Hello, good morrow and whatnot.
Well, you can pretty much figure everything about me looking at my profile, but if you want to know the reasons why then you've come to the right place. This is the internet, I won't care.
I've always been anti-social, never the popular one.
My mother says that I'm addicted to the internet. She may be right.
The internet is my safe haven. Where I can come for eight hours a day and forget about the moronic people that I live around and have to deal with. She says I need help, I ignore it.
I've always been concerned about my weight. Right now I'm one hundred and…sixty or seventy something. My eating has gotten out of control. And it's not "Oh, I put a little extra on my plate and gained a few pounds." I wake up at four in the morning and look for something to eat. This is going to sound lame, but other than the internet, food comforts me.
That brings me to my next subject, bullemia. Well I've been pissed off at myself for about four years now. I do it as a way of punishing myself. I get a bad grade on a test, I binge and purge. I don't get a fair grade in class, I binge and purge. My parents fought, I binged and purged. I've recently gotten it under control, though. I haven't thrown up in about two months.
Cutting…cutting. My parents split up after twenty five years of marriage. Their last years together were tough. My dad got violent. No, he didn't hit my mom, but he would start punching and throwing things. A stand… a television… literally punching a hole in the wall. You name it, he's probably done it.
It was all because of his drinking. When he moved out of the house to Long Beach, he got laid off from his job, and his drinking got ultimately worse. He was throwing up everywhere, constantly sick… it wasn't pretty. Finally, my grandmother (his mother) went to pick him up and let him stay with her for a few days.
On Sunday, May 28th, 2006, the day before my 12th birthday, my grandmother went to wake him up. He didn't respond. So she tried again. Again, no response. He'd stopped breathing. She called 911 and he was rushed to the hospital, thankfully revived and breathing, although barely. He'd fallen into a coma.
In the second week of his coma, he wasn't showing any signs of getting better. My mother and grandmother were contemplating to start making funeral arrangements.
Before this time, I was a huge daddy's girl and of course, I was heartbroken. That's when I started to cut. I figured, "Hell, he's not going to be here so why should I?"
This sounds like a Lifetime movie, doesn't it?
Anyway, about two more weeks, he had FINALLY started showing signs of betterment (if that's a word). It didn't change anything, though. I was twelve, I thought everything was my fault.
A week later, they told me they were going to release him. For once in a long while, I had hope…
When they did release him, they had him on a gurney and brought him to my grandmother's house, where he'd be staying. He looked so weak and small. He was a big man. His muscles had shrunk that past month or so. It scared the hell out of me. He looked at me and said (in a slurred voice from the drugs), "Who's that girl? She sure is pretty."
"Come on, dad. It's me!" I reminded him.
"…I don't know you."
As you can imagine, it broke my heart. My daddy didn't remember his little girl.
And now, that brings us forward to present times.
He's still smoking and drinking. I believe he even does drugs. Crack and whatnot.
Eh, it may seemed rushed, I don't care. It's not something I share often.
The point is, whether I explained it or not, he's the causes of most of my problems. He caused most of my problems, I believe. He caused the fights, causing me to eat and thrown up. He's the one who told me it was okay to have a drink every once and a while. He's the one who left me at home when I was crying with a pack of cigarettes. He's the one who put me through anguish causing me to cut.
So thanks a lot, dad. I appreciate it.