MY STORY
What happened to me for fourteen years
Not everybody gets good parents. That's obvious. I know that well. My father was never a part of my life because of how nuts he is, and the ironic thing is that my mother wasn't much  better.
 
Throughout my life my biological mother (hereafter referred to as Belinda), was an alchoholic. I remember having my dresses ripped up in front of me, my things broken, being locked in my room... I was known for being a troubled kid. I was kicked out of a lot of daycares. If only those teachers knew why. I'm not blaming my behavior on her - but watching my mother throw tantrums at that age didn't really help much.
 
Over the years as I got bigger and stronger, Belinda got worse. She got violent. It's the past three years that were the craziest. But then, I was big enough to fight back. She isolated me from everyone, even from school, and kept me with her (I was 'homeschooled'). I suffered suicidal depression and at the end of the fights everything would be a mess. A glass was thrown at my head (her excuse was that she was aiming for the wall beside me to just scare me), and shattered to pieces. I was hit with an umbrella so hard I still have a small scar on my right arm (her excuse was she thought I was going to hit her, I was holding it for self defense when she grabbed it. it was two years ago). She pulled my hair and whispered how she was raped by her brothers, punched me in the face, slammed me on the floor. She spit on me, threatened to abandon me and leave me with a strange man and allow him to rape me. She encouraged me to drink nail polish remover as I was thinking about killing myself with it in a fight, and then let me think I would die, waiting ten - fifteen minutes before calling for help and only because I was running to tell a neighbor. She's threatened to hit my cat, to break my DSi in half. She destroyed my keyboard and ripped up a teddy bear that I had been attatched to for years (he was somewhat my imaginary friend, and when I was alone he was very important to me), tearing off his head and arms and letting the beads that were his stuffing fly everywhere. I rushed to pick up the pieces and she didn't allow me to, telling me to put everything down because I was never getting him back.
 
I had once accidentally gotten water on one of her paintings and she threw a tantrum. I found her ripping the painting up and screaming. She cried herself to sleep. She told me I was a product of rape. She said she wished she'd gotten an abortion with me. She flew into a rage because I didn't like dinner and when I locked myself in another room she broke down the door and called the police, lying and saying I was going to kill myself. She would frighten and upset me to an extreme and call the police to send me to a hospital. I was there for nine weeks one time. Nine weeks. Sometimes I would threaten to kill myself or cut myself because I really did become depressed. I ran away only to be dragged back to a hospital again, sometimes she would even open the door and encourage me to run away. I wanted to die. 
 
Finally, we had our last fight. I was trying to make her forgive me. I had written horrible names all over myself and left notes around the house to show her I understood and I was sorry. She didn't forgive me. It got violent. She was hitting me, and so I bit her on her hand. Blood was on the wall. I ran out and hitched a ride somewhere, not planning to come back. But it was freezing cold in the middle of winter, I was wearing a summer dress, and I was too overwhelmed to do anything but walk around. The police found me, and were actually kind. She got stitches for her finger  and came back. She was given the option to press charges, but thankfully she didn't. The cheif told Belinda I probably had Bipolar. In reality, I was just freaked out when she abused me. The next day, I stopped talking. I went home and Belinda found me sobbing as I scrubbed her blood off the walls. I hated myself. I went to a respite home and was placed in theraputic foster care.
 
They already suspected something was going on. I came into the new home and I was emotionally unstable. I had fits of anger, panic attacks... I tried to commit suicide and cut myself, causing me to be assessed but thankfully not admitted. I was going to leave the home if I continued. They began to notice this got worse with contact with Belinda. They limited my contact with her after she scared me saying my father could possible find me. They had her sing over her custody so I could stay and she wouldn't take me out. I told my social worker about the abuse, and an investigation was conducted. They couldn't prove I was physically harmed. But it was confirmed I 'most likely suffered verbal abuse'.
 
Things became better. I became stable and content. My depression diminished. My panic attacks faded. Now I'm here. It's been almost a year since I came into the home last November, and now I'm completely different. Now I have a good life. I never have to go back to Belinda and I never will. I still struggle with PTSD symptoms and SPD (Skin Picking Disorder). Memories aren't fun to deal with and it's a fight I have to deal with. But I'm finally free. Now I'm in High School.
 
I figured it was about time I told someone my story. But now, the most important part of it isn't all the scars and pain. It's what happened after November.