My Painful Stories [part one]

I have been many things in my short 23 years of life.

That's just the short list. It could go on and on. But these are the things that have led me to be the person I am today.

 

single mother.

 

I have learned so much from each of these experiences and I want to share these parts of my life with you. But I know that it could potentially hurt a number of people if I do, and I don't want to hurt anyone- especially my family. They are far more important to me than sharing my history with the blogging world.

 

But I will go through some bits and pieces because it will help me to work through some of the emotions and pain I am currently experiencing. It's been an emotional day in our home and, as I have said before, writing is how I find peace within myself.

 

Telling these stories from my past is likely to be very emotional experience for me. And because of that I intend to write about these experiences one at a time. If I tried to write it all in one post, it would be a very long post and I would be emotionally and mentally exhausted by the end of it. As it stands, I am likely to be emotionally and mentally exhausted just writing about it in pieces. So please bear with me as I write this out over a series of posts.

 

Now, here I sit, about to share things that hardly anyone in my life knows.

 

Imagine you are nine years old. You live in a home with your mother, father, sister, brother and grandmother. You are getting towards that "tween" stage, sharing a room with your younger sister who annoys you and watching your little brother get away with just about everything. You are at war with you parents on a daily basis over the most trivial of things. You just want to be left alone.

 

And then your whole world is turned upside down because your mom has finally decided to tell you that your father isn't actually your father. Your biological father left when you were a baby and didn't want to pay child support so he bailed on you and gave up his rights like he couldn't care less.

 

Oh, and you have a half-sister who is a year older than you and wants to meet you.

 

Welcome to a day in my life at nine years old.

 

I really didn't know what to say after that conversation. My mom told me what she did and that was basically the end of it. She didn't want to talk about it, she didn't want to dwell on it. I think that she refused to discuss the topic of my biological father because she still hurt from the whole experience herself. And maybe her pain caused her to be unable to see mine? Maybe her heartache at having to tell me this and relive it was too much for her to see and understand how much pain it could, and did, bring me? I don't know. It's something that has puzzled me for nearly 15 years.

 

My mother did take me to meet my sister, though. We met at the mall, had lunch, did some shopping and had a good day. It was an awkward day, but a good day. I mean, what was I supposed to say to this sister of mine that I hadn't ever known? I hadn't even known she existed a week before! That's a lot for a nine year old child to take in and try to make sense of if you ask me.

 

And so began the craziness in my head. As I thought more and more about meeting my sister and started getting to know her a bit (through letters and occasional phone calls because she lived out-of-state) I thought more and more about my biological father.

 

At first I was intrigued. I wanted to know about him. My grandmother talked with me about it a little bit, and my new-to-me big sister was willing to talk about him, but still my mom wouldn't say a word. If I got anything it was just that he left and he didn't want me.

 

And that was what I took to heart and remembered.

 

My father didn't want me.

 

Well, that led me down the path to a number of questions. Why didn't he want me? Did he think I was ugly? Did he hate my mother? Was he unhappy when my mom got pregnant? Was I the worst thing that ever happened to him? Why did he leave us? Did he ever try to come back? What led to him giving up his rights? Was I not worth a little bit of effort?

 

And knowing that he was still a part of my big sisters life took me down another path. Why wasn't I good enough? Was I a bad baby? Was my sister cuter than I was? Why did she deserve to know him but I didn't? What was the difference between us?

 

All of these questions built up inside me and led to a very unhappy, very unhealthy Christine. I spiraled down into a massive depression and we all know that is never a good thing.

 

*Enter Depressed Christine*

 

Now, Depressed Christine managed to appear okay for a really long time. Depressed Christine knew how to put a smile on her face and look like she was the happiest girl in the entire world. Depressed Christine knew how to fool everyone- her family, her friends, her dance teachers, everyone. Depressed Christine went along acting like everything was fine.

 

But Depressed Christine soon realized that she wasn't feeling much anymore. She wasn't happy, but she wasn't sad. She wasn't angry, but she wasn't calm, cool and collected. So Depressed Christine decided that she had to do something to feel again.

 

Depressed Christine soon began wearing long pants and sweatshirts on a daily basis. Depressed Christine wore jeans and sweatshirts in the spring, and through the summer. Depressed Christine would claim she was like her mother and just got cold really easily and was freezing all the time.

 

Depressed Christine had started cutting and was hiding it from the world.

 

I started out cutting myself at school. With a mechanical pencil. All up and down my arms. I then took to cutting my legs, low enough that any cuts or scars would be covered by my socks at dance classes, and high enough that they would be covered by my shorts at dance. I could often pass these off as little cuts from my razor. I still wore the sweatshirt all the time, even during my two hour dance classes. I eventually moved on to only using the razor blade on my arms and legs.

 

So now I was Depressed, Cutter Christine.

 

Talk about a bad place to be when you're only 11 years old.

 

And that's where I am going to leave this today. I may be able to write more tomorrow, I may now. It may take me a week to gather up the strength and courage to write the next piece. I honestly don't know. We will have to see.

 

 

Just know that I am not the girl I wrote about anymore. I am far from being that girl and I intend to stay far away from being that girl for the rest of my life.