Self reflection entry (part 1) Comments are welcome.

Looking back at my years as a teenager, and the past few years to date, I realize something. I'm not the same person I was back then. Things are so much different now. But in order to make people understand, I have to go back. 
Back to the days when I hated the world. When I thought the world hated me. 

This entry is more of a self reflection piece, but anyone is welcome to comment. Just bear in mind, that some of the details in this entry may be too much for some to read, and possibly quite depressing for others. But I hold nothing back. Because I am a writer at heart, and with my thoughts come no boundaries.

So here goes.

I was 13 going on 14 when I started high school. Since my birthday is in November, I knew that the chances of me being one of the youngest in my grade were pretty high. Like most, entering high school was a huge transition for me. It was an entirely different world from what I was used to.

I went to a high school where we wore uniforms. No, it wasn't a private school, or a Catholic school. It was a regular co-ed public school. Man did I ever hate wearing that uniform. At first, I thought it was awesome because at my elementary school I was bullied for my weight and the clothes I wore. I figured that being at a high school where uniforms were mandatory would help me break out of the shell I had formed around me in previous years. 

But I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

* Below is my grade 11 high school picture, to give those reading an idea of how hideous our uniforms really were. *

Of course, I had a few friends who had come along with me to the same school. There was one person in particular, that I had become best friends with when I was 12. Her name was Diana. She was much shorter than me, and in all honesty, a lot smarter. But none the less, she accepted me for who I was, and never passed judgement. For this, I was thankful.

But despite having these few friends, and making a couple more along the way, I became more and more aware that things weren't much different in high school. In fact, they were worse.

They say that the 4 years you spend in high school are supposed to be the best years of your life. Well, for me, that wasn't the case. The 4 years I spent in high school were the worst years of my life, and in a lot of ways molded me into someone I never thought I would turn into. 

Aside from my hate for high school, things at home weren't any better. In fact, at 14, I didn't have a place to call my own home. My mom, brother and I were in a way, "couch surfing". Between the ages of 14 and 16, we spent our time living with my grandfather, and then a family friend, and a few other people as well. My relationship with my mother wasn't exactly the relationship I wanted to have with her either.

*I always looked at myself as the black sheep of the family, and to this day, I still do.*

To summarize, before I hit high school, my mother was married to a man who repeatedly abused us. Not so much my brother, because his father stepped in the first time he was ever hit by this man. And even my mother didn't get it as bad. But I did. Because I was the mouthy one. I was the one who was always getting grounded. The abuse first started when I was 9, when I was molested by him. After that stopped, the physical abuse started. And then the verbal/emotional abuse. For 5 years I spent my time doing everything I could not to get in trouble. But to no avail, I still got hit. It wasn't until I was 14 that my mother finally decided to divorce him. 

After the divorce, I felt like things would finally start to look up. I thought life could finally be what I wanted it to be. But again, I was wrong. It was almost as if the verbal abuse I had endured throughout my formative years became a normal way of disciplining me in my mothers eyes. My mother somehow became a different person.

*Now please don't get me wrong. I love my mother with all my heart. And although many of the things that will be included in this entry may state otherwise, we must keep in mind that I was a teenager and most teenagers hate their parents for different reasons.*

It was then that I started to develop a general hate for the world. I often thought to myself, "WHY is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?" 

And then it hit me.

Maybe I wasn't meant to be happy. Maybe I just wasn't worthy of feeling happiness, and joy, and all those nice things you hear about in the movies and on tv. 

My first attempt at suicide was at the age of 14. Being as young as I was, I took an entire bottle of Tylonol in hopes that it would make me sleep. Forever.
I ended up telling my mother about it the following day, and of course, her reaction wasn't a sympathetic one. I got in a lot of trouble.

