The "Story of My Life"

Middle School

When I was 10 years old, we were remodeling our upstairs bathroom. Like most kids, my brothers and I were freaked out by all the change. The hole in the ceiling, the big scary machines in the kitchen, draining out the water out of the floor. Little did we know that my daddy was draining the life out of my mother on the second floor.

You see, the bathroom sat directly above the kitchen. When the pipes broke, the water drained into the kitchen. This left a good-sized hole in the floor, or ceiling depending on where you stood. You could hear everything in the house during this time. Such as the first time I saw my father lay his hands on my mother. They were arguing about something I can’t remember now. I was just eating my McDonald’s at the table; at 10 years old, I hear my father call my mom things I never would have believed.

At 10 years old, I was terrified of my father. This was my mother, my mommy. At 10 years old, I cried at the table by myself. Later that night, like most children, wanted to help my dad remodel the bathroom. Of course this included drawing all over the fresh Sheetrock before our creations were covered in fresh tan paint.

At 10 years old, rather than drawing pretty pictures and being a child, I wrote “dad, do not hurt my mom” on a wall with a violet crayola marker. Still today, you can find this under that not-so-fresh tan paint.

You can also find these words in every step, every thought of my father since this day.

At 11 years old, I went to middle school just like any other 6th grader. I was not mentally prepared for anything that followed. When you start middle school, you begin to feel like an adult, like you're finally becoming independent. Most kids start dating in middle school, and like most kids, I did. There was one boy in particular that always sparked my eye. He was a bad boy, unlike anyone I had met before. He was a little older than me, and my parents hated that, but I think that just made me love him more. He played the guitar and smoked cigarettes in the middle school bathroom. Just picture the devious bad boy all the girl loved in school, and that was him for me.

(To this day, I remember the date we got together. And that was 7 years ago, who remembers a date like that?)

On and off for two years, this boy was my entire life. We spent every waking moment talking to eachother, for two years. These two years were probably the most damaging two years of my entire life. He was extremely abusive. I know what you're thinking, how can a middle school boy be abusive? You're just kids. You're telling me a 13 year old boy didn't know that it wasn't okay to push his girlfriend against a wall, or knock her down on the sidewalk during an argument? He would constantly try to pressure me into sex, but I never gave in. Never once.

At 11 years old, he taught me what "cutting" myself was. He did it and told me that it might help me too. So I tried it, and instantly I was addicted. This was the first glimpse at my addictive personality. I continued to cut on and off for, well, I still do it on occasion. Shortly after I started cutting myself, my parents noticed. They handled the situation all wrong, but I was their first born, of course they didn't know how to handle it. They took me to the emergency room to have me evaluated. I ended up in a pediatric psych ward for a week and a half. This was my first of many ward stays it turns out.

At 13 years old, we were walking home from school one day and he pulls out a cigarette and insists I take a hit. I begged him not to make me, but he told me that he would tell everyone that we had sex if I didn't, so I did. It was the most vile thing I had ever tasted in my life, and I vowed I would never smoke ever again (Ha). Shortly after this, he moved school districts and our relationship fell apart.

To this day, I will never forget his name, the emotional damage he placed on me. I hate him and I will never forgive him. But I can never be mad at him.