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Awareness, Journal, Personal, school

When I’m at school, I have to pose the question to myself “Am I trying to seclude myself, or are they excluding me?”.

While I’m not actively trying to befriend people, I feel like it’s both. I don’t want to put myself out there and try to make new friends because when I did last year they mostly turned out to be annoying idiots – they didn’t originally come off that way, but when I got to know them and realized they were dumb fucks, they wouldn’t leave me alone.

I did appreciate them, because I was scared in this new setting, but after awhile I realized I would rather be alone than deal with idiocy – people who don’t strive for better or even care.

Now, I’m becoming a hopeless recluse who is totally obsessed with a girl who is out of my league – she’s smart, chill, driven, beautiful, and doesn’t want a relationship. I can understand why too – in the world outside of school I am all of those things too. But I didn’t know what was and wasn’t important within the halls of high school. Like having an abnormally high GPA, playing sports, having a very defined style that you don’t divert from. I have none of those things because outside of these halls, those things mean nothing. Actually nothing. They’re just traits – while here, it defines you. I might be a totally awesome person who is a 10 outside of high school, because people/adults value different things. Though in high school, I’m simply a loner with an average GPA and a personality they can’t put in a box. I’m undefinable, and they don’t like that.

I don’t fit into any single group, and it becomes ostracizing. No one invites me to be in their groups for prom, they assume I’d go with another group. I don’t eat with anyone at lunch unless I go to a club. I fit with the feminists, the potheads, the intellectuals, the geeks, the hardcore party crowd, the only people I don’t exactly vibe with are the preppy jock kids. Don’t mind, though – they’re mostly idiots.

I’m like a floating leaf, going from one place to the next without a care – not travelling in a group – simply going with the wind on my own.

I’m tired of being alone, though.
I don’t want to be with dumb people.
No one seems to stick.

 

 

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I Need To Hear It

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry

I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.

It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”

maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing

“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?

Listen to me.

Just fucking listen to me.

I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.

I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.

Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
isn’t normal.
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.

I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.

That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.

I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..

I Don’t Want To Be a Victim

Awareness, Blame, Domestic Violence, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

An issue that poses itself after having been a “victim” of domestic violence is that if it happens to someone more than once, which is statistically quite likely, people can assume that you’re not very credible or don’t know what abuse is, or simply favor playing the victim.

I want to state, for the record, that I have never wanted to be a victim.

I want to be happy, healthy, and safe.

You’d think that if a kid came to you and said they were being bullied on the playground, you’d listen.

And if that same kid came back and said another kid was bullying them, you might think (unless you’re a piece of shit) that there’s an issue with bullying at this kids school.

Well my playground is home, and my bullies happen to be the men my mom bring into my life. They are people that I share a bathroom with, that sleep not even seven feet away from me, they are people who I am not related to by blood or marriage – and who do not pursue any kid of healthy relationship with me. He’s here to fuck my mom and use her for weed money.

But these same people, or Person really, feels entitled to discipline me in his own fashion.

He disciplines me in ways that the scientific method has not proven effective in any conclusive way that promotes one’s mental health.

He uses fear tactics – physical threats, screaming, breaking things to invoke fear. He has never beat me, but has grabbed me while angry. Which brings me to my next point, my mom had a rule that she taught my sister and I when we were younger – to never lay a finger on someone when you were angry.

There were no exceptions.

Laying a finger on someone when you were mad, or worse yet, physically hurting them when you were angry, never led to anything positive.

I have listened to her, I haven’t hit anyone or gotten in fights. But when it comes to this man, who I will not call her boyfriend, because at this point he is an abuser – when it comes to him, these same rules that she has set for us do not apply to him.

He can grab my wrists when angry, he can scream at the top of his lungs and point a finger in my face, he can bruise my little sister’s back for bringing milk upstairs – he can cause damage to our belongings by throwing them and damage to my mother’s daughters by physically hitting us and using what is clearly verbal abuse.

When I brought my opinions to my mom, carefully laid out, I stated that I simply couldn’t see how she can ignore the signs of abuse, to which she responded that she couldn’t possibly see how I did.

Two days ago, I posted this image on facebook:

Spanking.jpg

And I will admit, 1) it’s obviously incredibly biased, and 2) it is the kind of post that when I see someone who I disagree with posting it, I roll my eyes and internally scream something along the lines of “MY GOD YOU NEED SCIENCE” – but it said what I was thinking. So I posted it.

