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August 10th, 2006

I often find myself wondering what makes me so special. How
come I'm not completely broken? Is there something in me that keeps me from
falling to pieces on a regular basis? Some part of me that holds everything

When I was a little girl, I always wore my heart on my
sleeve. When there was something bothering me, you could tell by the look in my
eyes, the tone in my voice, the way I walked, the things I did. My dad always
told me it was bad to show emotion. That people shouldn't know what I was
feeling. And I took it to heart.

Instead of talking to someone when something hurt me, I
bottled it up. Instead of telling someone when something pissed me off, I
swallowed it and pretended nothing happened. But worst of all, instead of
grabbing someone, anyone, and making them sit down and listen to me when the
shit going on in my head got out of hand, I locked myself in my room and
panicked. Alone. I was always alone.

But I still wasn't broken. I still held it together.

My grades slipped a bit, I started doing drugs, I realized I
was completely fucking insane, and I still held it together. I never blamed my
insanity on the fucked up things that happened to me growing up, how could I? I
was insane before they happened. Shit happens. You get through it, you get over
it, and you move on.

I rarely got in trouble. Most "troubled teens" are
in and out of it all the time. Caught fighting, stealing, smoking, skipping
school, doing or dealing drugs, joining gangs, etc. I did all those things but
I never got caught. And when I was sixteen and I proved that I was completely
out of my mind, my mother decided it was time to swallow her pride, admit she
was a bad mother (My parents truly believed for a long time that my mental
disorders directly reflected on them… who knows anymore?) and try to force me
into a home for wayward girls. The therapist made the mistake of telling me it
was my choice. I told her no and left. So my mother chose another route. She
took me to an outpatient therapist. And eventually, I realized I didn't have to
go to her either so I stopped.

I was raped by people I cared about, beaten by people I
thought would love me, lied to by people I thought were my friends, and
betrayed by pretty much everyone I knew. I categorized it all under
"growing pains" and went on with life.

And never did I point and say "This right here. This
scar? That's why I do the things I do." Somehow I knew it would be a lie.
I did the things I did because I wanted to. And over the years I learned that
there were two things required to protect yourself and get what you wanted in
my circle: 1) Be the meanest, toughest bitch anyone will ever meet (so that's
where it comes from) and 2) Fuck the boys that had power and control. If I
fucked them willingly, they didn't have to take it from me. And so I fucked.

I spent six years in and out of an abusive relationship (we
each abused the other) with one of the higher ups in the gang. Eventually we
moved to get away from it all, but trouble always seemed to follow him. And
finally he went to prison. Being alone had long since stopped suiting me and I
could finally sink without fear of retribution and sink I did. But I still
never broke.

I threatened suicide, started drinking every night, did
whatever drugs I could get my hands on. And as long as I was fucking, I could
get my hands on any drugs I wanted. Guys would pay for me at parties that
charged an overhead, bouncers would let me in the club with the promise of a
dance, people would buy my drinks just to see me drink the
"heavyweights" under the table, and everyone wanted to dance with me
hoping that they'd be the one I took home that night.

And then I started charging for it. I became my own pimp. I
needed money. An apartment doesn't pay its own bills and even with my eating
disorder and constant drug use I had to eat sometimes. So when I was already
drunk or high, I'd find some lonely guy and climb into his lap with a smile. A
whisper in his ear of price was all it took for us to be on our way to his
place, never mine, and after ten minutes, tops, I was out the door with cash in
my pocket. I don't remember how many times I did it. I just remember that I
stopped when my roommate stole the money.

When the ex came back, I tried to commit suicide but Master
saved my life. He made them call the police. And through all this, I still
wasn't broken. I still held it all together. I just didn't see the point of
living. When it's over, it's over, and you've accomplished nothing that makes
any difference in the great scheme of things, so why bother?

There are a lot of things about myself that I just don't
understand. Like how after everything I went through I'm still standing. I've
been reading a lot of things by other people about how rough their lives have
been and it makes me angry and confused.

They talk about how it still affects them even though
they're away from it. How they're still basket cases and they still freak out
all the time and they're still paranoid that they haven't really escaped. Some
of them have full-fledged nervous breakdowns every other week over things that happened
10, 15, 20 years ago like it just happened yesterday. And I wonder, why not me?
Why after only four years of being totally out of the game am I still standing?

And then they do what really pisses me off. They fuck up.
They get in some sort of trouble. And they say "I did this because of what
happened in my past." and "If this hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't
have done this." And then I want to rip their eyes out with my bare
fingers. Because they don't fuck up because of their past. Fucking up is their

And when I hear "I didn't have a choice." I want
to scream. You always have a choice.
It's not always a pleasant one, but it's always there. The problem isn't that
you didn't have it, it's that you made one you're not happy with.

And I know this all sounds harsh. But I'm proof. I'm proof
that there's a choice and that sometimes if you have the balls to make the
right one things do turn out okay in the end. I'm proof that people don't end
up broken because of the crazy shit that happens in their life. I'm proof that
being a sociopath doesn't mean you're a serial killer. And I'm proof that while
I do fuck up, and often, people don't fuck up because of the things that happen
to them. They fuck up because they made a bad choice.

Maybe it's because I started out insane. Maybe it's because
I was already so utterly fucked up that they couldn't take anything else away
from me. Maybe it's because I spent the better part of ten years floating in a
cloud of pot smoke. Who knows? I think it's because I refused to let other people's
actions affect me. I refused to let other people tear me down.

Anyway… just stand the fuck up, damn it.

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