To the Captain

I was sexually abused as a child and raped as a teen and I damn well survived this far. I am turning 30 this year, an age I wasn’t even expecting I would reach.

I have legs covered with self inflicted scars, I have at times had borderline eating disorders, I have gotten a PTSD diagnosis and I at times get panic attacks from an empty local shop. I have tried throwing up in bushes from pure anxiety and I have wondered how to best protect myself with a pack of salmon.

But I have also slowly through the last 8 years learned that it is okay to be happy. That me smiling and enjoying life is possible without waiting on the other shoe to drop. Without looking for the darkness creeping in from the corners when you least expect it.

As a teen I used to write dark poems about death and scared girls. Very Sylvia Plath I’d guess. Pen in one hand whilst imagining stuffing my head in the gas oven. I did one with a message saying ‘you are fucked and on your own’. No one is going to swoop in and save you. No Prince Charming will fix you up with a kiss. You only have yourself and it is you against the world so tough luck cookie. And I truly believed that.

But strangely enough, after a lot of hard work by myself, it was in some ways a man who started piecing some of my last broken shards together. First by giving me an outlet to write whatever I wanted, then by steady support and most of all just by being there as I started digging up and facing demons I hadn’t even realised were hiding in my mind.

I have made a lot of progress and I do feel lighter and more myself than I have for years. I still have progress to be made but for the first time I’ve let someone in enough to know that I am not alone. And somehow just knowing that there is someone by your side who’ll be there when you fall is one of the best feelings in the world.

It has been weeks since I crossed the street and thought ‘should I just get hit by a car and get it over with?’ I still have days where going outside fells kind of scary. But I also feel lighter and brighter. I’m starting to see that I am kind of likeable and not just a grumpy cat. There are still clouds in my sky but the sun is doing its best to shine through.

So although in some ways I think my teen self was in some ways right at that moment, I’ve come to see that I was also so very wrong.

No longer flying solo

It took me a while to find out how to invite another user to the blog. I’d never even considered doing it before. Turns out it’s pretty easy.

Prepare yourselves, folks, for the new kid on the blog. With full posting privileges and (almost) ultimate control. I’m not going to let her turn the place penguin-shaped!

Expect to see some strange posts – well okay, you expect that anyway – but differently strange. Or strangely different.

CynaraeStMary is an editor on the blog now. She can post whatever she likes whenever she likes. I won’t be editing or restraining her in any way on this site. Not that I’d have any chance of restraining her anyway 😉

We can look forward to some less gloomy posts in between mine in the future.

CynaraeStMary, the blog is yours.

Entertainment time – The Orchid Girl

Most of you didn’t know that Broken Girl is a writer too. This one is hers, not mine. It’s a work of fiction, unlike her previous factual accounts. You’ll need to keep that firmly in mind.

Yes, you have to contend with two of us spinning horrible stories now. Enjoy 🙂

 

The Orchid Girl

“How has it affected me?”

Lying on the sofa, feeling the smooth leather against her bare feet, making light spots in the ceiling with the metal in her hands, she almost felt free to talk.

“I am scared all the time. Did you know that you can get sick from panic attacks? I found out in a bush. You know I went to the police. I really just wanted it to go away, but I went right after church the morning after. Want to know what they did? They laughed.” Standing up, she pointed the 9 mm at the guy on the bed. “I’m afraid to leave my house because of you.”

On shaking legs she sat down in front of the chair, looking up through her bangs. “You know, getting a gun wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. My last savings went on it but it’ll be worth it don’t you think? Now I apologise for the pink fur on the handcuffs but they were the only ones I could find in such a short time. But I guess they work just as well as the others.” She heard a muffled yell behind the duct tape.

“Yes, it was a big shock when I saw you at my bus stop the other day. I never thought I’d see you again. A month seemed much too soon. It did take me a bit of following around to find out where you live. I must say I’m impressed. Yes, yes, you already told me that I could take whatever I want. Don’t you worry. I’ll leave with what I came for.”

Digging into a pink handbag next to her she pulled up a pair of scissors and smiled. Disposing of the gun into the bag she went to the side of the bed and started cutting off his jeans.

