This Is My Story
I watched it drip off my wrist and onto my legs and bed. They kept getting deeper, longer, more vertical. I didn't want to stop, I wanted to keep doing it till I killed myself. Maybe then, I would finally be happy.
I've cut for almost 2 years, I still remember the exact day I started [November 19, 2010]. The past 6 months it's gotten worse. I've had up to 200 cuts on my body at one time. I count my scars.. It's well over 1000 now.
It seems like my blades keep getting duller, I can't feel anything till it starts slicing through tissue. Maybe I'm just building a tolerance, who knows. All I know is that I can feel myself getting closer and closer to doing it, to ending my life.
My name is Jenna. This is my life, and my last few months living in writing. Is it a diary? No, it's much more complicated than that. I'm going to write down everything I do, everything I say, and everything that is said to me. I'm going to tell you why I feel like killing myself. Call me a coward then.
Let's go back to when all of my problems started. I was 5 years old, Daddy's little princess. I didn't think he would ever hurt me. I guess I shouldn't rely on my thoughts.
Flashback #1: One night he came into my room to play dolls with me like he always did. Mom was at work.. I don't think any of it would've happened if she was home. I didn't like what was happening.
We were playing dolls, everything was perfectly normal. Until he put me in bed. He didn't tuck me in like he always does. No, he pulled down my pants and started touching me. This was not playing dolls, nor was it tucking me in.
It was hurting. I was crying. He kept doing it, no matter how much I asked, no begged him to stop. He finally did, those 15 minutes were h-ll. Before he left my room, he pulled my pants back up and tucked me in like he always does. Instead of saying, "I love you, princess. Goodnight," he said, "Tell anyone about this and I'll make sure you won't live another day. I know how to make it look like an accident."
I didn't tell anyone, I didn't want to take the chance of telling anyone. It kept happening. One night Mom came home early from work, she heard me crying and begging him to stop, and she almost caught him. She would've if he hadn't started tickling me before she walked in the room. D-mn, I wish she would have caught him..
A few days went by, I was hoping he had stopped for good. Boy, was I wrong. The next time it happened it was worse, and kept getting worse. I would scream, cry, and beg him to stop. Most of the time he'd slap me if I didn't shut up. I didn't care, I wanted someone to hear me, I wanted someone to stop this.
No one ever heard, no one ever stopped it. It happened almost every night until the day before I turned nine. He r-ped me.
I had just got out of the shower and was putting on my clothes when he came into my room and locked the door. He started kissing my neck and biting it. He started touching me like he normally did. I cried silenty, I gave up in screaming and begging after year three.
He pushed me on my bed and pulled down his pants. He started playing with himself and then he pushed slowly into me. I screamed, it hurt so bad. He kept doing it over and over. I wanted to die. I thought I was going to.. The pain was so agonizing.
He stopped, finally. He got up off of me, smiled, and said, "I'm done with you now. You won't ever have to deal with me again."
He walks out of my room and goes to his bedroom. I hear him crying, then I hear his gun. He was loading it. Was he going to k-ll me? Mom? Himself? All of us? That's all that was going through my head. He walked to my door, said, "I'm sorry." Then he turned around and went to the bathroom.
BANG. Was he dead? I didn't want to go check. Mom came rushing up the stairs, "Are you okay? Where is your father?" she exclaimed. I couldn't say anything. I simply just pointed a finger towards the bathroom.
She opened the bathroom door. My father was just laying there, gun in his hand, and blood pooled around his head. What was left of it anyway.
Back To The Present: I'm in my room, sitting on my bed. I really want to cut right now but my grandmother is still awake. I can't quit thinking about what happened to me at school today. It's torturing me.
It's the day before my 17th birthday. It's been eight years since the abuse peeked and stopped all in one night.. Since my dad killed himself.
I always get made fun of on this day. "Your dad didn't love you," "You must have been a terrible disappointment," the insults kept coming. One group of kids used a mma dummy and Speghetti-O's to recreate the scene.
I ran, and ran. I ran as far away from my problems as I could. I went straight home, straight to my room. i wanted to get my blade, to slice it deep into my wrists, my stomach, my legs, anywhere. I didn't care, I just wanted the pain to be gone, I wanted to see the blood dripping. No, I just wanted to die.
