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Raven Angel

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Copyright, Raven Angel

This is my story. Anger and sadness have brought me to where I am, to where I only fit in.

I always longed for a mother to brush my hair when I was younger, a mom that I could laugh with, a mom that I could turn to. Instead, at the age 2 my parents divorced because my mom was too much for my dad to handle, she had paranoid schizophrenia. So I was left with my dad, my two sisters and brother. Things were okay, for a while, until grade 5. We seemed to be happy, but once that front door was shut, my dad got violent. Flipping couches, hitting, kicking, punching, and throwing chairs, shoes and whatever else when he got angry. I never told anybody. My dad’s favorite victim has always been me. It gradually got worse over a couple of years. People were always picking on me. I hated the world at the age 11.

My sister left home once, because my dad had thrown a piece of wood at me and broke the ceiling fan. It went on. I never told anybody. I always wished I was never born. Eventually I was introduced to a world of cutting. I had thought about killing myself, but never went to any extremes. On october 7th 2001 when my friend killed himself; it was too much. My dad yelling at me all the time about how I was doing everything wrong. I got fed up and I took a steak knife; and every time things hurt too much I’d cut myself to calm down and then I’d be able to sleep. Around christmas time I found a new tool, the exacto knife, it made me bleed more, and I liked the stinging it left. Sometimes things would hurt so much I’d end up cutting myself over a hundred times. It was then I realized I had a problem, but I had nowhere to turn. My friends would disown me and my boyfriend didn’t approve of it anyways.

I turned to it every time I got upset, every time I was angry. And that happened a lot. It still happens all the time. I was put in a group home for about a month because of the abuse at home, but that didn’t matter because I’m back home now, and there’s nobody to protect me from the names, from the hits, from the memories, from the pain. No escape.

I went back to cutting after a month of not cutting. I had never used my razorblade because my ex-best friend told me he cut himself with one once and his hand was numb for a week. Then last night, I was cutting my thigh because I can’t get away with cutting my arm when it’s summer here and my dad would go insane on me, so I took the razorblade; and it bled more than any of the cuts I’ve ever had. I’ve found a new relief.

People say cutting is horrible, they criticize it, people look at me like I’m a freak. They say that I should stop cutting because if I wanted to die so badly, I’d already be dead. But the blood, the cutting, it calms me down so I don’t kill myself. I’d already be dead if it weren’t for cutting. And maybe, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll hit the wrong spot when I’m cutting, and that’ll be the end of me. I can’t wait until grade 9. Another world of horror. I don’t want to go to high school. It’s not like anybody will like me. Nobody has ever actually liked me.

The girl who had her innocence taken away by her suroundings.

 

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