetry, stories, anything to help me cope. It was supposed to be for my eyes and my therapists eyes only.
But I wasn't allowed any privacy.
They began reading my journal, mocking me, and even beating me for things I had written. I even got a beating for writing a fictional story, but they thought I was projecting my life into the story, and confessing to doing things that were "bad".
They didn't even beat me for a reason, anymore. At that point in my life, they beat me for even looking at them the wrong way. I was constantly flinching, scared that they would punch me in the back of the head (no marks to report from being hit), or id find myself being drug by my hair, to receive another beating for something I didn't even do.
More often than not, they wouldn't even scream my name to summon me. They would instead call me names.
"Hey, Retard!"
"You fucking idiot, get in here."
I have been called bitch, slut, whore, idiot, retard, cunt, and many other names, more often than my own. As a child, I'm not sure if other children were the same, but I forgot things sometimes. It was inexcusable to forget or make a mistake, ever. If for instance, I did the dishes, but an hour later ate something and left a plate and a cup in the sink, I would get beaten, with her claiming that I was lazy, stupid, and never did them in the first place.
They were both psychotic. But she tormented only me, after all. I was a physical reminder that my father loved my mother. She used to beat me if I cried at night missing my mom. She told me that I was a selfish bitch, and that my father wouldn't touch her that night because I was crying for my mother.
Yeah.
I'm the selfish one. Not the woman beating a girl for missing her mom, while you're being a cunt bitch over your sex life. Fucking whore. I really hope she gets hit by a fucking truck, and gets paralyzed from the waist down. She wouldn't know what the fuck to with herself, absent of her most vital organ.
The TV at home was always on cartoon after she had my other two brothers. And since she hated me, I wasn't allowed to touch the TV, even if no one was around. She used to threaten to break my hands. And for her,a good threat wasn't a threat unless it was coupled with intense choking.
I never knew this, but most of the beatings she put me through, my father didn't even know about, because she convinced me that he didn't care, so I didn't tell him. When he would come home to me in a corner crying, often times are would lie and say id done things I hadn't, to justify herself.
I mistakenly thought that he might care, because we went to my cousins house, for a birthday party. Their computer got unplugged by some dumb kid, and my even dumber Aunt called about it while we were in the way home. My dad was at work. The dumb bitch didn't think to check if it was unplugged, and told my stepmother it was broken. And because I changed my clothes in that room (along with like ten other kids), my stepmother immediately blamed me. When I got home, she beat me with a belt until my ass, legs, back, and parts of my arms were blue. She made me stand in a corner on one foot, memorizing the encyclopedia. I still remember a lot of the A's. I stood there, feeling like my foot was bruising, for nearly four hours with her watching from the couch. I even had to hold my pee.
My father came home, and my aunt called. I had cried and told them it wasn't me, but they never listened to me. Until that bitch called laughing, saying it was only unplugged. My father dragged my stepmother by the hair and gave her a black eye. I hoped so hard that he cared and was going to start loving me like other parents do, but that wasn't the case. My dad isn't even capable of those feelings.
I was coming closer and closer to a mental breakdown, I was hiding deep gashes that looked like multiple tic tax toe boards beneath long sleeve shirts in summer, and bracelets. Things were getting worse and worse. I started to get desperate for human contact, for the outside world. I caught myself having conversations under my breath. I started seriously thinking about the best ways to kill myself.
My dads a felon. Can't get ahold of a gun.
I can't drown myself, I don't want to spend my final moments being cold, wet, and in pain. Almost every way to die is excruciating anyways.
I didn't think I had the balls to cut deep enough to die before my overbearing parents found me. And I wanted to be sure.
I had no way to get ahold of pills. Getting good weed was challenge enough.
That left one option for me.
I decided that the best thing I could do, was get a few grams of weed, some sleeping pills from the cabinet, and some rope. I figured that I could get myself high while I waited for the pills to kick in, and when I passed out, I would hang. It was the closest I could come to an idea of how to create a pain and fear free death.
I hated my life. I felt like there wasn't a way to get out of it. My father, who went to prison for manslaughter, threatened to murder me if I reported them. What could I do? You don't know misery until you're all alone, hated, used, controlled. I know there's people who have been through worse, but I didn't honestly give a fuck. To me, I was miserable enough to disregard my entire life. I had nothing to live for, in my mind. Sure I had a brother. But when he was treated nicely, while I got told frequently that my soul was made of dog shit? You'd want to die too. I wasn't their daughter. I was their fucking slave.
I was actually excited. I gathered my materials, and went to sleep.
The next day, after school, I lost my nerve on the way home. Instead, I robbed a publix grocery store. When the security team caught me, and asked me why, I told them that I didn't want to go home. I told them that if they called my parents, Id kill myself.
I was taken to a mental hospital instead. For the first time, in a while, I was at peace. I knew I wouldn't get beaten here. I knew they couldn't blackmail me here. I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, (I've had anxiety attacks as long as I can remember), another mental disorder, and told that I needed medication to help manage my symptoms. An Anti-anxiety, a mood stabilizer, an anti depressant, and I was told to seek more rigorous counseling. I spent two weeks there, but my parents told them that I was faking, and denied them permission to give me medication that I needed. (You can't fake a blood test, for Bipolar. You just can't. My parents are fucking stupid.)
When I got home, they made fun of me, and made me sit in a corner and stare at the wall, while they read my paperwork, and mocked me about it in high pitched hillbilly voices. They were racist rednecks. Calling me retarded in a Larry the cable guy voice was their thing, and they did it frequently.
"Bipolar. Don't get your hopes up, that shit isn't real. You can fake with the doctors all you want, there's nothing wrong with you."
Or this one.
"You can quit that hyperventilating shit. Its all fucking fake. Your mother did that shit too. It doesn't make me feel bad, it just makes me want to hurt you more. "
Anytime they touched me or yelled, I had a panic attack. It would feel like I c couldn't breathe, no matter how much air I gasped into my lungs. My chest hurt, and all I could think was that I was going to die, or that this crushing panic would never leave me, and I would feel hopeless forever. My dad thought he could beat anything out of me. Whether it was talking to a black person, or being clinically depressed and suicidal, my dads almighty belt could cure all.
I hope someone fucking strangles him with it.