Prologue
My readers, you are about to experience the feelings of a troubled young girl. A girl who has troubles speaking the word 'no' to family, one who bottles up her feelings, and tried to find an outlet to express those feelings.
I am about to show you what it is like to be in the shoes of a victim, and I am going to show you what it's like to be in the shoes of a petty thief, and a liar. You are going to be shown the feelings that I have felt, whether you feel them or not, I do not know.
I promise you, I will be completely honest with you. I will not make myself look better or worse than I am. I will not tell you lies, I don't think that I'll be able to tell you any lies, it's too much trouble to go through.
Now, let me take you to the not-so-distant-past....


March 4, 2011
"Draw a butterfly on your arm, every time you cut yourself, you kill the butterfly." My friend said to me. we were just about to start our counseling group (which due to the confidentiality rule, I am not able to tell you what we talked about...sorry) I can tell you, however, that I had been cutting myself for the whole of the week, until my friend convinced me to stop on Thursday. I had cut for the three days before Thursday, on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednsday. I had just wanted to get rid of all the pain that coursed through every last vein of my body. I was tired of the tears not working, and the knife was right there, I couldn't resist. I had to know, will it work?
It did....that day, and the day after. my pain was all in my arms, and I loved it. I cherished the control it gave me, the power. I realize now as I write that all I wanted was control and power. The blood was a bonus, oh but the power was sweet victory. However, on Wednsday, the power faded. It became routine so quickly as I realized what I had done. I wanted to stop...kinda. What I really wanted was the control back.
I just wanted to feel loved and cherished. My friend made me feel wanted when I told her about cutting. She didn't yell at me, instead she gave me a solution (The butterfly). I will be forever grateful for that. However, nobody was able to make me feel loved. I know that people love me, but how am I supposed to feel loved when I've been betrayed so badly? So horribly? So....so not goodly? Ugh! why must I go on?!
The only thing I have are my memories, and my past actions, to keep me company. Neither are good, and neither bring me the comfort that I long for in the night and into the day. I think the best way to tell the story is to tell you bits and pieces until the bits and pieces fit into a big puzzle called Sabrina's life. I am no longer a silent voice in a sea of screams.

Breath mints (I really don’t know how old I was)
I remember the breathe mint incident like it was yesterday. I don't know why, I just never forgot it. It has always been with me.
So there was a little thing of round liquid breath mints. I looked at them and thought, that is so not fair! I want some! I remember looking at them and longing for them. I didn't really care what they tasted like, just that I knew that if I were at moms, all I would've had to do was ask for one, and mom would've probably said, 'yeah, sure'. I knew that I just had to have it. I was young, I am not sure how young, but I was young.
I thought about just leaving it alone, but they looked so yummy, and I was a greedy little girl. I knew that if I didn't have them, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about them for as long as I shall live. I looked around, nobody was there. I casually picked them up off the island in the middle of the kitchen and looked at them, I looked around again, still nobody. I tucked them under my shirt and shot upstairs as fast as I possibly could.
I got upstairs and tore it open. I thought about going downstairs to Christine, my step mom, and saying, "That's how easy it is to steal from you, you should be more careful". I thought that maybe she would've looked at me and appreciated me a little. However, I knew better. She would never appreciate me, so I finished opening up the breathe mint box and took one out. I popped it in my mouth. Minty.
I knew that I had done something wrong, and deep down I cared a little, but on the surface, and not-so-deep-down...not-so-much.
It felt like weeks before I was asked if I had taken the breath mints. I don't think even a day had passed. However, I had already eaten them all and stored the empty package and tiny breath-mint box in my underwear drawer (There's your typical kid for you. Ha Ha). Well, anyway, I told my dad that I hadn't taken them, but I was sending silent mind screams to him- DON'T LOOK IN THE TOP DRAWER! DON'T LOOK IN THE TOP DRAWER!
“Are you lying to me?” He asked.
“N-no.” My defenses were getting up.
“So if I look through your room, I won’t find anything?” he asked.
“NO!” I was exasperated. Why couldn’t he just leave?! PLEASE DON’T LOOK!!
Well, he looked, and I got in trouble. I got spanked and grounded.

