Trigger warning: Self-injury, sexual abuse, suicide attempt.
"To those who abuse: the sin is yours, the crime is yours, and the shame is yours. To those who protect the perpertrators: blaming the victims only masks the evil within, making you as guilty as those who abuse. Stand up for the innocent or go down with the rest."
'I don't know why I have to do this. I don't know how to do this. But, I guess, this is where I tell my story. My struggles. For once in my life, I want to. I want my story to be known...
There's this stigma attached to every thought I have, associated with my mother. This deeply rooted, undeniable, feeling of shame. Worthlessness. It was her choice, though, to keep me to full term - despite knowing that that would potentially kill her. It's not the fact that she had me, that makes me feel guilty. It's the fact that she remained pregnant with me, while the possibility of death loomed over her head. She kept me. And, I killed her. She gave me life, and I snatched it away from her.
She died with me in her arms. Holding onto me, clinging to life with each laboured breath. Blood loss is what killed her. I don't understand why she kept me, but she did. If it wasn't for me, she'd still be alive.
It was hard enough, you know, growing up without her. My older brother and sister loved me unconditionally. But my father resented me. He hated me for killing the woman that he loved. He blamed me for her death. I began to blame myself. Everyday he would tell me how much he hated me, and how he blamed me for killing his beloved Karura. It's funny, how I remember his hateful words. I guess they've been permanently etched into my memory.
I was four when the beatings began.
He never laid a hand on my brother or sister. I was the only one he took his anger out on. I remember having to wear long sleeved shirts almost constantly; to hide the bruises. I remember one night, I woke up crying from a nightmare. He came into my room yelling at me to "shut the fuck up" or he'd make me. I realized I had wet the bed, which isn't uncommon for a four year old. But he became furious. He shoved my face right into my own mess, making me gag. He began to beat me, telling me that I was a fucking failure. A fucking mistake. The next morning my sister came into my room, and asked what had happened to my eye. I lied to her, and told her I had accidently ran into the edge of the bathroom counter. She believed me.
I wish I could say that the beatings were the worst of it. But they weren't.
I was six when the rape began.
He had stopped beating me. I thought that everything was going good, for once. There was no yelling. No hitting. No crying. I was wrong. Gods, I was so wrong.
One night, about a week after I had turned six, he came into my room. I was cowering in fear, hiding under my covers - afraid that he was going to start beating me again. I should've known something was different, when he didn't turn on the light. He sat on the edge of my bed, and pulled the covers from over my head. He sat beside me, stroking my hair. Talking to me. He asked me if he was a good father. I nodded my head, and told him he was. That he was my dad, and he was a good father. He asked me if I loved him. I told him I did, that he was my father and who wouldn't love their father? He asked me to prove it to him.
He asked me to undress, I did. I didn't know why he wanted me to undress, but I did. He then undid his pants, and pulled them down to his thighs. An uneasy feeling had begun to form in the pit of my stomach, but I choked it back. I asked him what was in between his legs, and why was it standing. He grabbed my hand, and placed it on his arousal. I tried to squirm away, his grip tightened. He then told me to lay down on my stomach, reluctantly I did. When he clamped his hand around my mouth, I knew something wasn't right. Before I even had the chance to try and squirm away...I felt this excruciating pain. My screams were muffled by his hand, and the pain only intensified. It felt like I was being torn in two, it felt like no pain I had ever felt.
It felt like an eternity. He shuddered and continued to ram mercilessly in and out. I felt blood trickling down the back of my thigh, as he continued to fuck me. The lube he was using to fuck me...it was my own blood.
He raped me countless times, over the course of the next two years.
I was eight when he ran out on my brother, sister and myself. My sister, at 15 years old, took on the responsibility of raising my brother and I.
I didn't tell Kankuro, or Temari, about the rapes. I didn't think they'd believe me, when I told them that our father was the one who did it. I thought that they would blame me. Just like he blamed me. So, I just kept it to myself. Tucked away in the inner most recesses of my mind, it was my secret. My trauma. But, I never forgot about it. Each day I was bombarded with flashbacks, but I forced myself to carry on - and act like I was OK, even when I was dying on the inside.
I was 13 when I started to cut myself.
The first time, it was an accident. I was cutting up some tagboard with an exact-o knife, to make a card for my sister. My hand slipped, and I accidently knicked myself on my arm. I was transfixed on the little bead of crimson that had formed. I watched as it trickled down my arm, and I wondered if it would get the same result if I did it on my wrist. I made a cut on my wrist, and was infatuated. The colour of my blood matched my hair. I can't explain it. But...I felt alive. That sting of pain felt amazing.
