The excuse I held so tightly in my hand for not being able to write anything worth a damn is no longer valid; I’m not medicated. The chemicals aren’t keeping me from being able to produce something of substance and information any more, I just can’t seem to find the words and hold my attention in one spot long enough to be able to write what it is I feel like I need to. There has been so much going on lately that I feel like I need get it out in some air with people that understand me… well, understand me as much as anybody probably ever could.
My family is dead to me. And no, I won’t regret this if something happens to them. My family is shit and I’m done with them.
I moved out of my apartment at the beginning of this month (yes, thirteen days ago) and moved in to my dad’s house because I couldn’t afford to live on my own, get treatment, and pay for my medicine at the same time. Something had to go. It was a very tough decision to make but in the end I knew that my mental health is more important than being independent. To be honest, I knew it wasn’t a good idea to move there because my dad likes to ask me for money all the time and I can’t say no, even when I don’t have the extra cash to spare. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to save money while living there but it was the only option I had where I could keep all my kids together with me and cut down on my bills – well, try to anyways.
I’m going to fast forward to actually moving in and spare you the time reading how horrid packing, cleaning, and moving everything on my own was.
Have you ever watched Hoarders: Buried Alive? Well, that’s my dad’s house. Except it’s a super small run down trailer. There was no room for me but some how I managed to fit two dressers in my dad’s room for my clothes but I had no where to put random things or to hang anything up. I had no where to LIVE.
The house was disgusting. Animal urine and feces were all over the floor because my sister didn’t bother with a litter box for her cats and she was too lazy to let the dog outside – ever. The couch smelled like urine. The bathroom floor was covered in clothes and towels that were in standing water because the toilet leaked and she was too lazy to pick up after herself. The bathroom was crowded with trash and junk and it gave me anxiety to go in there and pee. The bathtub was covered in mold. Seriously, every inch of tub was moldy. The shampoo bottles were covered in mold, the shower curtain, everything. In the kitchen trash was piled up half way to the ceiling and the fridge was packed full of rotting food. The sink was overflowing with dirty, moldy dishes. And it was infested with fleas.
I knew it wasn’t the cleanest place ever, I knew it was dirty and junky, but I didn’t realize how bad it actually was until I was in there… trapped. You notice I blamed my sister for the mess? Well, that’s because my dad doesn’t actually live there. He lives a few towns away with his girlfriend in her nice big clean house. My 17 year old sister lived in the trailer alone. No adult supervision. No food. No money. No water to drink (the tap water is undrinkable). I didn’t know that.
I could fix all that though, you know? I could clean, and I did as much I could without diving head first into an anxiety attack. I could make sure my sister had something to eat and some lunch money and water to drink. I could. Did I want to? No. I wanted to to focus on myself, yes I wanted to be selfish, I wanted to focus on myself and work on TAKING CARE OF ME. I’m not a mother, I’m not her mother, I didn’t want to have to take care of her. But I would make sure she was okay too.
But I couldn’t handle the animals being neglected so I made a post on Facebook stating that I was looking for a home for one of the dogs I rescued and had been staying out there. I said the truth, that a teenager had been left in charge of taking care of the animals and they weren’t getting fed everyday. They were getting neglected and I wanted better for them because I just couldn’t take it. As well as asking my friends if anybody was looking for a roommate because I just couldn’t live like that. I had even went as far as asking my friends that volunteer with me to help me find foster homes for my kids so that I could move out faster.
Well… my dad and my sister both took it upon themselves to comment on the picture of the dog and cuss me out. Telling me that I’m worthless and no better than them and if I think the animals are in that bad of condition then I could take them and myself and leave. Then it moved to text messages. Both of them. Telling me that they didn’t want me there and I was only there because they felt sorry for me. Calling me names and saying things that I don’t think my worst enemy would even say to me… but I guess they are my worst enemies.
My dad told me I needed to be out the next day but I said “Unlike you I have a job but as soon as I get off work I’ll move my things out” and he said to me “It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a real job when I paid half your rent so you could go on vacation”… now, he helped me with rent in August. I went on vacation in October. I needed helped because I couldn’t go to work for a few days because I was manic and literally could not go in. So I informed him that no, he didn’t help me so I could go on vacation, he helped me because I need to go to therapy twice a week and I need medicine to function like a normal person because of what he allowed to happen to me as a child.
And he said I made it all up.
He said I made it all up.
He said I was lying about everything.
So I asked him if he wanted to see my scars, he replied “I’ve seen your scars” and I said “No, do you want to see where I was ripped by grown men forcing themselves in my six year old body? My seven year old body? My eight, nine, ten year old body? My eleven and twelve year old body?” and he said it was my fault because I didn’t tell him….
It was my fault because I didn’t tell him.
I didn’t tell him my mother was selling my body.
… it was my fault.
My emotions shut off right then and there because I refuse to go back to believing that everything that happened to me was somehow my fault. I listened to my mom tell me for years that it wasn’t rape because I wanted it. I finally stopped believing her, I won’t let this sorry excuse for a father put the blame back on me. It was his fault he didn’t notice the bruises or my behavior. How could he not have known? Fuck him. When I didn’t respond the way he wanted me to he told me that he was going to kill my 11 year old cat and my two dogs. He died to me right there on that road when I read that text message. And to be honest, and you can say I don’t really mean it all you want but trust me, I mean it, I hope he dies a slow and painful death. I want him to be tortured.
My sister was constant with her bashing as well but I leave that situation knowing I tried to help her. I tried to make her life a little better but she’s content living the way she does and that’s on her now.
Tomorrow I’m calling animal control and child services to see if there anything they can do. But I will never have anything to do with either of them again.
So on to good news, I did find a place for my kids and I to stay. A woman that volunteers with the same group I do messaged me and offered me a room in her house and told me to bring all my kids, even the ones that were outside at Dad’s (but I only “had rights” to two of them) and so I did. I moved an hour away from both of my jobs but the house is amazing. I have a room, a whole room, to live in. It has my things in there and my bed. Not only do I have a room (and a half bath) to myself but I’m allowed to have my stuff outside of my room. The kids can eat in the kitchen with the other dogs and I’m putting the little kids’ cat tree up tomorrow in the kitchen area. My kids are happy and I trust them there while I’m at work, I know they will be taken care of.
T is the woman that offered us the room and she’s amazing. I had actually never had a conversation with her until the one where she offered to let me live with her and I only met her after I had already moved in. She’s so wonderful though.
There is another roommate, A, that lives there and I found out last night that she didn’t know T either. She is going through a horrible divorce and needed somebody to keep one of her dogs and she found T who took Hope, her little dog. A would text T and come see Hope and finally T said she could move in with her because she knew she needed help.
T fosters dogs and takes in stray people as well. She’s wonderful and I’m happy. I feel safe and comfortable. K is going to be coming over on Wednesday and we’re going to explore my new city and she’s going to meet my roommates. She’s happy for me too. 
Love, Pacie 