This is what hoping for someone else to save you gets you
I thought that he loved us and loved being our family too. He shot my grandmother in the face with a twelve gauge shotgun, and then just sat and waited for the police to arrest him for murder.
I am your complete lack of control eating you up from the inside.
Lick, lap, bite.
I have no reasons; I have no knowledge, all I have is the innate desire to destroy. So I destroy.
And it just continues on and on.
I try to write to understand why, but I have no point of reference so I can't understand why, because this is all there is.
I go from person to person searching for something to complete me, but every single person cannot live up to my idealized expectations, so they fail.
I think I make them fail purposely.
But I really don't know.
Bang. I shot myself in the foot again.
And I promise, I will do it again, just because I can.
I think it started when I realized my family weren't going to be there to pick me up when I fell.
Semi-absent father, I say semi because I saw him every weekend, but he was absent emotionally from me. We'd watch TV and his new wife would take care of me. He had a new wife and a new daughter, only six days younger than me, and I wasn't that important compared to his life.
It was alright though, I didn't really mind, because I couldn't ever remember him being there for me.
It's a sad thing to know by the age of ten.
My mother wasn't much better. She claimed to be, but she really wasn't. She was overly emotional and overly protective and utterly useless. She cried too much about silly things, and got angry too easily. Not to mention the over protectiveness, for the longest time she had me convinced that all males were out to rape me and give me drugs and murder me. It used to give me nightmares.
Now it's an integral part of my fantasies to be hurt.
I grew to accept the fact that my parents were utterly useless to me. I retreated into books. It's from reading anything and everything that I could get my hands on that I managed to develop into a person of my own instead of the little mass of fear my mother wanted to raise me to be.
I grew up young and fast. My mother needed me to take care of her, to fix her mistakes, to comfort her when another deadbeat boyfriend treated her like shit, so I learned. It's hard to view her as an authority figure when she kept asking for her kid's advice on everything that troubles her.
So I took care of myself as a child, and it wasn't a traumatizing event.
But when I hit puberty, and I discovered boys. I got this idea in my head that a man was what I needed to take care of me. So I guess I became something I didn't really want to.
My first boyfriend was older, he was a freshman in college while I was a sophomore in high school.
The age disparity, now, is somewhat disturbing to think about, and makes me wonder if he had pederastic tendencies. I think so.
He built me up. Made me believe that I was his most important thing, and then he tore me down.
At the age of fifteen I gave him my virginity, thinking that this act would keep him with me. That that would make him love me. Like many girls before me, I learned differently. The act was born of desperation. He was breaking up with me, he was leaving me to go after my then best friend.
And he did. They stayed together for a couple of years, happy and with me on the outside looking in hating them both and caring for them both at the same time.
That was my first clue that you can't rely on a relationship to save you.
My second clue came while dating him.
It also messed with my perception of reality and until then apparent sanity.
My grandmother had been married for nine years to her second husband. He was family. I loved him. I thought that he loved us and loved being our family too.
He shot my grandmother in the face with a twelve gauge shotgun, and then just sat and waited for the police to arrest him for murder.
My father can't bring himself to hate him for what was done. I sit and even now, six years later, wish death upon him. I'm quite pleased to hear that he is currently dying from diabetes, but the rest of my family can't summon up that hate.
I think I hate them for that.
But that incident taught me, even if I chose to ignore it, that you can't trust anyone.
I tried to find myself another boy to fall in love with to try again to make myself complete. I still thought that if I found that magical relationship all my problems would disappear and everything would be okay.
This one was somewhat stupid. He was easy for me to control. I opened my legs and said I love you, and he did whatever I wanted. I got bored with it. There was no challenge there was no passion, at least on my side.
I think the final straw came with a party. His friends and him were all drunk and stoned. I wasn't interested. After a petty argument one of his friends hit me.
The boyfriend didn't even notice, even though I started to cry.
That was when I finally left him.
The saddest part was I didn't really care that I was hit. I had been fucking other guys on the side, still searching for the mythical perfect relationship to fix me.
My next boyfriend was a classmate. Not in the same classes but we went to the same school. I was in the honors classes and other things of that ilk, and he was a violent antisocial drug user, but he was sweet and had been trying to ask me out for a year or so by that point.
I finally said yes, but this time I tried a new tactic unlike the previous one of just giving in to sex. I told him I had been raped and was scared of sex. I made him work for it.
It made him hold me closer to his heart than I'd ever been to another before. I thought this relationship is the one. This relationship is the one that's going to save me from myself.
We argued like constantly. It was challenging though. What he lacked in normal learning, he made up for in life experience. In our senior year of high school we decided we were going to get married as soon as we graduated.
After I promised that, he begun to take me for granted.
The arguments got worse and finally we started hitting each other.
Then I broke up with him, but the thing was I still thought I loved him. So I tried to make him jealous by sleeping with other boys, getting a new boyfriend.
Then came the day. He didn't show up for school. I heard that he'd fell off a cliff and was badly hurt.
I thought it was a fucking joke. I laughed.
And then I learned it was real.
I left school and started to walk to the hospital. I stayed by his side as his mother said in his delirium he asked for me. I stayed until I was dragged away because I'd been there for hours.
I came back the next day. I was told by his family I wasn't welcome. Someone had told them that I had laughed. My true friends helped carry me outside as a screamed and cried and blacked out.
I didn't try again. I knew I wasn't welcome, and I killed parts of me to try to stay sane and not hate myself for my mistakes.
I slept with more faceless men in numbers that make me now wince to think about.
I learned to drown my sorrows in booze and forget the hate with white powder and straws.
I grew hard and even more manipulative.
I became the woman I had the promise of becoming as a girl.
So I lived. Getting what I wanted from who I wanted.
Want. Take. Have.
A damn fine motto.
Except when I couldn't have.
I'd fly into rages and hurt people over things.
I tried to stab my roommate in the stomach after she slept with the guy I had a crush on.
Although, that incident led to where I am now, and now I think I'm glad it happened that way.
Another guy stepped in, he tried to protect me and he loved me like I was his world. We dated for a while, then we got engaged. Then finally we got married, and time passed and we've just reached our first anniversary.
I think I need his possessiveness and controlling tendencies to make me feel wanted.
I'm still repeating my same mistake. Relying on someone else to save me from myself.
I don't even think this will work in the end.
I get dissatisfied.
I want to leave some days.
I want to go back to doing whatever the fuck I wanted to. Living by my selfish desires.
But for now, I am here. I am with him, and if I don't let myself feel disgust at the neediness of my being, I think I may feel happy.