Listen Good

Hello, there.  It’s nice to see someone else cares enough to visit.  I’ll keep my name to myself…for my reasons.  You’ll figure them out later.  I guess you’re wondering about why I’m crying right now.

In my life…I have the same schedule every day.  In the morning, I wake up worrying about the day that’s going to happen.  I try my hardest to fix all my hair sticking up in the morning; which does not work out very well. That makes me a little more insecure as the school day progresses.  My mom begins to yell at me within the confines of my car. I don’t cry over it like I used to, at least.  As I walk into school I begin to remember all the past I’ve had here.  I’ve attended that school since kindergarten, and I’ve had a lot of trouble adjusting, again.  I really feel like it’s a lot of teachers who try to project Christian qualities they so desperately need.  I’m a Christian myself, and I don’t believe they’re supposed to judge people, nor are they supposed to pick people out due to their preferences, whether it is their color or their personality.

As soon as I go into the area of socializing, I try to walk fast.   I hide my face the best I can with my long bangs, which is exactly why I have them.  I try not to draw attention to myself.  I hold my books protectively to my chest; also trying to keep my bag from bouncing up and down with my elbows.  I try to talk to my best friends quietly.  I create myself to be introverted and outcasting myself…to my own volition.  I don’t want people to think I’m an annoying person or…anything else they can concoct with their minds that constantly try to create gossip because they get bored.

I don’t raise my hand up in classes, because I feel like the teachers will bring things out of the context of strict business.  They’ll begin to try to talk to me about things I do; that, or things that look wrong with me.  I’ll fake a smile for everyone; so they won’t worry if I’m okay or not.  I have sores on my hand due to...unknown reasons, for now.  I have cuts on my ears and legs because of the same reason.

I’m terrified of most of the kids in my class.  They laugh and talk about me when I don’t try to create anything.  They make it seem like I don’t exist…when I’m completely conscious of what’s going down.  I used to be a smart kid.  Now, I’m not.  I don’t have good social status, nor do I have good grades anymore.  I don’t have anything… As soon as lunch begins, I keep my head down trying to draw attention away from myself.  Mostly because I’m afraid of boys, and I just wait until all my friends come to lunch, then I can even fake a smile.

As soon as P.E begins, I can’t help but go into a stage of complete withdrawal.  I can’t speak; not even if I want to.  I only have two best guy friends, and they’re the only things that can help me out of the hole of androphobia I create within myself.   I do my best in that class, but of course, it goes unsung.  I hope that doesn’t sound like I’m complaining though.  I stick with my two best guy friends, and that’s the only way I stay sane.  They’re the only people that will defend me from the one person who makes my androphobia worse than it’s supposed to be.  He’s probably the reason I have it, though.  I’m scared of him; beyond anything else.  Scary thing is, I’m stronger than him, but he still intimidates me.

Band is one place I can keep myself best.  I have to do it in band, anyway.  The teacher pays special attention to me; so I can do my music correctly.  He says I don’t give myself enough credit, considering the fact that I say sorry constantly in his class.

I finish my last class faking the leftover smile from band.  People ask me if I’m really okay or if I’m faking it…of course I’ll say “no.”  You never want anyone to worry, ever.  My glove hurts by now.  The sores on my hand are filled with sweat that begins to make it ache.  I keep it on for the sole reason people shouldn’t know about them.  I’m completely uncomfortable, but at least no one can tell.

As soon as that class ends, I try my hardest to stay talking to my friends.  I pretend that I have something important so my mother won’t make me go home…  My brother has choir, anyway.  He has to be there until 4:00…or so.  After school, it’s when I have the most anxiety, due to what is going to happen next.  The time flies by, and my few seconds of happiness start their end.

My brother yells. “GET IN THE CAR!”  I run quickly, trying not to make matters worse for myself.  I don’t like bringing anything further than it is, so I try to stay quiet in my car when my brother’s temper is acting up because only God knows why.  Of course, he has to take it out on me.  My mom starts to talk to me like she cares; it’s all fake words of fake comfort.  I sit with my head down as he tells me how stupid and worthless I am; how I ruined the family.  I don’t cry, but I have an unending angst towards him; I guess that’s how it has to be, though.  It’s quite the car ride home.

As soon as I get home, I run to my room.  I lie in bed…with my notebook, writing.  I try to write; because I don’t want to keep it all inside me.  I’m ugly as it is, stress shouldn’t make it worse.  My dad gets up, two hours later.  He starts to scream.  “WHERE ARE YOU?!”   He crashes through my door.  I stand up from my bed, with my head down.  He starts to scold me; it doesn’t matter what it’s about.  It could be the smallest thing in the world, and it will be the same as if I murdered someone.  I get pushed to the ground.  He starts to kick me a few times.  He strikes me with a belt across my legs, and sometimes it hits my wrists.  He starts to try to hit me with the buckle side of the belt across my face.  My arms have scars because I try to shield my head with my arms.  When I have bad scars, I wear a jacket all day.  Same as the gloves, it’s as uncomfortable as life can be, but I deal with it for everyone else.  Sometimes, I wish he would just start smoking again.  He gets so mad while he’s trying to quit.

“It hasn’t begun yet,” my brother says as I open my eyes behind my arms; I see him standing at the door.  He leans against the wall.  I don’t know about my mom, if she’s just silencing out the hard tapping noises of the belt across the floor, but I know she knows that it’s happening.  Not that I think she cares.  They go to eat dinner.  I tend to my wounds inside my room.  I just drink water that I walk out of my room every-so-often to get.  Other than that, sometimes I just get a snack out of the kitchen when no one is home.  As soon as dinner is over, my dad goes to work.  I’m safe from him for another twelve hours.  My mom mentally and emotionally abuses me in the meantime.   She loves to tell me how she cries over what she doesn’t know what to do; because I’m the child that ruined the family.  How I am not an easy child when she makes me harder than I am. My brother comes to abuse me physically, any time I want to fight back or if I try to defend myself.  This is no way to raise my sister…she is only six years old at the moment.

You can’t think that is bad, considering I haven’t even filled you in on everything…  My family's right.  I'm as stupid as they say. That’s not even what I’m crying about right now.  I just don't want to face it head on. That, up there, is a summarized version of what I’ve learned to deal with.  There’s so much I need to learn to deal with so I can be a well-adjusted adult.  Until then, I’ll just cry to myself.  It hurts if I cry, and it hurts more if I don’t cry; I’d rather cry.  The sores on my wrists hurt… I need to fix them.  If you ever come back again…maybe there will be something new to talk about, but that’s only if I trust you.