Confessions of a Survivor

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short story, I suppose..

Submitted: May 12, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 12, 2013




To remain as disclosed as possible, but to continue to be polite as well – we’re just going to say my name is Quiet Alias. I was born in Arizona. I was raised in Arizona. If you were to ever hear the term of someone being broken – all you’d really have to do is look at me. Look at who I am. Look at who I was. Because, believe it or not – I was a very different person from who I am today. Today, I am this… I can’t even describe what I am. I’m strong. I’m timid. I’m bitchy. I’m sweet. I am ruined. I can’t trust for anything anymore. I can’t look in the mirror without seeing some disgusting, ugly slob. I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I used to smile for no reason. I’d laugh at nothing. I found nothing more pleasurable than to chase off a flock of pigeons. Who I used to be, and who I am are two completely different things. I went from cheery to dark. On my own accord? No. Never would I have pictured me to be this way about… seven or eight years. This is where things get complicated. Maybe I should retitle this thing to ‘How to ruin a perfectly nice girl’. But, that’d be a handbook for the very people I resent.

I guess to explain, I had a pretty decent life for my first seven years. You know, lived a house with a white stone fence. My parents loved me, I had two older siblings. I was obvious more intelligent than most kindergarteners. Loved, lovable and loving – I had a nice group of friends. I had the most wondrous kindergarten teacher. Taught us to love, not to hate. To laugh, not to cry. Sometimes, I wished he’d taught us the reality of the world, but hell – we were only five. Some family issues resulted in my immediate family and I being kicked out of house and forced to live in some shitty trailer. Pardon my language, but that’s what it was. In some run-down old trailer park. Full of drug-addicts, wannabe thugs and petty hoods. I was sick the first week I was there, I had a fever. In the middle of July, in Glendale, Arizona. God that was so much fun. I had to switch schools, being out of the district or something. Worst thing that happened to my life.

At the age of seven, I got to see the reality of the world. How hurtful people were to each other. I was teased for being fat. For being tall and for being pale. Along with being intelligent. How do you hate someone for something so positive? I don’t know – ask them. I had my first crush in second grade; I still remember his name – Adam. Up until third grade, no one knew about it. Somehow, in third – everyone knew. I was approached by him in the basketball court; I was never the best player. I liked to try things though. I liked to remain positive as best as I could. He took the ball from me, threw it at my stomach and called me disgusting. Said he’d never feel that way about me. Said I was ugly. Said he’d never like me like I liked him. Then walked away. I stood there, confused as to what had just happened. Little did I know that was the first hit at my sanity. For years after that, he tormented me. Even when I didn’t like him anymore. He was one of the few I will always remember.

I was made fun of by an assortment of people – none of them really realized what they did to me. Even after years of not seeing them – they never noticed the difference. I remember slowly seeing myself change. I stopped smiling. I started feeling hate more than anything. After a while I started cutting and starving myself. Hoping it’d change. The cutting was for multiple reasons. To make sure I was alive. To help identify myself as being the monster – not them. I starved myself so they couldn’t make fun of me for being overweight. I remember how fraudulent they became when I cried. Pretended to care, when in reality – they were making fun of me the very next day. Some cases, beating on me the very next day. I wondered for years if they saw my cuts – if they’d react the same as when they saw my tears. I was a lost child. To myself, a lost cause. For a twelve year older to question God about their existence. To ask if I was just some sort of sick joke.

I think what really made me lose myself is when I was ten. I spent the night at my friend’s house, Joanne was her name. Her father walked out on their family, and it was just her and her mother. From time to time, her mother would have a boyfriend. I cannot recall his name for the life of me. I remember him being… sleazy looking. He had black hair, combed back with hair gel. Cleanly cut eyebrows, but they were thick. He had dark, soulless eyes. But most of all, I remember him being some wannabe Cholo. It’s true. You always remember your first time… no matter how hard you try to repress it. I was sleeping on the couch, Joanne with her mother. He had left hours before, but he came back after we went to bed. I remember being suffocated by the thick comforter when I was pulled off of the couch. After I heard him trying to get into Joanne’s room. I was still dazed – but not enough to completely forget what was going on there. The violation, the unwanted touching. The very essence of my nightmares for years to come. I always dreamed of being a virgin when I got married – funny how life just rips things away from you without batting an eye. I convinced myself I just had a very bad dream. When he was finished, he told me to get back on the couch. To roll over. To close my eyes. And sleep. Nothing more. Not a ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Don’t tell anyone’. Just to go back to bed.

I went back a few days later to play with Joanne. They were gone. Their trailer empty. My friend gone. Taking the man who ripped my dignity away with her. I never did see her again. Day in and day out afterward, I had horrible, lucid nightmares. Though, I told myself over and over and over… It was a bad dream. How much I really wish it was.

I think the bullying died down a bit right before I was ripped out of school by my finally awakened mother. Before I told my mother of my thoughts to commit suicide, I was only twelve I mind you, there was an… incident. Involving me, a girl and a desk. This girl constantly teased me. Constantly put me down. She just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I was putting things away, and she sat comfortably on my desk. Ignoring her words, I just kept in mind I’d be able to walk out of the classroom in ten minutes. It didn’t work when she called me a cunt. After she grabbed my jaw to make me look at her. I literally heard something in the back of my brain snap. I don’t know if it was my sanity. I don’t know if she just pushed me too far – I have no effing clue what it was, but it did something. I grabbed her ponytail, coiled it around my fist and I hit her face into the desk a couple of times before I was yanked away from her. People really didn’t like talking down to me much after that. Perhaps, to keep their own faces intact.