The topic reminded me of how my dad would whip me with a belt and leave bruises on my ass. It reminds me of when he would hit me so hard repeatedly that I would be sore for days.

I consider that abuse – even though it wasn’t the only abusive thing he did to me or my family. I feel the need to say that. I feel the need to qualify my abuse. To make it seem serious, because not nearly enough people see abuse as it is.

But even though I didn’t post this with the man my mom brought into my home in mind, he commented on it taking a defense.

He knows very well how guilty he is. He knows what he has done is wrong.

Yet he had the audacity to tell my oldest sister that she was projecting her anger on to him, being childish, and playing the victim.

My mom jumped to his aide as well, and used the same example she has every time we’ve argued about spanking – about the kid who runs into the street and puts them-self in danger.

Which apparently merits hitting your child. Because, hey! They survived! Let’s give them a beating so they wish they hadn’t!

But honestly, let’s break this down.

So it’s okay to discipline your child with a firm spanking, when they are putting them-self or others in danger. Alright, I can acknowledge that this isn’t devoid of logic. No one wants their kid to cause harm – but what about those other times this form of discipline has been exerted? And what is there to be said about using this method regularly? Because if the purpose truly is to strike fear and create a memory about what not to do, then this should not be overused. That is simply psychology – if physical discipline is used repeatedly and often, the child will grow to not fear or learn from the experience (I’ll likely write another post about whether or not it is ethical to use fear tactics while raising a person, because I don’t exactly agree with that).

The aforementioned milk incident, when my young sister brought a cup of milk upstairs? (which had a lid on it, I might mention. It was a sippy cup) Did that require a spanking? How about the time she was crying in the corner because she was exhausted, as four year old’s get, and he aggressively made his way down the stairs to spank her repeatedly (not even aiming at her hind anymore, but instead hitting any surface of her body which was available) and leaving bruises on her back, and welts where his hand had been? Sure. It shut her up. Sure, she isn’t crying and he was able to go back to his room and smoke some pot and go back to his jobless life of mooching off my mom’s income, like he has been doing for the last two and a half years.

Did the milk merit a beating of such caliber? Did the sad toddler in the corner, who felt isolated and unwanted, who expressed this through tears, did she deserve to be beat? Was that a worthy enough cause for him? Is that justifiable?

If it is, shame on him.

This child has gone through enough, she has to visit her depressed father every other weekend who doesn’t even properly bathe her. She has to watch him be an emotional mess – he cries in front of her.

There’s a fine line between discipline and abuse, but to me, violence will always be violent. Hitting will always be hitting. I don’t care if it’s on my ass or across my face, this is my body, my autonomy, my life and mental health you had in your hands and you fucking obliterated it.

To caregivers, parents, or siblings out there – it is your responsibility that these young people are okay. You are responsible for the mental health of these people. You are responsible for their well-being. Their perspective on life. You are everything they have. You are their consistency, their world. Make their world as great as you can, give them every possible opportunity you can. Their worlds depend on you.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am not Bryan’s victim, or my dad’s. I am no one’s victim, no one’s abuse toy, I am an independent individual who doesn’t rely on an abuser to give herself an identity. I am not your victim. My sister is not your victim. We are fucking strong, we hate you and your actions with a writhing passion, and I don’t care what delusions my mom has about you and what you have done, but I am no fool. I see your bullshit. I see your phony grandeur. You are nothing more than a sack of flesh who abuses children who are not even your own. You left your daughter in Australia and had to take a moment to remember her name, you use my mother for pot money and haven’t even applied for a job since moving here, you sit in your chair that my mom bought for you, smoke weed that she bought for you, you sit under a roof she pays for, use a computer she funded, and internet which she bought for you.

Get a life. Stop abusing those who are bridled into living in close proximity to you. You are a fucking loser.

Asking for It.

anti feminism, Awareness, beautiful, Beauty, Blame, equality, Failure, feminism, fuck you, Her, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, sexual harassment, stalker, Street Harassment

Adult men and teenage boys should stop following women on the street. Men should stop making unsolicited comments on women’s bodies. They should humanize themselves and the women they are doing these things to.

