Artist Torquetor

Artist Torquetor

A Story by Mrs Mania
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"I was tired of being alone. I never meant to hurt anyone. But I was tired of being hurt."

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~Artist Torquetor~

By: Paige Taylor


My childhood was not what most would consider a “happy one”. When I was just a baby, my mother worked two jobs all because my lazy and good for nothing father could not hold a job to save his life; or better yet, support his own family. One day, after my mom had just came home from a long day’s work, she came home to find my father passed out on the couch with empty beer bottles scattered about the coffee table. This was not in the least bit unusual; for my father seemed to have nothing better to do with his time. But when she came in to my room to check on me, here is where it gets interesting.

I was lying awake in the crib soaked in urine and beer. He had not gotten me out of the crib, nor had he even had the time to change my diaper all day. My mother was livid to say the least. She being the strong, kind-hearted woman that she had always been since birth, decided that this was not the kind of life she had imagined for me. Needless to say, she left my father. I had still gotten the “luxury” to see him though, mostly after school. But even that had to change, due to the fact that my father had forgotten me and fortunately for me, my mother had gotten a gut feeling and had left work early, only to greet me when I had gotten off the bus.

I never really had much to do with him after that. I guess you could say that was the last straw for both my mother and I. Eventually, my mother begin to date a new fella. He seemed nice at first and he was always good to me of course. But by the age of three, I was forced to watch him beat her nearly half to death just about every night. With me being too young to understand, yet old enough to know that something wasn’t quite right, would just back myself into a corner and sit there, crying, pretending that this was all just pretend and would soon be over soon. After some time, his brutal temper seemed to bother me less and less. I began to grow unable of showing emotions, unlike the other kids my age who always appeared to be content and happy, with much life in their eyes. I would no longer laugh, smile, or even cry. This was bad. At this time, his behavior had become so ‘normal’ to me, that I would no longer cry or scream even when I could see him beating her.

Over the years, I had managed to push most of these unwanted nightmares out of my memory; however, there was one particular incident that I remember so vividly even to this day. The three of us were at the car wash. Of course, I was sitting in the backseat, my mother sat in the driver’s seat, and my mother’s boyfriend had gotten out to begin washing the car. In the process of washing the vehicle, he had managed to get himself soaking wet. My mother, had already knowing of his awful temper, made a joke in an attempt to make some light of the situation. This did not help; instead, he grew more infuriated before punching the car windshield sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Immediately, I leaned over to check on my mother and see if she was alright. I vividly remember small amounts of blood as shards of glass poked out of her skin.