At 15, things didn't get any better. Not only did I hate the world, but I started to hate myself as well. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting in a room with my mom and my brother, and my mother was once again, making some fairly nasty comments toward me, because she was mad at me for something I had done. It was at that point that I decided enough was enough. I went to the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror for a very long time, tears streaming down my face. I was trying so hard to figure out why my mother hated me so much. But I couldn't come up with an answer. Finally, something in me snapped. I instantly stopped crying. It was like something had taken over my body for that moment in time, telling me that there was a solution to my pain.

Cutting.

Now at that time, I had no prior knowledge to what self mutilation was. I had never in my life heard the term "cutting". But looking at that razor, I felt something strong take ahold of me. In a way, it was a feeling of power. Of knowing that there was this ONE thing in my life I could control. And so, I grabbed the razor, broke it open, and held the blade in my hand.

The first cut hurt. But seconds later, I felt an overwhelming feeling of relief. So I made another cut. And then another. And then I didn't feel anything. I was numb. All I could do was stand there and watch my arm bleed, not feeling any form of panic, or worry. I was finally happy. It was almost as if my pain was being released through the little droplets of blood that fell from my arm. I was nothing less than satisfied. 

The following day, I went to school wearing a short sleeved blouse. Which obviously, drew instant attention to my arms. Other students would stare, and make faces of disgust. Some would whisper to each other or make comments so that I could hear them. But I didn't care. I was happy I was finally getting the attention I so badly craved. My friends were obviously concerned, and offered their words of worry. Unfortunately, the reaction I got from teachers was different.

In the middle of my grade 10 History class, I was called to the guidance office. I stood up and nonchalantly walked out of the room as if nothing was wrong. Once I entered the guidance office, I was greeted by my counsiller who then informed me that there had been many expressions of concern for my mental state by my teachers. I was told that my mother would have to be called, and with her consent, I'd have to start seeing the school social worker once a week. I was not thrilled. Actually, I was quite scared to go home that night for fear of what my mother would say or do. 

After school I went straight home, and my mother told me she wanted to talk. I thought, "Oh great...this isn't going to end well."

But to my surprise, my mother started to cry. She couldn't understand why her baby girl would want to hurt herself the way I did. In the end, I agreed that I wouldn't do it again. 

I lied.

As I got older, my mental state only got worse. Things at school weren't getting any better, and neither were things at home. 

Two days before my 17th birthday, I was finally diagnosed with depression. I was prescribed an anti depressant called Celexa. At 17, I also had my very first boyfriend. His name was Brandon, and he was everything I wanted. Or at least I thought so. At the time, I thought I was in love. Looking back, I can say that I was more in love with the idea of being in love. I had no idea what love was. Or what it felt like to be in love. 

Here is a letter that I had written to him in my journal. Knowing he probably wouldn't read it, I still felt that I needed to get it out.

Dear Brandon,

I don't know if you'll ever read this, but I needed to write it anyway. If you do read this I guess that's a good thing. But anyway, I guess I should get to the point of this letter. I've been thinking a lot lately, and I've come to realize something. I've never been as happy as I am with you in my entire life. Maybe this sounds corny, but it's  how I truly feel inside of my heart. I'm not sure what's come over me in the last month and a half, but I know that whatever it is, it's gotta be good. 
They say that you only ever find true love once and that true love is something you just KNOW you've found. This feeling inside of me is unlike anything I've ever felt. It isn't obsession. I know that it isn't. Maybe you and other people think that it is, but honestly, I KNOW that it isn't and that it's much different from that. When I'm around you, I get this feeling that tells me everything is okay. Despite what some people are trying to convince me, I know this is going to last. I feel it. I have made a promise to God, to myself and now to you that I will never EVER do anything to hurt you in any way whatsoever. That is the last thing I would ever do. I've been hurt in the past, and I know what heartbreak feels like. I just hope you know deep down inside that I'd never hurt you and that I care about you very much. I know that it might seem like maybe I'm being pushy or annoying by calling you or emailing you. But to be honest with you, I just want to make sure that you are okay and everything with you is fine. Is that such a bad thing? I'd hope not. I like to know that my boyfriend is safe. 
When I'm around you Brandon, it's like everything else that's around me disappears. All of my worries, all my troubles, everything. When you hug me, I never want you to let go. I feel something when we touch. I feel so safe and secure. You always make me smile and laugh, and you're easy to talk to because you're so understanding. Those are just some of the things I like about you. When I say that I love you, I'm saying it because I mean it. I don't know if you feel the same way, and I don't know how you feel when you're with me, but I wish you would tell me. Be honest, and just tell me exactly how you feel. I WILL listen. I always do.

