14 And ready to die

The End Yet The Beginning

     "Your nothing. You don't stand out, people don't like you, your nobody. Forgettable. Whore. Stupid. Un-notable." To think all those words and accusations would come from someone I called Dad. From someone I've known since I was two and married my mom when I was 13. To build someone up at a young age, only to break them down when it mattered is a true act of evil.  This man, whom I loved, I would soon grow to fear and abhor. 

My name is Izzy. I go to Mishawaka Highschool and I am mentally abused. It started when I was about 11. He would call me out for the stupid childlike things I would say. Called me out for lying even when I spoke true. He told me I would never amount to anything and was not important. Over the years it has gotten worse. I remember one night, I was sitting at my kitchen table and he was siting across from me. We were talking about why I lied. I remember feeling guilty and wishing I was someone else somewhere else. Someone better who was not tempted to lie to those I truelly cared about. He had been asking me what I had to say. I suppose I was frowning but didn't really have anything to say. So I said I had nothing to say. He leaned forward menacingly and said "if you lie to me one more time, I'm going to slap you across the face." Fear coursed through my veins and I scooted as far away as I could. "I have nothing to say, and I'm not lying" I said. He asked me why I had moved away and I didn't respond. I avoided eye contact and tried to be as small as possible. He shoved the table up against the counter to the point it blocked the only way I could have gotten away from him. He shot up and stood over me with his hand raised over his shoulder like he was going to beat me. I ducked down and started to cry. I had my hands over my head in defense, and I felt myself shaking. "If I wanted to get to you, you wouldn't get away from me" he said. He moved the table back and situated himself as though nothing had happened. It took me a while to finally get up. By then, he was aggravated I was afraid. We had a long talk about how I lied, and the entire time I squeaked instead of speaking. When he was done talking, I had to go to bed. Before I was to leave, he said "are you afraid of me?" I had nodded but I was still  a bit scared to approach him. "You should never be afraid of anyone. Your a strong woman." That was the nicest thing he has said to me in the last years. Things like this where not often to happen. He never really compliments me. Ever. 

Everyday, I head home, with lead weighing my heart to my knees. I don't want to be there with my mom and dad. My mother never really stands up for me. Whatever he says, goes. She doesn't argue or tell him that he's gone too far. She stands there sadly. Mute. In my family, I feel as though I stand alone. I'm the only one that cares about fitting in, the only one who cares about opinions. My dad is the kind of person with barely any to no friends. He doesn't get along with that many people and I'm one of them. I feel like he hates me. He downgrades me almost every night. He tells me I'm incompetent, tells me I'm a hoochie, and ghetto skum. I try not to be ghetto. I honestly hate how ghetto I am. I try not to be, but I can't really help it. Since the fourth grade, I had been around south bend  kids. They spoke ghetto, and I soon wanted to fit in. It stuck, and that's just how I speak now. He always tells me I would grow up to get pregnant at 18 and be a welfare mama with no baby daddy. He says that I'm the lowest of skum. All the time. There was a time I would try to escape everything, but that comes in another chapter later on. He gives me chores in abundance and yells when they aren't up to his standards. His standards are high, and my energy wanes low.  I don't want to exist if that means a thing to you readers. I wish I would turn to dust and blow away. A while back, I had turned to alcohol and weed. Cigarettes came later, but were indeed something I became addicted to. I dipped into my dads bourbon and jack. I slit my wrists and cried every night. This is only what happens now. In the next chapter I'll speak about when everything began. The youngest this story will get is when I was three. 

Anything in this book, stays in these pages. Please do not speak to me about it, I tell you in confidence. Do not judge me for things I do not mean to do.

IZZY