Life is an interesting thing. It throws so much at you, with the expectation that you’ll be ready to catch it. For me, life started throwing things at me as an infant. I was born to a drug addict, prostitute, and cult member. She was married to her pimp, so he went down as my father on my birth certificate, though it is unlikely that he was actually the sperm donor that helped make me.

As an infant, my mother was sexually and physically abusive to me. My brother, who was only 2 years older than me, would try to protect me, and therefore got the brunt of the abuse. My mother and her cult performed rituals, and seances over my brother and I. I was to be raised as the cult priestess. But when I was 2,  my mom, desperate for drugs, sold  my brother and I to a drug dealer.

Lucky for us, we were only there for a couple months before the cops found us and put us into CPS custody. We were in foster care for a year. After that year, my maternal grandparents gained custody of me. We went home with them and met our two older sisters for the first time. It was at this time that my brother began molesting my sisters and I. My sisters blamed my brother and I for “taking all the attention.” Because of this blaming situation, they had begun to bully us.

My grandparents eventually found out what my brother had been doing to my sisters and I. I was 6 when they found out. Chaos broke loose in our home. My grandparents put alarms on all the bedroom doors, and put my brother into “Line of Sight” treatment in our home. At this point, I had been acting out at school, unaware of how to handle all my hurt and anger, and my brother began getting into trouble at school as well. This caused many fights between my sisters and my brother and I, between my sisters and my grandparents, between my brother and I and our grandparents, and between my grandparents themselves.

We were doing individual therapies, family therapy, family preservation, and essentially anything else my grandparents thought would help. They had gotten DHS (department of human services), involved in the hopes that they’d be able to help. When none of their ideas worked, DHS removed my siblings and I from the home and put us into a foster home. I was eight years old. In this foster home, my brother began molesting me again, and our foster brother, who was 12, began ,molesting me as well. After a year in that house, DHS moved my sisters and I to a new home, and moved my brother to a treatment facility.

While in this new home, my sister made the claim that the 16 year old foster brother had raped her. No one believed her. In fact, the whole family basically shunned her for saying such things. I became scared that they would act that way towards me. So, a couple weeks later when he did it to me, I didn’t say a word about it.

After two years in the system, my grandparents were granted custody of my sisters and I again. For a couple months we were fine. Home life was almost ~normal~ but the peace didn’t last. My sisters began skipping school, sleeping around, drinking, and smoking weed. Chaos once again broke loose. My sisters claimed that my grandparents were being abusive to them when I wasn’t around. I didn’t believe them. They chose to go back into foster care, while I chose to stay home and get adopted by my grandparents.

The first 6 months were fine. Great even. But then my grandparents started becoming emotionally abusive. They brought me down because of my weight, my acne, my grades (even though they were B’s). They would call me worthless. They told me they didn’t love me. Called me names for no reason. Once they told me that they could understand why my bio-mother didn’t love me.

Soon the comments started coming with hits. A slap across the back of the head, a kick in the side. Nothing too severe. We began getting into arguments. This is when they would really get bad. I got punched, kicked, slapped, sat on, spit on, and even peed on. I got dragged up the stairs by my grandfather while my grandmother beat me with a wooden spoon. I got my head slammed onto the soap dish in the bathtub. My head broke the dish, and I got a concussion. My grandparents told the cops that I had “slipped” and fallen into the tub. I got things thrown at me, got my head slammed into walls, and pushed down the stairs on a weekly basis.

The year I turned 12, the straw that broke the camels back finally came to me. We received news that my bio-mother had died of a meth OD. We went to claim her body, and I was forced to see it. When we got back home, the abuse got worse. Not only did my grandparents become more physical, but they also checked out of adult life. I was now in charge of making meals, making sure I got to school on time, making sure the dogs were fed, etc.

Everything had become to much to bear. I needed an escape. So I began cutting myself. I started on my thighs, and once I started I couldn’t stop. I craved deeper cuts. For a few months this was enough. I kept it hidden and no one knew. I started cutting on my calves as well as my thighs. I carved words into my skin. “fat” “ugly” “worthless” “stupid” “burden.”

After a few months I needed more. I needed nothing. I needed an end. So I attempted for the first time. I took some pills, I don’t even remember which ones at this point. I woke up in the middle of the night covered in vomit. I threw up for hours. I didn’t clean anything up until the next day, because I was in so much pain.

I kept cutting. Now on my thighs, calves, and upper arms. I attempted a few more times by OD. My grandparents found me, took me to the ER, and they pumped my stomach. They also put Benadryl into my system. I was in and out of consciousness for a few days. When the doctors finally told me I could leave, I got put in my first hospital.

This trend kept going for me. I was now cutting on my arms and legs and my stomach. I tried to OD a few more times, tried to hang myself, tried to strangle myself, tried to slit my wrists. I have now been hospitalized 16 times.

During my 14th hospitalization, my grandparents got a family friend to take me in so I wouldn’t be going home. This placement only worked for a year. They didn’t know how to actually treat me like family, and I didn’t know how to cope with the fact that I had been left behind. It eventually led to conflicts that led to me getting kicked out.

I went into my last 2 hospitalizations. During my last one, my grandparents made it very clear that they would do anything to keep me out of their home. And they did. I am now a ward of the state once again.

I have been diagnosed with Bipolar 1, PTSD, ODD, OCD, MDD, RAD, Panic disorder, Severe anxiety, insomnia, and some type of disassociative disorder. Its a long battle, and I’m struggling to keep fighting it. I’m in a toxic relationship, but I cant leave because I’m codependent on him.

Its funny how your past can affect every aspect of your life.