Before I knew it, I was hooked. Whenever my emotions got too intense for me, whenever reality became too much for me to handle, I would grab the blade. When I turned 14, I knew I wasn't normal. I mean, I had had these feelings as a kid. These little crushes, even before my 'father' started to rape me. I thought it was some phase back then, but my feelings were solidified. I knew I was gay. I came out to Kankuro and Temari the night before I turned 15. Kankuro was fine with it. But Temari...she wouldn't talk to me. For two weeks she acted as if I didn't exist.
She walked into my room one night, to grab some of my clothes to do laundry. She didn't know I was home. She shook her head and grabbed some of my dirty clothes, and put them in the laundry basket. I remember she frowned as she saw red stains on some of my shirts. She looked over to me, and blinked. I had my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater, my right hand was clutching my beloved exact-o knife. She said I was bleeding, and motioned towards my left arm. Sure enough, droplets of blood were falling from the sleeve. I remember her lunging towards me and yanking the sleeve up. She cried, and hugged me. Saying that she never meant for me to harm myself. That she just didn't know how to adjust to me being gay. She said she didn't care who I liked, as long as I was happy. The worst part? I let her believe it was her fault.
I promised her I wouldn't cut again.
I couldn't tell her, or Kankuro, the real reason behind my self-mutilation. I just couldn't.
Several months later, I broke down...One night, it became too much for me to handle. The memories. The guilt. I couldn't take it anymore. I took my exact-o knife, and I cut. And, I cut. And, I cut. And...I cut.
How many cuts could I count? How many could I place in time and context? I have to admit...I can't remember the occasions of almost any of them, their catalysts, whether epic or mundane...completely obscured by time. There were so many moments of unendurable pain, now utterly forgotten.
I don't know how many cuts I made on my wrists. All I knew, was that I was feeling relief. I don't remember how long I lay on the bathroom floor, with my back against the tub. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I must've passed out, because the next thing I remember is my brother screaming for my sister to call 9-1-1. I remember him, and my sister, crying as they held me - waiting for the ambulance to arrive. I remember a paramedic saying he was shocked at how much blood I had lossed. The next thing I remember is being rushed on a stretcher to the operating room.
I don't know how long I was in surgery. I don't know how long I was out.
As I walked between the lines of life and death...I saw my mother. She held me in her arms, and she let me cry. She held me and rubbed my back as I sobbed. She told me she loved me, that she always has and always will. She told me she knew she would probably die if she gave birth to me. But she didn't care, she valued my life over her own. She told me that I have to get help for my cutting, that I have to tell my siblings what happened to me. She told me she would always be there for me, that all I would have to do is search my heart for strength - and she would handle the rest.
I woke up to Temari and Kankuro sitting by my hospital bed, they were talking about how they were bad siblings. How they wished they would've been better. How it was their fault that I did this.
I turned my head and looked at them, and I used most of my strength to slightly lift my right arm - which was wrapped from my elbow to my wrist. Kankuro looked over and cried out in happiness. They both rushed to my side, and apologized. I weakly shook my head. I knew what I had to do.
I told them everything. I told them about how our father used to beat me to a bloody pulp. I told them how I used to always wear long sleeves to hide the bruises on my arms. I told them about the verbal abuse. I told them how I was a whore - how our father raped me. I couldn't bring myself to tell them that he raped me more than once though.
Two months after my trip to the hospital, I turned sixteen. The following month, I was sent here. The first four months I hated it here...but then, I found acceptance. I made friends, and met people who knew emotional pain. I found a love interest...he's stayed by my side, even when I tried to push everyone here away. There's probably some policy here about roommates getting involved with eachother, I don't know...but, that's besides the point. You've all helped me. I thought it was all my fault. I never thought I'd live to see the day, where I realized...none of it was my fault. For the first time in my life, I can smile a genuine smile. I can laugh a genuine laugh. I know I don't have to run and hide anymore.'
Gaara was taken back when everyone in his group therapy session stood up and clapped. He blinked, and looked at the group therapy leader then at his boyfriend. The group therapy leader wiped stray tears from his eyes, and held up his hand to signal for the group to stop clapping. "You're an inspiration here. To everyone here at this residential treatment facility. I'm glad you shared your story, and I'm glad we make you feel accepted. And, I thank you for sharing your story."
The rest of the group nodded. The red head's boyfriend, another resident - and his roommate - at the residential facility, came up to him and hugged him. "It's easy to give up. It's easy to run and hide from a painful past. It takes true strength, to carry on. To face your past, and to share your struggles. You're an inspiration to me." the raven haired boy said softly.
"Nothing is more beautiful than a smile that has struggled through tears"