Anyway, I feel sort of better now that I got some of this off my chest. I hope somehow this got through to you, and hopefully now you know exactly what you mean to me. I love you tons. 

Love always, Krystle.

6 days after writing that letter, I found out that he had cheated on me. I received an email from his new girlfriend telling me to "stay the fuck away from him" and that it was over between me and him because he didn't want me anymore.

I was devastated. After that, I decided that I would start doing things to lose as much weight as possible. Because I thought that if I lost enough weight, he would come back to me. I started counting my calories, and eating a lot less than normal. 

On January 14th, 2003, I once again attempted suicide. I overdosed on my anti depressants. As a result, I was hospitalized. I spent a week in the child/adolescent psych ward, where I saw a child psychiatrist and tried to work on other ways of coping with my stress. While I was there, I met a 10 year old boy who told me that he had tried hanging himself. 10 YEARS OLD. I couldn't believe it. I also met another kid, by the name of Daniel, who had turrets syndrome. He was such a sweetheart, and he nicknamed me Krystle Light. I learned a lot being there, and when I finally got out and went home, I assumed that things would finally be better at home.

I was wrong. Again.

After my experience in the hospital, I started to write poetry as a way to express my feelings. It was the only thing I had. Aside from my cutting. But at that point, the cutting wasn't enough anymore. Sure, it felt good for me to be able to release my pain that way, but I couldn't get my thoughts out of my head that way. 

I felt ugly. I thought I'd never find anyone who would love me. 

February 1, 2003

I'm so ugly. So damn ugly. I was told by 3 different people today that I'm ugly. It's my curse. I was born ugly, and that's what I will always be. Ugly ugly Krystle. I cut myself again. The 3rd time since I've been home from the hospital. I cut myself for being ugly. I cut myself for being fat. I cut myself for being stupid. I deserve this pain that I inflict upon myself. I deserve it. This is my punishment for being who I am. I don't deserve to be happy. I deserve to be UN-happy. I will stop at nothing. Pain is my life. Pain is my soul. This is my punishment for being ugly. Until I am between 110 and 120 lbs, I will be unhappy. I will inflict pain upon myself. My scars will show what pain I live with. They will show all. This is my life. I plan to overdose on my pulls again. I just don't care anymore. I don't care. I deserve this. Nothing can change my mind. NOTHING AT ALL.

February 3, 2003. 

I hate my life. It's nothing but crap! I should just kill myself now. I don't care. No one will miss me anyway. Back to fucking cutting. Wow, doesn't my arm look so pretty with the blood dripping from the cuts? Oooo...pretty! BLOOD! Wow! I'm actually still alive! How lucky I must be. NOT. There's no room left on my right forearm to cut. Guess I better start on the left. Yup. Started on the left. Wow. I'm beautiful now! GO ME! I'M FUCKING BEAUTIFUL! I'M FUCKIN' CRAZY! Hahaha! Crazy! Fucking crazy! KILL ME NOW! TAKE ME AWAY! LOCK ME UP! Yes! Blood! MORE BLOOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Gotta go cut more. I'll write later!

Yea, I was pretty messed up. The cutting got so bad that I was doing it every day. I even went as far as hiding scissors up my shirt sleeve at school and cutting myself in the bathroom. It didn't matter to me what people thought, because as far as I was concerned, they didn't understand.