“Hush now with all that screaming. No-one can hear you anyway. Do lay still or I’ll cut you. Won’t it be good to get out of these wet jeans? I must say I’m disappointed in you. A grown man pissing himself. I had full bladder control when you…” She looked up at him with big blue eyes, scissors shakingly digging into his thigh drawing blood. “Shit!”

Walking back to her bag she dropped the scissors into it and fished up a pack of Camels, lighting one. “I hope you don’t mind but after I tied you up I had a snoop around your kitchen. I must admit I hadn’t planned much further ahead than getting you tied up. I just want you to feel what it’s like. How I felt when you pinned me down. Anyway I borrowed a few things and your laptop. I figured castration was the way forward. You know my grandparents used to have a farm. I’d help gathering the piglets when they grew big enough and they’d get a ring around their testicles and we’d wait on them to go away by themselves. But we don’thave that kind of time together so it’s just my luck that I found this.” She waved a Stanley knife in front of his face.

“Now lets see what Google has to say on castration. This looks easy enough. A cut on each side and we can pop them out like almonds. I’m pretty sure I once saw it done on a dog on tv so no worries. I’m almost a doctor.”

Lighting another cigarette, she sat down between his legs placing a towel underneath his scrotum. Placing the Stanley knife there, she made herself ready to cut when a sob wracked through her body. Bending over, holding herself tight she looked up at him with tearful eyes as another sob shook her frame.

“Why did you have to do this? I was just walking home. I was a good girl. Really, I was! I just want to go home!”

She could feel her teeth chattering and her body shaking. She needed to calm down. There wasn’t time to lose it. Taking a deep breath she gripped the knife and moved forward. The first cut was the hardest. The skin was thicker than she had imagined and it wasn’t easy to see with all the blood. She could hear him screaming under the tape, feel his body tighten at the pain. Taking a good grip around the ball she pressed and a white ball came out looking almost as if she had popped out an eyeball. She just managed to lean to the side as she lost what little she had in her stomach. Cutting off the stone at the stalk she started her work on the other. The blood was flowing faster than she thought and her blood soaked hands were shaking.

Her light soprano floated through the room “I was born sick. But I love it. Aaaay Amen Amen Amen!” She heard the sloppy sound of the second stone leaving the scrotum and giggled “I guess no one will take you to church anytime soon”

She placed the knife to cut at the cord when her hand slipped in the blood. She heard a grunt as the knife dissapeared into his thigh as if had it been butter.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” In a move of panic she pulled out the knife and felt the arterial spray cover her face and chest. In the background she heard a phone ringing and the answering machine kicking in.

A female voice appeared. “Hi John! I just wanted to say thanks for a wonderful date Saturday night. I had a great time. Call me!”

She heard the beep. It was the only thing she could hear. Evolving into a ringing in her head as confusion started to take over. Scrambling, she tried putting a towel to his thigh but it was too late. She started sobbing. She couldn’t think. A noise broke through the ringing in her ears.

She didn’t even know when she’d started screaming.

The Love Hog

A guest post by the Broken Girl.

The love hog

I have a pet hedgehog. He was featured in Kevin’s (Legiron’s) Denmark post with pictures. I’m sure his ego has grown by miles.

Several weeks back I told Kevin that I was thinking about doing a post about Igor the hedgehog but I wasn’t sure if it would be too strange. He told me the blog lives on strange. So here you’re finally getting the story of how I got a pet hedgehog.

Like many of my stories this one begins with my mum. My mum has for many years been brooding on my behalf. She just loves the idea of grandkids.

Now ever since I was a kid I’ve always loved hedgehogs so when one day surfing on the internet I saw that you could get a pet hedgehog I started telling my mum that the day I wanted a child more than a pet hedgehog that would be the day she’d get her grandkids. I didn’t think I’d ever actually get one, they were a bit expensive so I just sighed at pictures.

A year or two of me saying I’d rather want a pet hedgehog than a kid went by and one morning my mum sent me a text – “Call me right away I’ve got good news!” So call her I did. You don’t mess around when the mothership summons you. Anyway she’d gotten her hands on a bit of money so she called excited to say that she wanted to give a bit to me and my brothers. As my mum always says “When it rains on the priest it dribbles on his assistant”.