I've cut for almost 2 years, I still remember the exact day I started [November 19, 2010]. The past 6 months it's gotten worse. I've had up to 200 cuts on my body at one time. I count my scars.. It's well over 1000 now.
It seems like my blades keep getting duller, I can't feel anything till it starts slicing through tissue. Maybe I'm just building a tolerance, who knows. All I know is that I can feel myself getting closer and closer to doing it, to ending my life.
My name is Jenna. This is my life, and my last few months living in writing. Is it a diary? No, it's much more complicated than that. I'm going to write down everything I do, everything I say, and everything that is said to me. I'm going to tell you why I feel like killing myself. Call me a coward then.
Let's go back to when all of my problems started. I was 5 years old, Daddy's little princess. I didn't think he would ever hurt me. I guess I shouldn't rely on my thoughts.
Flashback #1: One night he came into my room to play dolls with me like he always did. Mom was at work.. I don't think any of it would've happened if she was home. I didn't like what was happening.
We were playing dolls, everything was perfectly normal. Until he put me in bed. He didn't tuck me in like he always does. No, he pulled down my pants and started touching me. This was not playing dolls, nor was it tucking me in.
It was hurting. I was crying. He kept doing it, no matter how much I asked, no begged him to stop. He finally did, those 15 minutes were h-ll. Before he left my room, he pulled my pants back up and tucked me in like he always does. Instead of saying, "I love you, princess. Goodnight," he said, "Tell anyone about this and I'll make sure you won't live another day. I know how to make it look like an accident."
I didn't tell anyone, I didn't want to take the chance of telling anyone. It kept happening. One night Mom came home early from work, she heard me crying and begging him to stop, and she almost caught him. She would've if he hadn't started tickling me before she walked in the room. D-mn, I wish she would have caught him..
A few days went by, I was hoping he had stopped for good. Boy, was I wrong. The next time it happened it was worse, and kept getting worse. I would scream, cry, and beg him to stop. Most of the time he'd slap me if I didn't shut up. I didn't care, I wanted someone to hear me, I wanted someone to stop this.
No one ever heard, no one ever stopped it. It happened almost every night until the day before I turned nine. He r-ped me.
I had just got out of the shower and was putting on my clothes when he came into my room and locked the door. He started kissing my neck and biting it. He started touching me like he normally did. I cried silenty, I gave up in screaming and begging after year three.
He pushed me on my bed and pulled down his pants. He started playing with himself and then he pushed slowly into me. I screamed, it hurt so bad. He kept doing it over and over. I wanted to die. I thought I was going to.. The pain was so agonizing.
He stopped, finally. He got up off of me, smiled, and said, "I'm done with you now. You won't ever have to deal with me again."
He walks out of my room and goes to his bedroom. I hear him crying, then I hear his gun. He was loading it. Was he going to k-ll me? Mom? Himself? All of us? That's all that was going through my head. He walked to my door, said, "I'm sorry." Then he turned around and went to the bathroom.
BANG. Was he dead? I didn't want to go check. Mom came rushing up the stairs, "Are you okay? Where is your father?" she exclaimed. I couldn't say anything. I simply just pointed a finger towards the bathroom.
She opened the bathroom door. My father was just laying there, gun in his hand, and blood pooled around his head. What was left of it anyway.
Back To The Present: I'm in my room, sitting on my bed. I really want to cut right now but my grandmother is still awake. I can't quit thinking about what happened to me at school today. It's torturing me.
It's the day before my 17th birthday. It's been eight years since the abuse peeked and stopped all in one night.. Since my dad killed himself.
I always get made fun of on this day. "Your dad didn't love you," "You must have been a terrible disappointment," the insults kept coming. One group of kids used a mma dummy and Speghetti-O's to recreate the scene.
I ran, and ran. I ran as far away from my problems as I could. I went straight home, straight to my room. i wanted to get my blade, to slice it deep into my wrists, my stomach, my legs, anywhere. I didn't care, I just wanted the pain to be gone, I wanted to see the blood dripping. No, I just wanted to die.
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