Psyke.org

Lucy

Am I Crazy?

Copyright Lucy

I’m fourteen. My life isn’t that bad. I do fine at school, I have average friends as well as really good ones and both my parents love me. I also cut my arms and legs. When I was younger my life was pretty great, my dad would take me out with my brother and then my sister as well and then later on my youngest brother joined in (times weren’t so great then) he would take us to the zoo, science museums, etc., and when we got home my mum would be waiting with dinner and hugs. But my mum wasn’t OK. She used to get beaten by her mum as well as other things and was severely depressed (she is still on antidepressants and about three or four months ago was going to kill herself). When I was about four my female cousin touched me, I didn’t fight back, I allowed it to happen and she only did it because she saw me ‘fiddling’ with myself — hell, I was four for fucks sake — it’s natural. But no amount of justification can convince me that it wasn’t partly my fault. I blocked it out for years and when I remembered, well, it hit me hard. When I was about eight my overactive imagination convinced me that my dad was raping me, I would sob in the toilet at night feeling so sick and dirty. I developed OCD and although I beat that it still gets me sometimes — I’ll always be more obsessive than most. I washed my hands until they bled and I had routines that I would panic about if they were broken. My relationship with my dad was already bad by that point, he shouted endlessly, ruined any good times, bullied (always emotionally) all of us, where had the good times with him gone? By ten I was begging my mum to divorce him. When she finally got up the guts to take out an occupational order against him, it took about seven or eight months. I knew all that time, but couldn’t tell anyone I knew. Every time I stood up to him, there was one little thing I could use but I had to keep my mouth shut. When I was about five a boy made me kiss him on his cock. I felt so pathetic and sick. My first year of secondary school was hell, in primary I’d always been a bit of a loner, I was the ‘goody goody’ no-one gave me a chance. I got picked on and to a degree bullied. I had one friend who was my saviour. But when we started secondary we split to different schools and I always had to ring her, even when I was really struggling she wasn’t really there, we had been through so much, some of my happiest memories — the times when my mum was OK and we would all go to dancing competitions (we both did Latin American and ballroom dancing) we would have take-aways. But the minute I stopped phoning her she stopped contacting me — stupid cow, I can’t believe how wrong I was about her. In year seven (first year of secondary) I found some brilliant friends and I was so happy, then it started to fall apart, I was a bit overweight and hated my body, I was very insecure and constantly questioned my friendships. I let them into my house and my heart. Then the gossipping started, it was all so subtle I couldn’t pinpoint it. But I was so unhappy. I constantly questioned what was wrong with me. They started trying to leave me out and I told them to tell me what was wrong so I could change but it just got worse. They would nick things to see my reaction (they always turned up — they weren’t stupid) eventually they asked me to leave the group-leaving me totally alone. I started eating lunch in secret in lessons so I could hide in the library at break and lunch — I couldn’t bear sitting alone outside. Eventually I lost some weight, started hanging around with different people, and the worst person in the group apologised, I forgave them all it was in my nature. I was a Christian completely to the core. Only God was never really there — I gave that up, now I make my own mind up about things. Things were better the next year — I no longer cried my eyes out at night at least. My mum got really depressed and I started to feel responsible for my brothers and sister and tried to get my mum to talk to me. But she just did what she normally did — withdraw, confined to her room so she could talk to friends or write — anyone but me. My brother has behavioural problems so that didn’t help. The only person I could talk to was my mum’s best friend who is twenty-six and a bit crazy but lovely and she was great for me. At the end of year eight I started to talk to one of my friends more (she went to my primary but I didn’t really know her) and found out that she cut herself with razors as well as other things. I grew to love her loads and watching her hurting was so hard, finally I began to crumble inside — I couldn’t cope anymore. At the end of the holidays I was in her room and I scratched a word into my hip — mainly because it looked cool but there was something else there that I couldn’t understand. My mum found out and her disappointment and anger was immense but quite silent — I felt awful. A little while later I felt hopeless and really down so I got out some tweezers and tried to get out the blade — I couldn’t so instead I scratched a bloody line into my leg, I felt so much better, in the days that followed I did it with a compass and then moved onto knives. In about two and a half months I’ve got about fifty cuts and scars, including the word omega (the end) scratched into my arm with a pin. My mum has seen my leg, she doesn’t really understand and sent me a bit crazy when she said I was attention seeking — she wasn’t even supposed to know. I now do it on my arm and refuse to let her see. When my friend that SI’s found out she blamed herself, but I know I’m responsible — I laugh so much with her — it could never be her fault. My mum’s best mate has been fantastic and it’s down to her that I see a shrink now, she is still great to talk to, though she can never fully understand. And then there’s my mum’s best friends brothers girlfriend, she’s nineteen with a baby and is the first person I have felt able to say anything to, I’ve told her almost everything about my life in about three visits!

She’s quite like me, we both think a lot and imagine things really vividly, she used to SI, but thanks to her amazing strength is still here with a future. I feel so comfortable with her and I like being in her flat — I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. So hopefully we’ll talk some more, and go boxing or something.

I cut myself because I wish I was dead a lot, sometimes I feel so numb and I can’t talk or smile, other times I get hysterically unhappy or so angry. Cutting keeps me holding on. I push my ‘normal’ friends away because I’m still finding it hard — but maybe one day I’ll get all of this sorted. All I can say is that you need your friends — I never give up on people. To me this doesn’t sound that bad — sometimes I cut out of guilt — so many people have it worse, I know people that have been beaten almost to death, have had alcoholics for parents, have lived with people that have — or have themselves ADHD or autism. Who have been bullied endlessly and people that have had abortions and people that have been sexually abused for years — what right have I to be so down and to want to kill myself. My life is pretty average — a bloody picnic compared to a lot of people’s lives. So many people go through so much — I struggle to find a point. Oh well, I’m not going to ramble on anymore. I think you all get the picture. There’s more of course that’s not my whole life and it’s not all I think about things. But maybe this will help someone to know they aren’t alone. Chin up. You can e-mail me if u want.

 

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