First thing I did was replace my beat up and cracked iPhone. And then I started the hunt for a pet hedgehog. To my luck I found one near where my parents live that wasn’t too expensive either. So off I went.

Igor is an Albino African pygmy hedgehog who was born on Valentine’s Day. He was half a year when I bought him and it was love at first sight.

The woman I bought him from told me that the breeder who had him first couldn’t find a buyer for him and there was new babies coming. So the family I bought him from had taken him in temporarily so he wouldn’t get put to sleep. But with several dogs, lizards, snakes and a new human baby they didn’t have time for the hedgehog. They’d had several adverts up offering him up for sale but I was the first one who responded.

Therefore when I got him he didn’t even have a name other than ‘love hog’ because of his birthday. One look at his tiny fangs and red eyes and I named him Igor after Doctor Frankenstein’s helper.

Leaving with Igor hissing in a small box I went straight to the pet shop to get a big rabbit cage, a huge hamster wheel and other fun stuff for my newest pet. Having found the perfect spot for him and letting him settle in for a few days it was now time for the big test, taking him up for a look around his new home.

And then came a bit of frustration. Igor didn’t come alone. He had fleas. The poor boy was scratching away and I had no idea what to do. So I called the local wildlife hedgehog organization. She told me they used the thing you drip in the neck of cats but she wasn’t sure if it would be okay to use it on a pygmy hedgehog so she sent me on to a vet who specialized in exotic animals. He told me to use the cat thing, but by then I’d Googled a bit and the hedgehog forums said don’t use that. I was back to square one.

Now I was so very lucky that my good friend Jeremy knew a vet in the USA so he promised me he’d ask her. Flea shampoo for kittens. It worked wonders!

Finally I had a clean, flea free and happy hedgehog. I just had to make him come out of his defense position. It took me half a year. I’d take him up every night. He’d hide in my shirt and I’d watch TV.

We quickly found a routine and it turned out he doesn’t like all TV shows. CSI was okay, How I met your mother annoyed him when I laughed and X-factor with all the screaming made him hiss and puff and curl up in a ball. His favorite is Doctor Who.

These days he’s so comfortable with me that he’ll run around on me and lower his spikes so I can pet him. As a real man, his favorite place is to lie in my cleavage. He’s even a few times fallen asleep there.

Having Igor reminded me that sometimes animals and people just need a bit of patience before they trust.

And as the poem says “Love is patient. Love is kind”.

– Broken Girl

 

Save Me (The Broken Girl)

A guest post by The Broken Girl. Take a deep breath for this one and be sitting down.

Save Me

(Can contain triggers for some)

I was raped, or at least I think so. I keep telling myself that it’s all a bit of a grey zone. That somehow I was in the wrong, wore the wrong clothes, gave the wrong idea or just plain deserved it.

I was 18. I was visiting a school friend and since we were finally able to go on the clubs legally (I had been doing it for a few years by then) we decided to go out on the town for a bit of fun. Just two young friends having fun.

My dad has always told me that I’d forget my head somewhere if it hadn’t been so well attached. Don’t tell him I said this but he’s right. I always forget at least one thing when packing. This time what I forgot wasn’t socks or a toothbrush but my phone. I found out when it was already to late to go back.

My friend had an aunt who lived closer to the clubs than my friend so we had gotten permission to stay the night there. I’d never been before but my friend would take me there so no harm. We got ready at his place. Talked about the places we wanted to go to, what to drink and had a warm up drink before leaving. We were excited. We were going to have fun.

We got to town, went to the Irish bar for Guinness, danced to 80’s hits in a disco and in a smaller pub we ran into a bunch of guys. One of them knew my friend. They had gone to school together when I had been away at boarding school. He seemed nice.

We were already pretty drunk by this point. The new guy was charming and when his friends were about to leave I asked my school friend if we could go along. He said yes, probably for my sake.

One pint turned to several and I liked him more and more. He took me outside for a smoke and we had a snog. We went on to another place and we lost my friend in the crowds. New guy told me “It’s okay you’ll find him. It’s not a big place”. I didn’t. My friend was tired and quickly got bored of looking for me and went to his Aunt’s to sleep.

