Not gonna lie, I'm a lot to deal with.
I have my days, quite a few of them actually: I'm confident for one moment and insecure the next; I try my best to keep the happy and bubbly personality going, but on the inside I'm a stewing pot; I'm angry and sad and afraid. I'm not saying that I'm not as great as I may seem, but I'm definitely not perfect either, however, you probably already know that. I’ve told you my past, but you don’t even know the half of it. Today, I’m completing the story.
When my father was sick at home, I was the one taking care of him. I spent night and day at my father's feet. Every waking moment I spent waiting for him to ask me to complete another one of his tasks. I loved these moments. Helping was what I liked to do. Every little duty proved my allegiance to my father. I thrived off of the title of “Daddy’s Little Girl.”
During these times my mother would be out doing who knows what. She'd probably just had a fight with my father and drove off angry or it was just one of her, what I deemed, “slut nights.”
You knew it was Slut Night when she carried the red, one shouldered backpack to the car and said, “I’m going for a drive, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” every time she said this, I made my way to my father’s room and set up camp. I wrapped myself up in my blanket, sat in the brown, squeaky, leather recliner and read a book or wrote in my journal. I hardly talked to my father; he was usually sleeping. When I did talk to him, it was my agreement to get a glass of water or to reassure him that I would find the puke bucket before he threw up. Other than moments such as these, we didn’t need to talk.
My brother and sister never seemed to notice what was going on. They were wrapped up in themselves, so everything was stuck on me. I cleaned the house, fed my father, made dinner. helped him get to the bathroom, did my schoolwork, and kept him company. I had very little time for myself and at the time I was okay with it, but after a while I realised I wasn't. While my family was off doing whatever, I was being "Daddy's Princess" once again.
I think that as I've grown up the one thing I've learned is that you grow up fastest when you're subjected to a serious life. The worst thing a child can see is their parent struggling. I had to listen to my parents' constant fighting about money, where my mother had been, our grades. I can't imagine how hard it must have been to parent my siblings and I and be in so much pain.
My mother cried to my sister and I over men who would never love her. My father- he tried to hide it all, which I guess is what makes us so alike. He sent me to get him stuff when he was gonna cry. It was a long time before he let me see him cry and it wasn't even because he actually let me.
It was my birthday. He couldn't do anything for himself, meaning, he was confined to his room. I went to visit him and there he was crying- he told me he didn't want to miss my birthday, but he couldn't help it. I ditched my own surprise party so I could celebrate it with my father. I didn’t want him to be alone and this way I didn't have to feel obligated to socialize.
Over time things steadily got worse. My father was constantly brought in and out of the hospital. The doctors in Syracuse were not equipped with enough technology or knowledge to deal with the LVAD that he had. This resulted in him being brought to Rochester, where my mother made daily two-hour trips back and forth to visit him.
During that time I lied to a lot of people. When people asked me how I was doing, I told them I was handling it well. My coach called me ice-girl because I had no emotions and because through everything, I stayed strong. I think on the inside I really just wanted to tell people what was going on with me, but the fear of people thinking I was just complaining or my thinking that my telling someone would make me lose my “strength" overcame me.
In reality, I was starving in silence. When I was with people I stuffed my face to keep up my image, only to throw it up later. I used to put ice on my wrists because I was afraid I might leave scars if I cut myself- the fear that someone might somehow see my scars and ruin my strong image scared me.
Overtime I moved onto better methods of dealing with pain. I sexted strangers so they could replace my insecurity with ‘You're beautiful” and “Send me a different angle.” It made me feel accepted even if they didn't really care about me. I snuck out a lot more than I would like people to know. I had sex in a pool because I actually wanted to and the guy told me he liked me. The next day he had a girlfriend and they've been going out ever since. When school started back up, I started dating, hoping that boys would help straighten me out. I made three guys cry because I made promises I shouldn't have.
We pulled the plug on my father on September 18, 2014. My mother wouldn't let me stay because she said it might not be pretty. I went home and cut for the first time and had the greatest relief. For the rest of the year I tried to act as if I was okay. I failed all of my classes, but only four overall.
Someone I never could have imagined became my best friend. I literally told him everything. He convinced me to hang out with him when no one was home. Secondhand highs became a thing with him. I drank and got stuck with Netflix and chill. I stripped over Skype calls for his drunk friends. I figured that if every other girl could do it, so could I. And then he did the worst thing of all. The one thing he knew I wasn’t ready for. He convinced me to have sex with him on a camping trip.
I knew it was going to happen. It was thrilling. The fact that this guy actually liked me and I knew he didn’t have a girlfriend made it even better. I couldn’t make the same mistake as I did with the pool guy. The first night of the trip I realised I had made a mistake, but there was no way out. I didn’t tell him no, I just let it all happen. The next night, it happened again. This time however, I had the guts to say no… at least fifteen times. This, I learned, would not stop him.I broke up with him a few weeks later after slowly cutting off all forms of connection.
After all that, I've become a different person. I still can't help that I trust so easily. I hate that I trust people so much. I'm good at being convinced to do things and I don't know how to say no. My insecurities are at an all time high because I'm afraid that the next person who tells me I'm beautiful wants more than to say just that. All people skills have gone down the drain. I sleep with a body pillow because I need the feeling that someone is there. I tell people I stuff my face even though I barely eat. I avoid my family because I fear that we're either going to fight or cry. I lie to people and tell them I'm okay.
When I say I'm a lot to deal with, I mean I hide everything. I'm the most open person, but then again I'm not. My every waking moment is spent thinking someone is going to leave.
I want to take this time to thank you for dealing with the anxiety that is brought on by everyday life and the mistake of past choices. You’ve never questioned why I do the things that I do and I’m grateful for that. It’s hard enough dealing with my brain and to pass any of that on to you is a giant step for me. I’m afraid of making another mistake, but this time my heart tells me you won’t be one.
I wish you the best of luck in whatever future we may have together. I love you to the moon.
