The Diary ~ Febuary 17th 1992

in #horror3 years ago

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Hello journal. Today marks the 3 years since I murdered my parents. I would like to say it has been a happy, easy, lovely road; but well you know it hasn’t, but I am still here. In the beginning, I thought this sucks and everyone is going to see me as this disgusting, dirty, piece of trash. Well……..I was wrong. Cole and his parents came to see me every chance they could. They treated me as their daughter and sister. They also brought Charlie with them, who was evolving into this awesome person. The second time he came to see me, he talked so much, I didn’t know he knew that many words. He told me about his new school, his new friends, that Cole’s Mom and Dad told him they loved him, hugged him, kissed him on the cheek every day. That he called them Mom and Dad and they were so happy. They made him understand and feel wanted and accepted. I could not believe the difference a short time made for him. However, Charlie did not live through what I did. There was no happy ending, no amount of hugs, kisses, or exclaims of love were going to make me human again. I was just waiting to be thrown away forever.

Well, group therapy and the police officer who saved my life was my salvation. In group therapy, I would just sit and pick at the skin on my arm and cause myself to bleed. I had no desire to tell them what was done to me. I did not want to see their looks of disgust. So picking the skin on my arm prevented my brain from listening or participating. Well, that was until they wrapped my arms in gauze and tied them to the arms of the chair. Then I had no option but to listen. When I did a whole new world opened up for me, the world of acceptance, of knowing that I was not alone. Miracle, who’s name did not define her existence, was raped by her Father and his friends from the age of 6. When she turned 14 her Father pimped her on the street to support his drug habit. Seth was raped by a teacher, for the first time, when he was 8 and it continued for 6 years. When his parents found out and the teacher was arrested, his parents threw him out on the streets. He tried to kill himself 12 times; friends would call the police and save him. He would sneak out of the hospital and go back to living on the street. The last time though, a nurse caught him and he was watched 24 hours until he came here. There were so many more stories of the same. I was not unusual, I was not a special case, there were so many of us. The psychiatrist helped us understand, well me anyway, I can’t speak for everyone, that we were not alone. We could move beyond this and have a life; to learn to love other, to trust, to feel safe, learn to like or maybe even love ourselves. He told us to dream of the life we could only hope for and then fight like hell, fight as hard as we did to survive, to get to the next level, for that life. We had the ability to not only get it but to enjoy it.

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Hi erodedthoughts,

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