After a bit more drinking I realised that I was lost. I knew my friend wasn’t coming back, I didn’t know where his Aunt lived and I didn’t have my phone. New guy told me “you can sleep at my place”. I remember being grateful. I was saved from a night on the streets.

We got to his place. He tried getting me out of my clothes and I told him I was only there for sleep, nothing more. I got as ready for bed as I could and pretty much passed out drunk.

Next thing I remember was waking up confused and pressed down. New guy was on top of me. I asked him what he was doing and he told me “I didn’t have a condom and I don’t want you to get pregnant”. My first thought was “but I’m still a virgin!” and then I just grew numb and hid inside myself as he finished going deep in my arse.

He left me after. I didn’t know what to do so I just kept still hoping he wouldn’t return. The morning after he drove me to my friends place and I never saw him again after that day.

I kept quiet. I didn’t tell anyone. I figured who’d believe me anyway.

A year’s time later I told someone. The first time I opened up. She laughed. She laughed and I told myself “you were right!” I was just a broken girl alone in a broken world.

A girl called Sophie (The Broken Girl)

A guest post by the Broken Girl

A girl called Sophie

The first time I saw the inside of a mental hospital I was about 13 years old. Pretty much just a big kid. My mum was the patient. The first time all I remember was the security system. This was a tiny room with just two doors in each end. A nurse would lock herself into the room, then let in visitors, lock you in the tiny room and then lock you into the wing itself.

She went back in a few years later when I was about 17. I remember her trying to set me up with another patient. He was a few years older than me and in there because of a drug induced psychosis. He had trashed a car among other things and when he got out he looked forward to a massive debt. Meeting him made me terrified of trying out drugs. So some may say that some good came out of it.

Never did I imagine that some years later I’d be the one getting visitors.

I don’t remember much from when I was admitted. I remember my dad being a nervous wreck, smoking his way though a pack of cigarettes and I remember another girl getting admitted along with me. She was bipolar. She came in very hyper saying “I need help. I just spent £300 on batteries!”. I still to this day wonder about what anyone would use so many batteries for.

It’s not really a bad place. Just a hospital ward with insane people. I was one of them. The food wasn’t bad and I had my own room with a connected bathroom. I got settled in. My parents brought me books, not that I could concentrate long enough to read them but just having them there was a comfort. I hung out with battery girl. She would tell me about how she wanted to have her own hair salon when she got out. I just nodded at the right times and made a few agreeing noises.

She wanted to hire me as a hairdresser. When I had my breakdown I cut off my hair. Kitchen scissors. It looked like hell. My mum got me out for a few hours and took me to get it kind of fixed. I never had the heart to tell battery girl. She thought I was cool and edgy when all I was aiming for was to display my shame.

One day one of the nurses came to me. They were getting a new girl but they didn’t have room for her. Would I mind sharing? That’s how I met “Sophie”. She was a cool girl. I would hang around her a bit like a lost puppy hoping she’d be my friend and for the two weeks she was there she was.

I remember walking around with her, her telling me about how she had brought her passport and she planned on getting out, taking her car and driving to Spain where she had an aunt. She’d of course take me with her. And somehow having an idea of escape and a glimmer of hope made it all a bit more bearable. I could live with the crazy elderly lady who called me slutty for wearing tank tops, screamed in the tv room and called 999 to get the heat turned up. I knew I had an out.

But my friend was depressed. One night she was in bed crying her heart out. The nurses were busy. I’d myself been left alone by an impatient nurse when I couldn’t stop crying, so I took things in my own hands. I went to her and I stroked her hair and I sang for her until she stopped crying. A nurse later told me that the doctors were impressed by the fact that even though I was pretty much rock bottom I still had the energy to help someone else. I was sad to see her go. But happy she was better. I’ve never spoken to her again and I sometimes still wonder where she is and what she’s doing.

Wondering if she made it.

 

I hurt myself today (The Broken Girl)

A guest post by the Broken Girl.

I have been depressed. I’ve felt guilty. I’ve felt desolated and I’ve bowed my head having been almost broken by life.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started. Darkness is a coward who’ll sneak up on you and slowly grow in your soul until you can’t breath.

