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Jun 13, 2018
Before I turned 11, i had lost both my parents. My mom died in front of me when i was 3 and my dad died on the way to work when i was 10. In the years between that, my dad had a girlfriend, who had a son. i quickly began loving the son, and saw him as my brother. But his mother was abusive to him and i. Whenever she did drugs, she would hurt us emotionally, mentally, and physically. After a while i became her target because i tried to protect her son from her. since he was younger than me, i felt protective of him. i took the blame and was dealt the most abuse from her. when she was high, she was physical, and when she wasn't, she was verbal. One thing i remember most when it comes to her verbal abuse was one night when i told her i never wanted to be anything like her. she told me that when i was an adult, i would be just like her and that by the time i managed to get away from her, i would be broken beyond repair. and as time went on, i believed her. dad became a more severe alcoholic, ignoring and hiding from what went on inside the house when he left. he didn't want to see, so he didn't. and my little brother and i suffered for it. i sometimes get mad about how he turned a blind eye, but since i cant change it, i try to let it go. i don't want to be torn up with anger over him. Her abuse was so bad that some nights i would wish i could run away. some nights i actually did, just to come back the following hour to check on my brother. i stopped when she hurt him while i was gone. she never even noticed me leaving. when i was 6, she let her friend and her 3 kids move in. The 3 kids, two boys and a girl, all sexually abused me. i didnt know how to stop it. they threatened my brother, and knew exactly what to say to make me lay down and take it. When two other kids, one of my step moms friends kids, found out, they did the same thing. i didnt know they did it to my brother too without my knowledge. i hated it all. it went on until dad died. now i live with my grandmother who takes care of me better than anyone could. but i still cry at night when i remember seeing my mom dead or my dad in a casket. or when i remember something my step mom did or said to me. when i write, i take away a memory's control of me. it makes it easier to handle. Some stories are recounting the actual memory while others are filled with symbolism, mostly signifying my mental state against my need to cope. some of my family knows now, but i still cant say what happened to me out loud sometimes. saying it makes it real. i would rather write and face it alone than force myself to follow the directions set by someone who doesnt know the whole story. writing and reading saved my life a few times, when all else failed. It stopped me from harming myself when i wanted to, desperately, just to forget. i learned, and i let the stories transport me to a world where i didnt feel the same pain i do when reality crashes down on me. something i love about reading is the temporary break it provides. it helps me breathe when i cant hardly get past the pain. and in some ways, a book is a better companion than a person who cant relate. loving myself was learned through books. loving others, even more so. i learned to see the beauty of a person instead of the darkness inside me projected onto them. my past won't control me, i refuse to let it. my writing helps me make sure of that.
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