Sex & Drugs

Danelle

Silently, I walked in the pouring rain, towards that old abandoned bus station, running away from Daddy again. He was drunk again, and the sting from the smack across my face began to burn with every rain drop that spilled on it. My jaw ached and I could feel my sweater rubbing against my back, against the open wounds from Daddy's belt. He loved adding to the scars. He always had a fascination with making me cry. Then he'd spit on me, and laugh at me.
"Crying is for the weak, stupid little bitch! Cry a river if you want. No one cares!"
"Daddy, I'm sorry.. I love you.. Please, stop.." I would beg and plead for hours sometimes. That only edged him on more.

I sat on the only bench that wasn't drenched in water and buried my head in my hands. I could still feel the burn from the cigar on my arm. He laughed, cynically. He enjoyed watching me feel pain. Is this how Daddy's show love? This happened regularly for months, a couple years even. Mama never said nothing. She worked three jobs & was always high off her Vicoden & Tramadol. I saw my Mother twice a week if I was lucky enough. The kids at school bullied me. Laughing at my weight & my scars. I used to be deathly skinny, fragile. That all seems like a far away memory now. Back when the only things I thought of were cigarettes, weed, pills, cutting, throwing up & suicide.

Suicide was always one of my options, one I considered a lot. I remember talking about it once, and the girl I considered my best friend, dared me. She bet me sixty dollars I wouldn't. I didn't take the bet. I didn't really wanna die, but I felt like I didn't want to live, either. What do you do when you're so mentally fucked that you can't seem to decide whether or not you should be alive? You have all the opportunities to take your own life, yet you still contemplate whether to act on them or not. I've sat in my bed all night long sometimes, thinking about how or when. Who it would affect.. Who it wouldn't.

Drugs became a huge part in my life a few years ago. I'd do anything to get a nice high. I partied. Skipped school. My Dad had ran away with my Ma's lifes earnings and blew it all on booze and strippers, then took off without saying a word. Mama worked all the time now. She didn't seem to care what I did. I didn't get attention unless I was doing bad things, so why not continue doing them? No one could stop me all the way. Sure, cops could put a damper on my party for a little bit at a time, but they couldn't tell me whether or not to party. & I did. I became famous in my town for out drinking full grown men & out smoking anyone who said they could do it better. I made a lot of "friends". Basically, drug dealers. Who I tended to smoke a lot or drink a lot with. I never smoked alone. Only drank alone a couple times. When you're the Queen of Partying, you don't usually stay home. I'd go nights without coming home, only thinking of what my Ma would say. But it's funny, cause' she never said a damn thing. I always wished she would've though. She would've made an effort to be my Mother. She seemed like a distant roommate. She'd leave me money and she'd go to work. I wouldn't see her for days at a time and I became accustomed to that. That feeling of being alone is one of the hardest to overcome. The only time I felt good was when I was high or drunk. Of course, drugs led to sex. Sex was another amazing escape. I was never fully satisfied.

It was always the same routine with the man I had sex with by choice. Nate, about 23 years old, total druggie & alcoholic. He collected SSI for his Bipolar Disorder and was a full time drug dealer. He'd sell you anything from marijuana to heroin. But, he liked me. He was into everything I was into. So we'd smoke some weed, smoke a cigarette, drink until we were drunk if we had any alcohol available to us, then we'd go into his bedroom, and he'd rip my clothes off.. You can finish there. Afterwards, we'd smoke again. & then I'd go somewhere else. I used to think he loved me. He didn't though. He loved the sex & drugs. & That's all he cared about. He didn't care where I went after he was done with me. It wasn't until a few months of him being on Ambian & lots of crack that he became someone else. Someone I didn't want to be around. He'd hit me. He'd burn me and cut me. He grabbed me by my hair, and forced me to give him oral sex, after that, he raped me. He raped me senseless, everything was torn, everything was bleeding & he smiled, that evil smile that once reminded me of a demon, sexy but evil. Dragging me by my hair he threw me into his bathtub, filling the excruicating hot water with rubbing alcohol and bleach, where he proceeded to shove a broom handle covered with a washcloth up inside me. Cleaning any proof I had of his rape. He punched me when I cried. Right in my jaw. My jaw still clicks from it, all the time. I tried not to cry, just like my Dad had instilled in me, but I couldn't help it. The pain was too great and he would just beat me harder and harder. Eventually, I must've passed out from the pain because I woke up in a ditch, naked, in freezing cold weather. Humiliated & hung over, I covered myself with what I could & limped down the long country road, praying someone would find me. Then laughing at the thought of a God who could allow something like this to happen.

After about sixty cars passed, honking and some even laughing, a nice man pulled over, smoking a blunt. He asked if I needed a ride somewhere, and of course I did. Getting in his car, he grabbed a blanket from the back seat and laid it on me, he passed me the blunt and smiled, I nodded thankfully & inhaled. Turns out it was laced with cocaine. That trip didn't end until the next day, I slept with the guy who picked me up & didn't even ask his name, and he dropped me off at my only friend in the worlds house. James. James was the only one who stood by my side through everything. I loved him. He was the only man I could stand being around anymore. James made me feel safe. Walking up to his door, in nothing but a towel that guy had let me have, I shivered and cried as he let me in. Crying into his chest, I lost it, and broke down. I cried and cried until it began to hurt to breathe. James sat me down and brought me a pair of his boxers and a baggy tshirt to wear. I told him everything that happened, and cried and cried, he held me. He just held me and let me cry. I fell asleep on his chest. I woke up to him, looking down at me. He told me I talked in my sleep. He told me that he knows how I feel and that he is always there for me. But how do I know that? But how couldn't I know? He'd always been there. Since the day I met him we became best friends. James and I smoked a cigarette together, cuddled up in a blanket and he looked at me and I remember him asking if I was alright. I nodded, but inside I felt like I was dying. I looked at him and told him I was going to kill myself.

After hours of talking through it, I decided against killing myself, but I begged to take a shower. I showered for an hour and a half. Scrubbing at my skin, scrubbing til' it was raw but I still felt dirty. To this day, I still feel dirty. I let those men do the things they did to me, all for drugs, all for a jolt of an emotion other than pain..

Today I am 17 months sober off of everything but marijuana and cigarettes. If you need someone to talk to, don't let it go on too late. Kik me : Fuck_Youuh_Barbie
You're never as alone as you think you are.