Sitting at the table (I was 15... or 14)
So, there I was, a freshman in High school, second quarter. I remember this because 1.) It’s hard not to remember sitting at that stupid table for two weeks, even when you’re as sleep deprived as I am right now, and 2.) As of right now, that was last term...so it’s still a fresh wound.
So I got home on a Monday, and Christine told me to sit down. She asked me if I had done anything wrong today. I, naturally, said no. Well, she asked me if I was sure, and to think hard. Well, I played dumb. I knew what I had done. I ordered hot lunch without asking them.
Then she asked me where I my laptop was. That had my blood boiling. She had gone into my room, my personal space, and looked for my laptop. I could tell by the way she asked the question. I told her that I had hid it.
“Why?” she had asked, “So it’s okay for you to steal, but it’s not okay for people to steal YOUR stuff?” she looked at me accusingly. I knew where this was going.
“No.” I kept my cool.
“Oh it’s not? Then why’d you hide it? Obviously you think you’re more special than everybody else.” Then she gave me the famous Christine look that no matter how hard I try, I will NEVER be able to put it into words, even if I can see it oh so clearly in my mind. To tell you the truth she was really starting to piss me off. She had hid the kids’ snacks in HER room, sooo.... in any case, this was my reply-
“No, I just don’t want my laptop taken away while I’m not there. If somebody’s going to take it away, I’d rather they do it in front of me.” I spoke the total truth.
She hummed me and told me that I’m not getting my laptop taken away because of my theft, but because of my grades. If you ask me, that’s bull crap. I’ll tell you why later. Anyway, she took my laptop...and she WENT THROUGH IT. I don’t know which documents she went through. But she went through some, ugh! I wanted to kill her!! That was my laptop!! (I have privacy issues.)
Well, on top of getting my laptop taken away, I had to sit at the table until I got everything in, in all of my classes, and I had to be passing them all. Well, THAT took two weeks. I had to sit at the table from the time I got home until nine O’ clock at night. I am used to going to bed at eight. Well, I finally got my grades up and stuff, and Christine goes off about how I could’ve gotten it done earlier, and how all I am is an attention-seeker. What a load of bull.
So I sat there quietly steaming, as is my habit when I’m around Christine. Ugh!! Well, I still don’t have my laptop back, and I have two weeks left of the third quarter.

The real reason why Christine took my laptop away
She can’t stand me. I told the school counselor about her son raping and abusing me. The counselor has to, by law, tell ‘higher authority’ or something. Well, it got around to my dad and stepmom. My stepmom doesn’t believe me, and my dad doesn’t FULLY believe me (He’s full of bull, you either believe me or you don’t). That’s why, in my opinion, I got my laptop taken away from me, Christine is just pissed at me.

How the counselor came to find out about my step-brother
To tell you that, I’d have to start with 8th grade. Right after lunch, my friend came up to me and asked what was wrong. I told her nothing, and she kept pushing me. Well, then she changed her tactics. She asked me if it was family issues. I said yes, then she asked me if it was sexual. I hesitated, then said yes. She gently grabbed my arm and said, you’re going to talk to me. I told her that I had to get to class...that did NOT work out well. So she told me that I was going to talk to her before I go to class. Well, we sat down and we talked. She helped me just by listening. Then she went to the counselor and my friend told the counselor that she was worried about me. The counselor called me up during my math period (I think it was like 6th or 7th period). The counselor’s words (I’m not going to say my friends name)-
“(My friend) is worried about you.” And as much as I wanted to just be pissed at her, I couldn’t be. I hesitated before saying that she should be. I then in turn told the counselor. My starting words-
“When I was little, my brother... he.....well.... he practically raped me.” I couldn’t look her in the eyes because I didn’t view it as rape at the time.

Sleeping lion
A friend once told me during a breakfast get together that when you live in a house full of secrets that it’s like living with a sleeping lion. You know it’s there, but you don’t want to wake it up, because it might decide to eat you whole. Well, I used to live in such a house, but I am ready to wake up the lion, and I won’t let it eat me, not this time.

Cut, stop cut, cut, suicide attempt, hospital
I started cutting on the 28th of February, 2011. I stopped cutting on the 4th of March. I then cut a cross into my arm on the 13th I think it was. On the 17th of March I tried to kill myself.
I wanted the control and the power cutting gave me. I liked it, oh how I LOVED it! I could finally say I controlled something, then I decided that I wanted to control my own death. Obviously that didn’t work, or else I wouldn’t be here right now.
I ended up in the hospital the next day. I didn’t cut myself deep. But after I told my counselor that Thursday, she said that she wanted me to go to the hospital. Well, she called her supervisor, and my dad. After she called my dad, my gramma was called. She was running errands, and her phone was off, but we were able to get a hold of her in the end. Well, I was brought to the hospital where I was evaluated, or something. They wanted to keep me for a couple days, but they decided that it was okay for me to go to my gramma’s for a couple months (I am at my grammas right now.)