On February 24th 2003, I started dating a guy named Corey. I was so happy. Within a week, he broke up with me. The sad thing? He dumped me inside a church. Yes, a church. I had been invited to a youth group that was held once a week at the local church in my area, and he dumped me. He told me that things weren't working out because we rushed into things too quickly. Again, I was devastated. I kept thinking to myself, "Why do I keep getting hurt like this?" I was thoroughly convinced that this was my destiny. To be hurt over and over again by people I cared about.

After we broke up, we remained friends. Despite me finding out that Corey had only dated me to make someone else jealous. The people I started hanging out with were his friends to begin with. But they quickly became mine as well. They too, had a large impact on my life and are part of the reason I am where I am now. 
Hanging out with this group of individuals, I started drinking, smoking cigarettes, and smoking weed. I would go out with them, and we'd drink in the park until 2, sometimes 3 in the morning. And then I would walk home, extremely drunk. I was so naive then, that I didn't care that they treated me like an outcast. Sometimes I'd end up going home crying because of how they treated me. I wanted so desperately to be accepted that I stayed friends with them. 

During this time, I had started to attend the local youth group on a regular basis. Every Thursday night I'd go to the church, and learn about God, and how Jesus gave his life so we could be free. I made a lot of friends in my time there. I also found a way to focus my anger on something positive. Every week when we'd sing songs of worship, I'd sing as loud as I could. I was singing for God. I wanted Him to hear me. I wanted Him to know that I believed, and that I knew I'd be okay. I found myself spending a lot of time talking to our youth pastor Steve, and getting a point of view on things from a Christian's perspective. In time, I began to find my faith in God again. Because I had always believed in God. But because I was so messed up in my head, I had lost that faith. I blamed God for every wrong thing that happened to me.

Parkway Youth Group

It was also at the church, that I met Doug. He was 19. I was still 17. I instantly liked him and I wanted to be with him so badly. All my friends told me that he liked blondes. Well, being a natural brunette, I thought that if I dyed my hair blonde, I'd have a chance with him. And so I tried. I tried to dye my hair blonde with 6 different dyes. Of course, in the end, not only was my hair still not blonde, it was a hideous orange colour. 

Epic fail.

I finally gave up on trying, and of course, didn't end up getting what I wanted. Which by that point, I was used to rejection and disappointment. So I shrugged it off, and moved on. It wasn't until I was 20 that I saw Doug again.

When I was 18, I met a guy named Mark. I had met him through my friend, Suzanne. The plan for this meeting was to set me up with him. Suzanne felt that I needed someone positive in my life, that wouldn't hurt me the way I had been hurt before. And so, after only knowing Mark for a week, we started dating. Two days after we started dating, I invited him over to my place knowing that my mom and brother weren't going to be home for the night. It was at this time that I decided I wanted to lose my virginity. I don't know what I was thinking. But I have a feeling it had something to do with my ever lasting need to be loved by someone. He wasn't comfortable with being my first, but I told him it was okay, and that it was what I wanted. 

Needless to say, the next day, Mark broke up with me. He told me that he couldn't date me anymore, because I reminded him too much of his sister. 

Okay, on a side note here...WHO in their right mind gives that kind of excuse to a girl after you take her virginity? That's just cold. Not to mention, HOW exactly did I remind him of his sister? Unless he's slept with his sister... LoL.

Anyway, hearing that tore me apart. I thought that he was different. I thought that by doing what I had done, he wouldn't leave me. How stupid I was. How very very stupid. 
A year later, we ended up dating again. Don't ask me why, but we did. We were together for a month or so, and in the end, I ended up doing the dumping. We had gotten into an argument, and he told me blatantly that if I was ever expecting him to love me, it wasn't going to happen.

Hearing that confirmed everything for me. I really must not have been worthy of love. Of knowing love. 

I would be alone the rest of my life. 

...to be continued in my next entry.