Fortunately for me, I did not have to live in this situation for very long. My mother decided to leave him. This was very hard; as dysfunctional as their relationship was, he was the love of her life. I am a firm believer that everyone should be held accountable for his or her own actions, but come to find out, when I grew older, I could finally understand why he was the way that he was. He was damaged. His mother was an alcoholic and a heroin addict while he was still growing in her womb. So of course, when the young boy was finally born, he had already lost his chance to live. Though he had never touched a drug or a bottle, he grew up with fetal alcoholic syndrome and addicted to heroin just like his useless mother.

~~~

Soon after I began junior high, it was discovered that I had emotional problems, but this was no surprise to me. I had always known that I was different from others my age. Apart from my mother, I could not seem to get the rest of my family to take me seriously. They would always just say things along the lines of, “It is perfectly normal.” Or the famous line, “It is not just you, everybody feels that way from time to time.” I probably would have believed them and taken their word for it, if it weren’t for the fact that I felt that way not sometimes, but all of the time.

During my second year of junior high, so seventh grade, I met my very first best friend. She was different, but I saw no harm in that. After all, I was different and we seemed to connect really well. We soon became inseparable and she would even come and spend the night at my house from time to time. This was nice; partially due to the fact that I did not have very many friends. Needless to say, I seldom ever had company over at the house.

As we began to grow close, she would even show me some of her writings which she had always kept in a large black binder. Her writings were a little out there and even more brutal then some of the things that I had written. Her writings were not what bothered me of course. What did bother me was the fact that she had kept locks of hair taped in the back of her binder. There were several strands and they were all different, none of them were hers. I was kind of afraid to ask her about them, but thinking back, I probably should have. But at the time, I did not want to lose the first friend I had met in ages.

After some time, her personality seemed to change; somedays she was her normal self, whereas other days, she would act like a completely different person. My family had decided that they did not want me hanging around with her anymore. This was probably for the best. But when I had told her this, she lost it. At times she had even offered to, “get rid of them.” I had always assumed that she was joking, so I would laugh and proceed to change the subject. I decided that we would still talk and only hangout at the school without my family knowing. Obviously, my mother always knew when I was up to something, so it did not last very long. Choosing to be friends with this girl seemed to cause a lot of conflict in my family. In an attempt to try and ease some of the tension, I decided that it would be best to try and cut ties. My grades were suffering and it had become time to create room for better influences in my life.

I was taking a band class in middle school, since I had always loved music so much. I assure you that I wasn’t a “band geek” or anything; however, I did become fascinated with percussion and more particularly, the drums. This had soon become my passion. In my class, there were only male percussionists and I happened to be the only female. I got teased a lot from the boys, but I decided not to pay them any mind.

When I decided that it was time to cut ties with my one friend, she would pick on me frequently. In my band class, we all had lockers where we were able to keep our instruments, drum sticks, etc. There were no codes or locks on any of the lockers as it was only used for storage only. She would constantly steal my drum sticks from my bag and though I had never actually seen her do it, I knew that it had to be her. I acted like it didn’t bother me and politely asked if I could borrow someone else’s. One day after class, she waited for me to get out and when I turned the corner, she struck me across the face with my missing drumsticks.

When I finally decided that it was time to speak with my teachers, the guidance counselor, and even my principle about was happening, I could not help but feel more disappointed than if I had just kept my mouth shut. They decided that the best course of action would be to change my schedule around and as a result, I was unable to remain in my band class. I was distraught, considering that it was the only reason I ever actually looked forward to coming to school at all. To make matters worse, this only encouraged the girl to take greater efforts in attempt to hurt and humiliate me. After my classes, I would often find that someone had posted sticky notes all over my locker calling me names that I wouldn’t even dream of calling my worst enemy. There were times my locker had even been broken into.

Eventually, I began to find excuses to skip school altogether. I probably would have stayed home every day if I could, except for the fact that my parents found out what I was doing and forced me to begin going back to school again. This was irritating, but deep down, I knew that they were right. Staying home and refusing to leave the house was not going to solve any of my problems and besides, why should I be the one to run away?

On my way to the cafeteria, the girl approached me. I was half tempted to just turn around and walk in the other direction, but I was tired of hiding. I had done nothing wrong. I had done nothing wrong up until the point that I decided not to turn back around walk the other way. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the restroom and stood in front of the door so that I could not leave. She stared at me for a moment before tossing me a small pink bag.

“What is this?” I looked down at the soft pink bag that was now in my possession, then I looked back up at her in confusion.

“Just open it,” she replied.

I opened the bag to find that it contained dozens of white pills and a handful of tiny silver blades. They were razor blades. I looked back up and before I could speak, she spoke.

“Nobody wants you here. You are worthless and pathetic. Do you want to continue with your s**t life? I am being nice here. I am offering you an easy way out. Do us all a favor and don’t come back.”

I clenched my fist and every nerve in me wanted to say the words, f**k you. But I refrained from using such profanity. She left the restroom and there I stood alone, holding in my hands what could be a delicate end to my sorry excuse of a life. I snuck into the stall that was farthest from the door. Somewhat excited and somewhat nervous, I opened the bag and pulled out one of the razor blades. I looked down at the pills. There was really no way of identifying what they actually were. I decided that I was content with the blade and set the bag down on the toilet paper dispenser.

I took a deep breath and slid down my skinny jeans. I held my breath as I placed the sharp end of the blade against my skin on the upper part of my leg. It felt cold, but I did not pull away. I carefully and somewhat gently, ran the razor across my leg until a dark red line began to form across my leg. I was somewhat intrigued by the sight of my own blood and a part of me felt relief as I still felt the stinging sensation from the blade. I placed the sharp end of the blade just under the first cut and this time, with a little bit more force, ran the razor across my skin. I did this a couple of more times until there were five red lines across my leg. When the blood began to make little bubbles, I gently placed a piece of tissue paper on top of the cuts until they dried. Once they did, I wrapped up the bloody tissue paper, the razor, and the pink pouch in a paper towel and discarded them in the trash.