Today, the 8th of October 2016, a grown man followed me in his SUV. He consciously made the decision to follow a young girl, by removing his parked car from a parking lot to driving alongside her at a walking pace. This man, whoever he is, watched me walking and thought, “I should get her in my car”. I can’t allow myself to imagine what would have happened to me if he had gotten me inside of his SUV.

All this happened on the street I live on. He targeted me not even a block from my home. As I was walking, I realized I couldn’t go home – I couldn’t give him such precious information.

This was the second time a man followed me while in a car. This was the fourth time a man I was unfamiliar with has made an unsolicited comment about my body while in public. All of these things have happened this year. I am only sixteen years old. How much worse will this get as I get older?

It is disgusting that grown men can freely gawk at underage girls and have virtually no punishment.

In more than one way, I have been fortunate. I have only had these experiences during daylight. I have always been in moderately public places, and they have never used force or violence towards me. But those things have happened to other women, and I wouldn’t doubt that the men who have harassed me are capable of sexually assaulting, kidnapping, or raping their victims.

I am also fortunate that the police made no comment on my attire – they didn’t slut shame me for wearing a crop top, a short skirt, and wedges. They are taking my case seriously, despite the fact that they could get away with a simple “she was asking for it”. In fact, the two officers were very receptive and gave me a lot of comfort after the incident.

“Hey you!”
I turned. A man, in a car? Okay. Continued walking, crossed the street. Don’t acknowledge him, hopefully he’ll go away. Walking, I heard a car come up behind me. Is it him? It’s not him, don’t worry. This wouldn’t happen to you again. This stuff only happens like, once.. Right? The car came up from behind, it slowed down, approaching me. Nearly stopping, it crawled to a walking pace.”Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be walking,” he said “let me give you a ride.”
“It’s alright,” I said, “I don’t need a ride, thank you,” I looked directly in his eyes as I said the last bit.
He continued to follow me. Hoping he couldn’t see how nervous he made me, I refrained from wiping the sweat off my brow. Why isn’t he going away? I want him to go away.
“You really are pretty,” my chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe.
“Come on, let me give you a ride,”
Why? So you can rape me? He sped away, turning around just a little ways ahead of me. He stopped. Why did he stop? Is he waiting for me? Is he going to try to run me over? Is he going to get out of his car and try to take me? His car started to move again. I let out an audible sigh. Coming closer to me, I figured he would just drive away. Of course he didn’t. Approaching me again, he rolled down his window, “Hey pretty girl,” he waited for a response. I gave none.
“Okay, fine, be that way.” He was angry. Sped away.

I rushed home, tripping over my wedges, I nearly sprained my ankle. I just wanted to be safe. Never had I felt so alarmed when I could see home – my safe zone.

I made it inside, sat down in the sofa and looked at my door. A noise outside startled me. is it him? No. There were children’s voices. I was safe. But I couldn’t stop staring at the door. I got up to lock it, then proceeded to lock myself in the bathroom and look up harassment on my phone.

Fake Faced Cunt

anti feminism, Atheism, Awareness, beautiful, Beauty, bisexual, equality, feminism, fuck you, Her, Humanist, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Memories, Personal, school, Sexuality, Uncategorized

So I might have mentioned that I was going on a school trip to San Francisco, and if I didn’t, well.. My bad.

But I went. It was my second time there and it was really fun.

But The Little Cunt-Faced Bitch also was there. She and I had a few tense moments. I really do not like her, and I’ve tried to sort out why that is.. The best conclusion that I have made is explained best in this message I sent to Cadence about her.

“I’m not trying to convince you that you shouldn’t like her, but I am trying to help you understand why I don’t. She seems fake to me. I find her repulsive because she seems very shallow and like a people pleaser – which is annoying because I don’t dance around the truth, I don’t hide from what I know is true or what I witness. When I see signs that someone isn’t healthy for me, I get out. And I warned her about Caleb – how he gave me bad vibes – and she continued to date him until it bit her in the ass and even then, she made it sound so negative that I didn’t like him. Like, GIRL. I was trying to help you because I could tell he was an ass wipe. But nooooo – then I was just a bitchy girl sticking my nose in her business. When in reality, I was just being the independent and open person that I am and voicing my opinions because I don’t DANCE AROUND WHAT I SEE. Also, she uses guys to get confidence – for instance you, Thierry, Toby, and random dudes who she meets on the street (which I witnessed at least twice on our trip). I find that trait frustrating because its dependency. I fucking hate dependent people. So yeah. Those are some reasons why I don’t like her. She seems fake and she uses people.”