I read somewhere that being depressed is fashionable. Sitting in the corner of my kitchen, curled up trying to hold myself together as I was swallowed by emptiness and crying my heart out doesn’t seem all that fashionable to me. Cutting yourself in the girls’ bathroom at boarding school because you are filled up with self hate and such a sadness that you can’t keep it in doesn’t seem fashionable to me.

I was around 15 when I started to realize that I wanted to die. Not that death felt like a good thing but it would be an end to all the pain. I was however too scared to die, but also too scarred to live. I was stuck in limbo. once in a while trying to gather the courage to move on.

Once drunk at a party at 16 my friends had to pull me down from the railing on a motorway bridge. It wasn’t until early 20’s I really took the plunge. A big kitchen knife slicing up the arm and under water to keep the blood flowing. I was set on succeeding. Somehow I didn’t. My parents got me admitted to the local psychiatric hospital and that’s where I spent the next 3 months. Are we nearing fashionable yet?

I used to label myself as dark and twisted. I would warn people not to get too close. Those who did I’d push away. I truly was a broken girl.

It took me a year of therapy to get me somewhat functional again. It took me years to discover that it’s okay to be happy. Over years I got antidepressants starting out with bad ones, switching to okay ones and then getting the ones that almost restored me to the girl I was before life happened.

I wasn’t just cured, snap of the fingers, poof magic! It took a lot of hard work and I still have some way to go. I still have bad days where I cry myself to sleep and feel alone and lost. I very seldom have days where I walk through my flat and wonder “where would the best place be to hang the rope?”

The good days are slowly moving in to stay. And what I cherish most is that I can now say that I have days where I’m pretty happy and that’s okay.

The Broken Girl

Teach your children well

A guest post by The Broken Girl. A little history…

I went to a kind of boarding school for a year. I had finished the mandatory years of schooling and I still hadn’t a clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. Writer had followed me through school, but really I wanted to be an astrophysicist. I remember telling that to the guidance councillor and she held back a giggle and told me I’d never make it to high school with my grades. (I did and with good grades).

But back on track. I was shy and one of my teachers mentioned that maybe an extra year at a boarding school would just be the right thing to get me out of my shell and give me a year more to think of my future. My parents agreed and we picked a school. Nothing too Christian and nothing too sporty. After the summer I got dropped off at what should be the best year of my life.

After the first two months of being homesick, even though I went back every weekend, I settled in and started making friends and enjoyed my stay. But as many things with your childhood and youth, your grown up you is sometimes looking back thinking what the heck? This is one of those things.

My fist roommate was a sweet and shy girl. She was my first friend at the school. We made the Kitty Cat club. There was a list of rules too one of them being “always wear clean underwear in case of an accident”.

She was always up and dressed before I even woke up. I was never a morning person so I thought nothing of it until another girl told me that it was because of the cuts. My roommate was depressed and would cut into her arms. Looking back I sometimes wonder if the school was more a parking lot for damaged children than an actual school.

After the first school break around 10 kids got kicked out for drug use. At the end of the year 3 girls had tried to commit suicide. I remember sitting in a room with a flock of girls listening to music when a deeply shaken girl came in. She had just found her roommate in a bathroom splattered with blood. The girl made it through.

In many cases the teachers were just as wacky as the children. There was the headmaster who taught German and if you got him on a good sidetrack he would talk away the lesson. His sweet wife who taught a class on how to interpret your dreams. And finally the music teacher who had to stand in for the chemistry teacher when they were one teacher short halfway through the term.

Quoting my young self “he was an idiot!”. This came out in the lesson where he did an experiment with magnesium and sulfuric acid. He told us that according to the text book he needed a safety screen but he figured what the heck! He dropped in a good bit of magnesium and then some more just for effect.

Next thing we know the jar exploded. I was on the first row and my text book was covered in pieces of glass. We got the rest of the lesson off and for some reason he wasn’t asked back the year after.

It was an adventurous year. I made some great friends, came home with some awesome stories but sometimes I wonder how we managed to make it through in one piece.

The Broken Girl