| Nicki's Story |
| I am 23 years old and four months pregnant. I no longer speak to any of my family other than my grandmother. My parents don't really want to know their grandchild. My history of depression started before I can remember. As a child, emotional abuse and verbal abuse are just as, if not more devastating than physical abuse. My mother made it known, since before I can remember, that she had wished I was never born. She would say this to a five year little girl - HER five year old little girl. The consequence of this is that I never had the opportunity to be a child. I can remember thinking how different the other kids were. They didn't have a care in the world. I was constantly focused on my own survival, it was already made clear that I wasn't wanted. The first time I can remember really feeling betrayed by her was when I was five. I had woke up sick, yet she insisted that I go to school. I knew she just didn't want to be late for work. I went to school and later picked on for the rest of the year for throwing up in the middle of the hall. They called my mother, so she came and picked me up and acted all sincere while we were still in the school. As soon as we left, though, she started screaming at me for "fucking up" her entire day. Hell, she took me home, locked me in my room and got herself high for the rest of the afternoon. I did her a favor. This was the custom for when I was sick, too. I never went to doctors. She insisted that I "faked" every ailment I had. Eventually, I got so depressed that I never spoke, nevermind communicate. I tried to tell her that I was really sick once when I was around 11, she looked very disgusted with me and called me a little liar and locked me in my room. I was sick for seven years and I thought I was dieing. I hoped I was dieing at that point. Sometimes I think that that was the true start of my self injury. The pain helped me stay silent. It hurt SO bad. I would be up all night sometimes, in pain. Whenever anyone else woke up to use the bathroom, I'd run and hide like I had done something wrong. The pain was the only thing that was constantly there for me, to remind me I was real. Another way I discovered to cope in my childhood was by shoveling food down my thoat. The more I ate the less I'd say and the more my mother would hate me. She was absolutely disgusted with the way I looked. She would make fat jokes about me in front of a strange audience of her friends. I can remember her telling my brother to chase me around the house so that I'd lose a few pounds. She loved my brother, that's what makes things so hard to understand. I'd like to think she had no love in her heart. She did, just not enough for me. I would try so hard to do everything right so that she wouldn't have to speak to me at all. I did dishes and laundry, but it was never enough. One time, while I was sweeping the porch, she ripped the broom from my hands, hit me with it and screamed at me for sweeping the wrong way. (I am a professional housecleaner and I still can't figure out what she was talking about) I progessively went downhill. I kept gaining weight, losing self-esteem and being more depressed. I was 11, the first time I tried to kill myself. I didn't really want to die, but I just couldn't live like that anymore. After I overdose, I usually go through a phase where nothing seems real. I turned overdosing into a ritual for when I couldn't take it anymore. I don't know what I was taking or how much. All I know is that my mom bought them from her friends, but she never even asked me where they all went. I never went to a hospital or called anyone. I'd go to my room, alone. I'd sleep for 12-20 hours and be very messed up for a couple of days. I moved out of my parents house in my senior year of high school. I lost eighty pounds in eight months. My personality changed completely. Right after graduation, my parents tried to get me to move back home, so I moved about 300 miles away. I moved to a place where I did not have a place to stay or a job........no friends. I pulled it off, though. I made friends and got a job and an apartment. I still talked to my parents at this point, but I still got harsh criticism everytime we spoke. My life is full of so many traumatic experiences that I cannot possibly tell you all of them, however, I will relate to you the day I stopped speaking with my mother. I was 21, I had no job and I had just had a miscarriage. I called my mom.....I don't know why, but I thought she would comfort me. As soon as she started speaking to me I wished I hadn't. I hung up just after she told me that I could never be a nanny because no person in their right mind would entrust me with their kids. This was not what I needed to hear after a miscarriage. This is when I started "cutting". I don't usually cut, though. I burn. That particular day I burned the word "DIE" into my stomach. I usually opt for my stomach simply because I don't want anyone to know. The bad part about burning is that, the burn usually runs as deep as the pain you are in. When I get really bad, I just hold the hot knife to my skin, I press hard, I don't let up. I get third degree burns. I got two of these this past New Years Eve. My boyfriend betrayed me and finally told me about it on New Years Eve, just a few hours before we were expecting company. I was so mad, but also afraid that I would not be able to calm myself down by the time they got there. I just held the hot blade to my skin. I had to do it twice, but then it was over. The problem was still there, but the emotion was gone. It was about three weeks later that I realized that I was pregnant again, and my wounds (on my stomach, of course) were quite infected. On my first Dr's visit, I showed my scars to my Dr. I told her what was going on and she has been trying to get me into a program, or at least therapy. The counseling center for our area is horrible. At this point, I am in fear of hurting myself BECAUSE OF this place. The receptionist is rude and I've made three appointments, two of those I showed up and the receptionist tells me that they aren't in the office. I want help, but I've dealt with the mental health system a little and I think that they are even more crazy than I am. I have only had one good therapist and she is about 100 miles away from me. So that is who I am - 23, pregnant, unemployed, survivalist. I thought that as soon as I left my parents behind, I would be better. It's not that easy though. You can never leave that behind......it is part of who you are. |