NOT A CHAPTER, 100% TRUTHFUL

My name is Sheyenne Merritt, but you know me as Chipmunk Superfan. I am 23 years old, and I am a victim of Child Abuse and Neglect. Not the kind of Child Abuse that can kill on its own, but the kind that can lead to self-harm and suicide. I am Emotionally Abused.

My biological mother is negligent—I had to learn that from my legal mother, her mother-in-law, because I was too young to remember. Mom would give them strawberries and other treats for me, and she would eat them before I got to. She'd sit at the table with me, and feed herself, while I'd stare at the plate with hungry eyes, because she hadn't fed me. That was my first non-snow related flashback.

My grandparents took us in when I was three. My little brother wasn't even a year, and had such a bad diaper rash his butt was bleeding. They only took us because our parents couldn't pay the electric bill. They adopted us when I was five, and they've been allowing the abuse since then.

When I was ten, I lost my grandmother to Lung Cancer. Mom, who'd been taking care of her while I tried to help around the house, decided it was time I become an "adult", and made me start doing the housework while she sat around on the computer. Through it all, I was her strength.

She started telling her son (my birthdad, bipolar and schizophrenic) that I needed punished (she'd do this with my brother too, but I wasn't too focused on him at the time) when I'd do little things that upset her. About this time, we were both put on drugs for ADHD (given to kids when the parents are lazy. Most kids just need to be allowed to run off the energy by playing). The first ones, Strattera, made me sick—I literally puked for a week. The next was Adderall—I too hyper still, but more would've made me a zombie. Finally, they found Concerta. I was on that for five years, then got myself clean. I am still addicted to caffeine when stressed.

I had a cough for six months when I was twelve, caused by anxiety, and had to be pulled out of school to break the cycle. She left me with my biological parents, who, instead of letting me sleep as the doctors ordered, forced me to help them clean the house every day.

My grandfather died when I was fourteen, and we moved into his house. (inheritance rocks!) She'd always told me to be happy I lived in a mobile home, because kids in better houses had worse home lives. I'd have to say that's a lie. Some might, but some would be better off, too. Some, wouldn't be screamed at, for crying over being bullied by her own father.

Things got worse, once we moved. I broke my foot. Within a month of getting back on it (six weeks in a cast, four in a boot, and six weeks of therapy putting this at around March), I was jerked off the couch for saying something to her son (by the son), and then shoved back onto it. I have RSD (Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy, a nerve disorder) to this day. It is worse now than it was then.

This was my first moment of hyper-awareness. I was officially suffering from PTSD.

When I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with Asperger's Disorder, and the abuse just got worse…

Right before the diagnosis (December 14), I was told to check the fire in the middle of a game of Solitaire. I knew I should stop (It may have been Mom, but I could predict the unpredictable nature of a bipolar at this point), but I hate being interrupted, and she said I could finish my game. I got into it, and forgot. Five minutes later, I was being yelled at because the fire went out. He stole my netbook and read through my diary. He threatened my stuffed chipmunks—my only obsession at the time, and still a rather large part of my life.

This marks my first time telling, when I called a friend's mother and asked her to save me. I messed up by running in for the chipmunks, and was forced to call her back and tell her I was fine, and lying, and forced to apologize the next day.

He called me a (and I hate to cuss, so quoting this makes me feel really small…) "Fucking, no-good, lazy-ass Bitch"

I told her—my confidant—everything—the truth. I cannot tell a lie. Aspies are just that way.

He cussed me out, and threw my phone when I was calling Dad, because I was a "Lazy, good for nothing, and [my little brother] was good because he had a job!"

Ten months later (now fifteen, October 15), I was eating lunch on a Sunday, while reading a book. I was asked to clean the kitchen, but allowed to finish my lunch first. I had just gotten inside when her son came in, and yelled at me that it should have already been finished. I let it drop then, that I was going to call the police (OOPS!), and I had my phone taken away. His abusive events were getting closer and closer together. (Score two for hyper-awareness!)

Two years later (May 17), we had just gotten home from the store. I had my bags, with my laptop and other necessary-to-feel-safe things I keep with me, so I put them in Dad's chair while I put the groceries away. He yelled. I moved them to the kitchen (damn it, I have work to do!). He yelled again. I dropped Dad's citrus salad because I was holding a bag wrong. He said I threw it. My first moment of objectivity offered by hyper-awareness.