Nightmares every night
every night nightmares attack, and there just seems to be no way to stop them. I wake up frightened and alone. If only I could control my dreams, that would be the day, that would be the blessed day. The night that I am nightmare free I will be happy and well rested, until then, I am haunted and alone.

Waiting rooms
I must say that I really do hate waiting rooms. They annoy and bug the hell outta me. I hate waiting in general. It is not fun, it is just plain stupid. But here I sit in the waiting room of a psychologist place. I am not too excited about it. Out patient therapy. Woo-hoo. I would say I hate it but I’ve never even tried it, but it sounds just…weird. Just saying. I can, however, express my hate for waiting rooms. I hate sitting and I hate being quiet. Well, I don’t hate sitting, but I do hat the quiet. And here I sit, trying to pass the time, writing in my book…ugh!

Stray Kittens
Kittens. Four were alive. One was alive one day, dead the next. I never met it alive. I thought the kitten was sleeping, but it wasn’t. As soon as I touched it, I knew. It was stiff, and it’s eyes were puffed and white. It was attacked by a respiratory disease. Its siblings had it too. They were are being treated though. That kitten wasn’t treated, not because we decided to not include him, but because when we found them, he didn’t have it. You see, the disease is contagious to cats.
The cats we got had it too when they were kittens. They were strays too. However, I am getting off topic. I play with the little stray kittens, they’re so cute!! It’s funny to look out the window when I am done playing with them and seeing the mom sniffing them, then look at me through the glass like she is thanking me for not hurting them, but accusing me of touching her precious babies.
They all have distinct personalities. One is cautious, and stalks like a lion. She has the personalities of a lion. That’s what I call her. Sweet lion. Then there is Warrior. He is very relaxed and loves to sleep…until you show him a string. Then he is all over it. And if you rub his chest he’ll play with your pinkie. Raccoon’s fur looks just like his name, a raccoon. He loves being on my lap, but is obsessed with hands and cleaning his and his siblings fur. If I put my hand on the ground, he HAS to sit on it. And if you pet him, he loves it, but he HAS to clean where you pet him almost immediately after. The last kitten I have to talk about is the gray one. I haven’t played with him because he wasn’t there with the others when I played with them, but when we put medicine in his eyes (to help get rid of the respiratory disease) it was plain to see he’s just like our cat, Trouble. Trouble lives up to his name.  So, I named him Trouble Jr. he should be proud of it, Trouble is a good, gentle cat. When you play with trouble, he never scratches, even if you accidentally hurt him (oops! ). well, then there is the mom, I just call her the mom because we have only really met long distance so that kinda gets rid of finding any distinct personalities. :p I just can’t get that dead Siamese cat out of my head though. :’(

Sad eyes
His eyes look sad. They hold painful memories and unspeakable thoughts. Maybe that’s why he usually doesn’t talk about what he is thinking….well, the point is that even though he may be ‘happy’ he always seems to have that sad blanket underlying his transparent happy eyes.

Tasmanian
Taz is my dog. needless to say it is short for Tasmanian. He is a coward, and I love him. He hates it when you put your face next to his, but he loves his head pet. He is amazing. his birthday is today, July 6th. I got him a couple months ago, and I knew that he was supposed to be my dog as soon as I had him in my arms. there is so much to say about Taz, I just don’t know how to put it all into words, he is my baby, and I hope that I will have him until the day he dies. which will be a ways down the road because he is only a year old. he likes to sleep on the foot of my bed, and he likes to curl up in my arms when we watch TV, and he likes to take nap in my arms. He’s a morning dog, he loves to play chase with the cats in the morning. He likes to hide from people that he doesn’t know, and he’s (understandably) scared of my dad. I never want to let him go, he’s my baby 

The ultimate excuse
Many may not agree with me that the “devil” is the ultimate excuse. The “devil” is used as an excuse by too many Christians when something has gone wrong. If a building falls they say it is the work of the “devil“. Well, just thought I’d give a newsflash; the “devil” did not crash the twin towers, nor did he posses the men who did crash them. The “devil” does not exist. He is an excuse for people who know they’ve done wrong, or have seen some loved one do something wrong. The “devil” did NOT posses my step-brother to rape me, he did that because he is sick in the head…not because the “devil” made him sick in the head, but just because he is a narcissistic bad man. Need I go on? I happen to believe in god….well, gods. Luna, and I guess you would say in a way the Christian god. However, I do NOT believe in the devil.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.08.2011

Alle Rechte vorbehalten