Confession

So, I decided to write, not for you, but for myself.

Because I've been thinking about it lately, and a lot of my actions are geared towards you. Less then you'd think, but that isn't the point.

I haven't written anything comment worthy in a while. Although I don't care about comments unless extremely bored and feeling attention whorish.

My past posts (recently) have been crap. But I'm geared on changing that. They say that you can figure a lot out about a person by their writing style. That's probably why I prefer to type.

I like my privacy. But is there such a thing as being too private?

Maybe it's contagious and I've caught it.

If you look, you'll realize that I rarely type about something that's personal, which isn't fair to myself in a lot of ways. I get rid of the excess, and keep the emotion to myself, unless I'm angry, that always seems to escape. Rather selfish I guess.

No me drink
No me smoke
On your hate every day I choke
No me frown
No me smile
I guess emptiness is a style
No me kick
No me scream
In these lines, you read between
No me hurt
No me hate
Anger always comes to late.
No me strike
No me bite
Walk on lotus if I like
No me worry
No me wonder
In the midst of stress I'm under
No me lie
No me steal
Unenlightened sex appeal
No me drink
No me smoke
On your hate everyday I choke

I didn't write it. But back to the topic at hand.

I've decided to be open, or as open as I will allow myself to be. I refuse to fall into the "confused teenaged angst" category willingly.

I don't like to reveal my past

Why?

Well, I have a pretty good idea why, because it's painful.

I wasn't some spoiled princess that got everything she wanted, when she wanted it.

I was a:

Bully
Ballerina
Gymist
Model
Actor for commercials
Singer
Fighter
Survivor.

I got picked on and I fought back, ending up being the one that looked like a bully. I didn't understand that hitting was wrong at school when it wasn't at home.

Now, I never got hit, but my mother did.

He:

-Threw her out of a moving vehicle
- pushed her down the stairs
- punched her
-slapped her
- hurt her emotionally and verbally
- convinced her that she was the crazy one, and got her put in a psych ward
- injured her so she needed to go to the hospital

She became anorexic for him.

And I couldn't stop any of it.

So, in return, she came at him with butcher knives (threatening, never swinging) and a baseball bat. He wouldn't face her, so she broke his table (worth 2,500) and crumpled his antique 50's fridge.

I lived in a warzone. Somehow I thought it was normal. I was always bought the day after, with presants. Countless presants to say they were sorry, and re assure themselves that they could still buy my admiration, loyalty and love.

I've moved 16 times in 15 years, most of them were either running away or from him.

He's an addict now, and is dying in mexico.

I'm glad.

My life was threatened because of him. People were going to kill me and my mother to teach him a lesson.

I'm so glad he wasn't my biological father.

So, I've been fully honest. But it doesn't make me feel any better.

p.s. the reason I'm afraid of complete silence? Because that was always right before he came home from the bar, at 3am, to pick a fight, or she went to the hospital.

I still couldn't stop any of it.

for 12 years.