No matter how much therapy I got. No matter how much I tried, I could never shake the feeling of being hated. Of being ugly. Of being fat. I never could be at the same amount of faith with God. I was ruined. I was no longer the happy, go lucky girl that I once was. She was dead.  Long gone; stopped breathing and left a new person in her place. I had multiple ‘friends’ who used me. Got rid of me to seem cool. To completely disregard the fact that I was indeed, human. But, I refuse to speak of them. They’re gone, and got what they deserved. I know they’re all on drugs, or drinking. My ‘best friend’ of six years now has a baby on the way. So, I don’t really care for them anymore. They used me. They got used. And now their lives are pretty much… a mess.

I seemed to lose my self-respect somewhere too… My first kiss was with a twenty year old a little bit before I turned fifteen. Some high-school failure. Wannabe jugalo loser. Never did understand why I went through that, maybe the fact he made me feel important. Like I meant something. When in reality, I knew I didn’t. After years of abuse, damage and being thrown out – I cracked. A little more than a year later, I tried to commit suicide. On January 23, 2013. I was just so convinced my life meant nothing. That I no longer needed to be here. The suicide note pristine, I’m not sure what happened though. I called my mum at six in the morning; she was at work by five. I told her everything. About how I truly, desperately needed help. By about one in the afternoon that same day, I was in a hospital. Waiting to be transferred to another hospital. I remember my brother trying to make it better. He and I share a twelve year difference. My mother kept it together as best as she could. My father… He’s a trucker, but I remember hearing him on the phone. I swear he was about to cry. My sister was of course worried, but I never heard her end of it that day.

On January 24, I was transferred to another hospital with a behavioral health unit of adolescence. To attend therapy. Remember that thing I mentioned when I was ten – yeah, I know it’s not a dream now. They made sure to make me realize it. They reopened that wound. Stuck their finger in it and pulled out the insides of it. I have PTSD, Manic Bipolar Disorder and Anxiety. They put me on medication, and I lied. Said things were helping – when in reality, they weren’t. I wanted to die still. I want to say on the 27th, I came to the realization of what my life truly meant, but I’m unclear of the date itself. We were going to musical therapy. Something I found asinine, since we just sat in a circle and hit drums. This one was different. Instead of a gym, we were taken to a different room. Full of black recliners, and I sat in one away from everyone else. We were told that we were just going to listen to music and draw. I’m a smartass, proud, and I said ‘That’s not exactly musical therapy’. After threatened to be written up, I stopped talking. I was handed this makeshift clipboard, a piece of scrap paper and five colored pencils; green, black, yellow, red and blue. I grabbed the green and black just to scribble. To prevent being written up for not participating.

I watched as the tech put a disk in the single radio that sat at the front of the room. The music was sort of upbeat, and soothing. We listened to two songs, before she skipped two. I don’t know exactly what happened in a logical sense, but the beginning made me look up. Almost as if it was willing me to do so. Everyone sort of panned in and out of white. The words swirled around in my head. I have no clue what so ever, but I started crying for some reason. Because the song scared me? The song comforted me? I don’t know, I’ll let you decide for yourself. After taken back to the unit, and bombarded with questions – I said I was tired. This little ‘outburst’ earned me another day, by the way.

Once I was out of that hell hole, I began to look around on Google. I remember seeing the album cover, so  I typed into Google Images. In an instant, I found the same cover and a name. Which would be Mark Salling. After dotting about for a while and listening to the song over and over. I came to the realization that the song itself had some sort of unreal feel to it. I express myself through music and this was something I had never felt before. I felt calmed, scared and enticed at the same time. In the most basic sense in the world – that song, Confessions of a Ghost, completely saved my life. As stupid as that sounds, it did. If it wasn’t for that song, I’d probably be in the ground by now. I really felt my life had no meaning, but I was able to realize a lot when I pretended to sleep. That I needed to make my life mean something. That I didn’t want to give up – not yet.

Now, about three months later – I’m a lot happier. I’m about to get my GED, and then hopefully start looking at college. Yes, I still have to take medication – no, the song didn’t ‘magically’ remove everything from me. I’m still pretty messed up. I still have my nightmares, but I’m a little bit more positive about life. I don’t feel as if I was a joke. Or that I should die. I really do believe my life has some undercoated meaning that I must discover. I mentioned my cutting habit, earlier – well. On my thighs, they are decorated with cuts, but… On my life thigh, I have covered those ones up. Something to help me look forward. To focus on my dreams ahead. I now have a tattoo that says ‘Follow Your Pipe Dreams’. Now when I look down, I don’t feel negative thoughts anymore. I feel positivity. The positivity that I need to get through a day. If you’re wondering why I am telling you this, I just kind of wish to say thank you. To let you know that you saved my life. I’ve been dying to tell you, but I don’t realistically think that I’m getting the chance – but eh. A shot’s a shot, huh? 

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