I had been lent my mother's debit card to get gas, and forgotten it was in my wallet. He pushed me into a bookshelf, yelling that I shouldn't yell at his mother. (HIS mother. Not mine…they were one and the same…)

Things calmed down for a while, after those, but it was the calm before the storm. My mother was in kidney failure, and he was too worried to yell. I had hoped the only physical would be the above, but he shoved me back-first (which is notable, because my spine is sensitive) into the narrow edge of the bathroom door when he noticed I was waiting around the corner for him to leave before going back to my room. I had cried on my Aunt the day before, because I knew my mommy was dying. (score three for hyper-awareness. She died May 22, 2014). He kept yelling "You don't care about my mother! You never cared about my mother!" and pushing me into the door. I didn't do anything wrong…

On January 31, 2014, the other shoe dropped. I'd gotten up to help Mom get dressed for her dialysis appointment (she was too weak to do it herself, but I don't care about my mother…) on only 2-3 hours of sleep. I heard the too-familiar sound of a truck stuck in the snow, and, when he proved it in the doorway, my reaction to irony and illogic (laughing) kicked in. I was forced to shovel snow. When my cries for help (in the form of an abused child's angry rants) fell on deaf ears, I tried to run, but exhaustion mixed with near-meltdown stress levels, and I collapsed to my knees less than ten yards away. He called after me, in this sickly-sweet tone…

"I just wanted you to help me…"

So I foolishly went back. He threw a shovel of snow at me, and, from exhaustion, I can't say for sure if it went on my head first, or in my face, but I did get both, with a single snowball catapulted from my shovel in between. He used my brother's truck to get his out, then sent him to Taco Bell. Then he said this to me, after Mom was in his truck…

"I want this driveway cleared by the time I get back, or I'm gonna drown you in a bucket of water, and if you go back to bed, I'll throw water on you until you drown."

I did what any self-respecting abused child would—I ran. I waited until he was out of sight, then called the woman I confided in. She had to rescue her husband, so I started walking—wearing pink rubber mucking boots without socks. I still have the scars on my heels.

It didn't last, this time. I had called Dad, and Dad called Mom. Mom called her, and he called me. Both sent me back to the danger zone. As she pulled away, my confidant said…

"If he does it again, you need to call the police. They do this every day."

He did, so I did. He came into my cousin's house, where I was hiding (and trying to sleep. I was exhausted). He yelled at me in front of her kids (at the time, 7, 5, and 2), then said everything I had taken with me (security blanket, pillowpet, laptop, stuffed dog from dead grandmother, ETC.) belonged to him, then sent me to shovel a 5 foot drift.

I was shaking so bad, I thought I'd drop my phone in the snow (It's the one thing that wasn't in the pile of my stuff). I dialed 911, and flipped out on the poor dispatcher. He (or she; I was too panicked at this time to even notice) sent a Sherriff's unit to my house. I was, for once, praying for abuse to continue. I wanted him doing something he'd get taken away for. I wanted to be safe.

He wasn't, though. He was sitting in the running van while I was in the cold, shoveling when I can't handle manual labor (I'll collapse). The moment the cruiser pulled up, I ran to the officers, and hid behind them. That moment is still so clear in my mind, I can even remember what I said.

"Don't let him get me!"

They didn't. He stormed off, after a gun, I'd learn later (he was going to shoot Officer McFarland, and said the blood would be on my hands). The officer made calls, using my phone, while I tried to tell his partner all the offences my biological father had done (and forgot over half. He "owned" my abuse record book, at that time).

I wound up with my confident, but all was not well. Dad picked me up the next day, and they took everything—my nook, my laptop (I need it to function at my age level), my TV—anything that was possible tech got taken. I was punished for telling the truth. My aunt even sat on me. I went into survival mode (as in, you-hurt-me-I-kill-you mode) and tried to grab a knife. She slammed the drawer on my fingers. (OUCH!).

The snow, which used to be something I loved, is now terrifying to me. I keep flashing back to that day, sometimes optical, sometimes auditory, sometimes both at once. I was diagnosed in June, 2016, with PTSD, which means I've been untreated for years, and am still such at this moment. It is my own courage that has brought me to this point. I will not be a Wild Rebel Rose. I will not be a Concrete Angel. I will not be a victim, or another statistic.

I will be a survivor.

The following story is not my true story (that's above), but it will have several true points. I am not changing my name, or the names of my true family. I have based several OC's off people I know—the key one being the little sister (I don't have one personally), who is based off my best friend, and my confidant's daughter.

I have changed names of innocents. I will not change the names of the guilty parties. I am still unaware of the first ten years of my life. I do not know if I was truly abused (as in beaten), or if I was treated fairly at all by my biological parents. The event with the trash can in Abuse was my first memory. I am not aware of my actually being battered, but I do remember hiding.

I won't set deadlines, because I don't work well with them, but I will post as often as I can. I am terrified my biological parents will read it.

Remember, though, to report suspected Child Abuse. It shouldn't hurt to be a child.

I don't own transformers, or any other series I may randomly toss into this. I will not repeat this disclaimer. I tend to forget about them.