Copy and pasted, exactly as I sent to him.

So yeah, she got a septum ring, which I’m the only person at my school who wears one, and it’s a big deal that I did. So I felt like it was really fake of her to wear one when she doesn’t understand the meaning behind why people do. The image it creates, it’s not supposed to loosely mean powerful or anything like that… It’s feminism for some, it’s empowerment, it’s being LGBTQ or an ally…. I felt like she was degrading and making the septum ring worthless and stripping it of it’s meaning by wearing one.

She’s a straight, white, christian girl who lives in a home that’s VERY well off… I mean, they take trips all the time and get new clothes, her parents are together. She has an allowance. She has it a whole fucking lot easier than most people. That’s why I scoffed at her, called her fake (and also a bitch..) to her fake ass face.

She doesn’t get it, I resent her. I hate her.

If anyone reading this would like to give their two cents, offer a possible explanation of why I feel the way I do about her, that’d be nice.

No One Believes Us

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Hope, Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry

The monster who crept the hallways at midnight,

in a drunken state, blood red eyes, putrid breath.

He raised his hand, I covered my head.

Silent tears were wept as I heard footsteps come down the hall,

Nervous energy, a dark cloud crept over our home.

terrified children, ignorant children,

but we were scared and battered, thinking no one cared.

How does he still control me? I thought we got away years ago. But I can still feel his hand, right before it hit my cheek.

People, they don’t believe us.

They think I tell lies.

He got to them first,

got them on his side,

charming them with his new haircut, clean shaved,

Telling them he’d changed.

Now no one believes us.

Sent us to therapy, said that’d be enough.

but I lay awake at night, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face,

just because I thought I heard something coming down the hallway.

No one believes us,

To them it’s just about the money

The lawyers bills and court documents,

it’s just a case.

Children and custody,

Splitting the furnishings.

But at one point it was about a scared little girl,

crying in her room.

It was about the family who had a monster, just behind the front door.

October: Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Humanist, Love, Peace

My story is a pretty interesting one, at least from my own perspective.

I lived a republican/christian/country life for thirteen years, almost fourteen, and I was very strong in those beliefs. I loved my father, he was my inspiration in life. He was a hard worker, he was an elder in my church. Yeah, he drank, he wasn’t a perfect man, but as I said so many times then “no one is really perfect”.

So I lived that life, believing what I was told.

It was spoon fed to me like medicine each night before bed.

They didn’t let me believe anything, but I never tried to because I felt like I was doing what was right.

All this was the case up until October 22nd, 2013.

I woke up that day from hibernation. I became me that day.

And I can never go back.

That was the day my mom pulled me aside and told me she was gonna get me out of there. She was going to set me free.

This may not make sense to you, my dear Reader, because I have yet to really talk about this. But being that it’s October, I feel it’s appropriate now.

I remember this day in 2007, it was summer, and I was living in a trailer as my parents started their business. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll know that they have little storage, so everything we owned was boxed up, including my toys. But I decided to play with my toys that day, and I kind of wish I didn’t now because it’s scarred me. My parents had a small spat that day. My dad picked up the box, and he hurled it at my mom. Right in front of my sister and I. In that little trailer.

I will never forget that.

So many other things happened, I know they did, but I have blocked them out. I have forgotten, because dealing with that knowledge is too hard for a young girl.

Maybe one day I’ll let myself remember again.

But that day is not today.

Today, I am strong and I go on with my day, I remember to love with my hands and not hurt with them. I remember that words can bruise, and sticks and stone break bones and words fucking hurt too.

I am a survivor of Domestic Violence, and I want to raise awareness about it, because I had no idea what it was before my mom told me when we left my dad.

October 31st is more than just halloween to me, it’s the day I was liberated. It was the day I was set free from my dad, the last day he had to hurt me. He hasn’t since.

I am free from his cruel words and hands.

I am me.

I am a Women’s rights activist.

I am a Feminist.

I am a lover of people.

I am an Secular Humanist.

I am a peaceful person.

I love, but I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me.