~~~

I sank into a deep depression. I never understood up until now how people could let themselves go when there is so much in life to live for. I soon realized, that it was not without difficulty. But like everything else, things eventually begin to spiral out of control when left unnoticed. Sadness had its hold on me for a while now and I was a fool to believe that it would ever just go away. Even with the help of medications and a supportive family, things were never going to return back to normal for me ever again. I was a naïve child to think that they ever would.

Pain became pleasure. I could never forget the stinging sensation of the cold blade against my soft skin. It was a unique feeling and it had a special way of making me feel alive when all hope was lost. Sometimes I even wished that for a moment, just for a moment, others could feel my pain. That way, I would never have to try and explain it. But why should I have to? Why should anyone have to suffer through the intense knot in their throat, trying desperately not to tear up when they tell their own story?

I was tired of being hurt. I never meant to hurt anyone, but I was tired of being hurt. I dreaded the coming of each day more than anything. I had despised who I had become. Nobody seemed to want to look at her anymore and quite frankly, neither did I. I was disgusted with the girl I saw in the mirror. If I had a nickel for every time I spit at my reflection, I would be set for life.

There is nothing more painful than being alone. I looked down at the clock to find that it was only 2:39 am. ‘Maybe’, I thought, ‘just this once, I could make it through one restful night of sleep’, but every night is the same. I sat up in bed to find that I was sitting in a dark room, all alone, and not a sound to be heard throughout the house. I hugged my knees as I hoped for the smallest of positive fleeting thoughts to invade my mind. Still, there was nothing. Since I had nothing else to do and was unable to fall back asleep, I stuck my headphones in my ears and I blasted music on full volume as I got up and began to pace my carpet floors. When I was done, I stepped into my bathroom and opened up the cabinet to dig around for my make-up bag. When I found it, I unzipped the top and peaked inside to pull out a familiar silver blade.

I was tired of being hurt. Maybe I only wanted to hurt myself, but I never meant to hurt anybody else. I was just tired, tired of being alone.

© 2017 Mrs Mania



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Featured Review

This is a powerfully written and very moving piece, describing how someone can suffer from neglect and abuse to the point of losing and sense of self-worth and instead self-harming. It was very enlightening, as well as deeply sad.
So good to have the courage to write this down so vividly.

Posted 1 Month Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Mrs Mania

1 Month Ago

That you for the review, Jibey. I was a hesitant on whether or not I should actually post this one. .. read more
Jibey

1 Month Ago

I could feel the integrity of your writing, based on your own experience. It was powerful and touch.. read more



Reviews

This is a powerfully written and very moving piece, describing how someone can suffer from neglect and abuse to the point of losing and sense of self-worth and instead self-harming. It was very enlightening, as well as deeply sad.
So good to have the courage to write this down so vividly.

Posted 1 Month Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Mrs Mania

1 Month Ago

That you for the review, Jibey. I was a hesitant on whether or not I should actually post this one. .. read more
Jibey

1 Month Ago

I could feel the integrity of your writing, based on your own experience. It was powerful and touch.. read more

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Added on September 21, 2017
Last Updated on September 21, 2017

Author

Mrs Mania
Mrs Mania

Roanoke, VA



About
My name is Paige and I am a twenty-one year old female. I currently work in the mental health field and as a sufferer from manic depression, anxiety, and post traumatic stress disorder, it has always .. more..

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