Trapped In Prison

As a teenager, I was somewhere between plain jane and average. We were poor and barely had enough to eat or at least purchasing food was prioritized after beer and cigarettes. I just tried to study, get good grades and keep to myself.

 

At home, I was probably an average teenager. I mostly did my chores, tried to not upset my parents or even have them think of me and just survive this childhood.

 

I was caught up in a confusing world. It didn’t matter how much I tried to not be noticed, I was. I remember receiving first place in my category at our school science fair. This meant that my project would go on to the district competition. If I told my parents about my success, they would be angry that they would have to give up a weekend to take me there, stay with me and take me back home. So, I just didn’t tell my parents that I won. This blew up in my face because my teacher told them. So I was in trouble for embarrassing them by not telling them and in trouble for inconveniencing them on a weekend. What was worse? I won at district and was moving on to state level.  Why did they have to hate parenting so much. It made it really difficult to know how to be a child.

 

By the time I was sixteen, I was exhausted. Nothing was ever reasonable. I was barely surviving my abused, malnourished, disappointing life and had so many insecurities about who I was and how to navigate life that I decided it was easiest to end my life. I wasn’t going to end it because weird men had been allowed in my bedroom when I was five to do weird things to me and I was very sexually confused about all things sexual. I wasn’t going to end it because my mom had decided to start telling me that she hated me and wished I was never born. Killing myself wasn’t because my dad and mom only got along when they were making fun of me for going through puberty or telling me how worthless and incapable I was.

 

I was simply going to kill myself because life was never ever going to get better than the sad existence that it already was and I could be one less burden for my siblings. I just didn’t want to endure anymore and I was tired. Logically, I couldn’t see my way into adulthood. I would have no money to even leave the very house I lived in and there was no way to escape. How was I going to go to college? Or own a car? Or live in a different place?

 

I knew where my mom kept her gun. I waited until she left for her evening shift and my dad was out with friends. I made dinner for my siblings and then washed the dishes. With sweaty shaking hands, I walked out the backdoor with the gun and walked about three hundred feet into the woods. I knew enough from anatomy class to put the barrel of the gun under my chin. So I did. Tears fell down my face. God do you see me because I really don’t see a way out but I can’t live another day. It hurts so bad.

 

I pulled the trigger.

 

The bullet jammed.

 

My heart sank. I had faith that God stopped this from happening but I was crushed that He was keeping me here.

 

My mom would later find out, push me up against the wall, slap me so hard that I hit my head and fell to the ground. Then she was done taking it out on me.

I went to school the next day, just like every other day.

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