As a child most people thought that I was happy. In my year books my teachers and friends would write "Dawn your smile is contagious", "Your smile lights up a room", "Keep smiling". But what they did not know my smile was a cover up. It was my way of hiding what my insides were feeling. I hated myself. I felt that I did not fit in anywhere and I still struggle with this feeling today. My heart had this big hole that ached and I felt that every one who was close to me would hurt me. To avoid being hurt, I tried not to love because if I did not love then I could not be hurt.
By the time I got to high school my life got worse. I hung around the stoners because people did not mess with them. Though at this time I was going to church, I was living a double life. My afternoons were spent driving around with my friends in a back of a funeral hurst while they were getting high. I did not want to get high with them because I needed to be in control. I did not like feeling all dizzy and out of it and if I was aware of what was going on then I was in control. The on Sundays I went to church. It was the right thing to do. Church to me was nothing more than the place people went on Sunday's and I got to sing in the choir.
One of my stoner friends Heather and I took art classes together. We had known each other since grade school. The older she got the stranger she got and people did not mess with her. I liked that. It was Heather who introduced me to cutting. What a wonderful way for me to express the pain and hurt I was feeling. It was my outlet and cry for help. Heather was known to carve Anarchy symbols on her arms and I followed suit. Not only would I bare my scratches and cuts but burns as well. In 1995, when my brother died, I lost but was hurt by another person I loved so much. I remember sitting in class one day and before I knew it I had burned the top of my hand with a pencil erasers. I sat there rubbing it up and down my hand until the skin was gone and I was bleeding and then did the same on the other one. Looking back I thank God that I don't bare the scars of my stupidity.
However, my cries still remained unheard. I had already been seeing the social worker. In fact, I started seeing the school social worker when I was in first grade. They never seem to do anything to help me so I decided only to share what I felt like sharing. I figured they would not believe me anyway. When I reached high school I was put in peer groups with girls who lived in group homes. I felt that I had nothing to bring to the group but my social worker felt that I could get the girls to share more. My mentality was whatever it gets me out of class. It only added to my dysfunction.
To be continued....
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