There's Always a Tomorrow

[doddsjennifer]

Hi guys, first time here, I've been writing a story for quite awhile not and wanted to get some feedback from others on how it's going. So far I have 9 chapters, i'll post them in sets of 3, and see what you guys think.

ANY feedback is appreciated!


Chapter 1: Abyss

My eyes are glassy, not with tears though, but rather the numbness inside. Lately I haven’t been able to fight the dark cave I crawl into time and time again. Frustrated, that’s an understatement, but what can I do? I take my meds, well some of them. The anti-psychotics make me tired – another understatement.

Every time I start to sink back into this stupid depression I fight and scratch my way back out, many times until I bleed. I guess that’s a decent metaphor considering I resort to the sinful act of self mutilation whenever the cave envelopes me again. Nobody understands it, not my mother or father, friends, no one. It’s hard to explain but seeing the crimson blood pool on my wrist and gently drip off is so medicating. It provides a relief that no medication ever could. Why do they prescribe all of these medications: antipsychotics, antidepressants, anti-attention deficit, what good is it doing me?

I hear voices but not the kind you’d think. I don’t walk down the street and see trees dancing and singing, or an angel that follows me everywhere, nor do I have conversations with those in my head, at least not out loud. The voices are parts of me, my own sub-conscience. Normally they eat away at my dwindling self-esteem or lack there-of. They tell me I’m ugly, fat, stupid, worthless, and I’m so ****ing weak I believe them! The doctors tell me that they’re “the result of intense trauma, straining me and causing pressure.”

Pressure, HA! These doctors have obviously never met my mother; nothing can cause more pressure than her. I’ve never had a fantastic mother-daughter relationship, as much as I try to dissect it I can’t figure out why. The only thing I do know is that nothing I do for her will ever be good enough, even though she may not believe she’s doing that: she is. Even when I have good news, or do something well it’s still not enough and she criticizes me yet again. “You got 83%? Why didn’t you get 90 or 100?”, “You got a raise at work? Why don’t you get your lazy *** together and pay off your debt with it?”. I feel like it’s always been a battle with her, a battle for her love, her acceptance, her praise, anything resembling some sort of honest emotion. I’m definitely giving up on it, most of the days now aren’t worth fighting with her, so instead of sharing my accomplishments, I hide in the guilt and shame that I should have done even better.

Perfectionism or whatever they want to call it has eaten away at me my whole life. Some say that perfectionism is just a way to push you to succeed. If I’m supposed to be succeeding then why do I feel like I’m just sliding down further? Maybe it’s the fact that I’m never going to be good enough, my marks will never be high enough, my job will never be impressive enough, and my work ethic will never be hard enough. It’s like no matter how hard I try, or how much I accomplish, it will always be mediocre to my mom.

I’m sure I sound like a whiney teenager, screaming for attention in every way possible, I guess in some realm of life that may be true but it’s definitely not what I’m striving for now. Right now, in the blackness of this cave, I want to hide, I want to be invisible, I don’t want to have to go through every day trying to put on an uber fake smile just to con everyone into thinking I’m happy inside. Do they know that whenever they speak to me I’m not really listening? Do they know that every smile I crack my heart breaks a little more inside? I may sound like I’m screaming for someone, anyone’s undivided attention but really I’m searching more for something, anything to fill the emptiness that pushes me further into this cave.


Chapter 2: Sinful Secret

The glassy stare subsides for awhile, allowing me to blink again and put on my convincing façade. I wear sweaters and hoodies, and everyone smiles at me and says hello while I walk through work to my desk. What they don’t know is my sinful secret I hide underneath my stylish clothing. In the winter it’s so much easier to hide, the weather is cold, wearing a nice warm sweater is legitimate – no questions asked. I smile back with my fake personality and wonder if they suspect the lines across my wrists? I wince as I put down my bag, the pain is incredible, and it feels amazing mostly because it feels like something rather than nothing.

At night I go home, empty once again wondering if there will be any lights on or any sort of human presence at my house when I get home. My home is not really a home, but rather a house, a dwelling where I can sit on my computer, sleep in my bed, and eat the junk food in the pantry. The word ‘home’ seems like it should come with a comfortable presence when you step in the door, coziness and a safe feeling in every room. My house is definitely not the epitome of the word home, the house is merely a reminder of the abuse, neglect and trauma I’ve spent the past 5 years trying to hide, it’s a reminder of the broke family I’ve tried my best to save without any success.

Broken family? I keep using meaningless understatements, not broken but rather destroyed. The “family” I talk about consists of me, my younger brother and my mom and dad. I’m lucky if my dad calls me once a month, and it’s usually only to ask for something. Every since he left when I was 16 he’s been estranged, openly displaying his need for independence and denying the fact that he brought us into this world and has the responsibility to raise us. I drink the poison of hatred for him on a daily basis, hoping he’s the one that dies. Sure it’s probably not that effective, but every time I think about the neglect and the empty space he left in my heart, the horrible things he did to my mother, the alcohol he downed like it was water, and the women who we’re closer to my age than his, my gut wrenches with hate and my heart breaks a little more. 5 years later I sit by the phone awaiting his call like he’s going to come back and want me again, talk about me to his friends like I’m the perfect child, it’s as if I’m 4 years old waiting for him to come home from work, the only difference now is that deep down inside I know he’s gone.

My mom is a classic single parent, working hard to put food on the table for us, and tries to ‘heal’ what pieces my father walked away and left to rot. The only problem is, she heals herself with baileys and ice every night, often finishing a bottle of wine in a matter of hours with herself, another subtle reminder of my incapable father. I agree that she works hard, but who is to decide what is too hard? She makes excuses like “I make more money in the States” but lets be honest the money she’d make here at home is surely enough for us to thrive. I’m convinced that she spends the majority of her career travelling in order to avoid the pain and emptiness we all feel here at ‘home’. You’d think she’s off hooking up with men searching for love in other places, just like my father did, but no, she simply chooses to be elsewhere with strangers than succumb to the hurt at home. What she doesn’t realize is that underneath the excuses she’s simply leaving my brother and I just like dad did, just in a different manner.

At 16 I was old enough to know the **** that was going on behind closed doors. I knew my father was spending the majority of his free time at the local pub racking up unspeakable tabs. In fact one month I wrote ‘X’s’ on the calendar to prove that he was spending more time there then at home with us, was I ever write. At the end of the 30 day month he had spent a whopping 21 nights at the pub, what about the other 7 days you’re wondering? He was working at the fire hall, unable to go to the pub. With this little test I performed I realized that the neglect was not simply a walk away on the fateful November 1st afternoon, but long before. My mother travelled, my father drank, and I was at the age where I could put two-and-two together. My father made ridiculous excuses about having to return a casserole dish to this woman and he had to run an errand for that woman, he was cheating. My mother travelled, my father drank AND cheated. I kept it all to myself, avoiding the truth was much easier than having to confront it, at least while dad was at the bar and mom was in another country, the peace was kept.

The peace WAS kept, except for nights when dad was drunk; sure he was a fun drunk, way more fun than sober dad. The only problem was trying not to cause trouble, because when drunken dad got mad, the whole scene turned to chaos. I remember one evening I was in the kitchen with him and had apparently said something less than perfect, so to punish my stupidity he pushed me against the fridge and slammed the freezer door on my head as hard as he could, screaming all the while. This was one of the less chaotic scenes, but a traumatic one at that. Mom would return from her wonderfully calm work trips periodically, and remained in the naive thought process that while she travelled the world, peace was kept at home. Luckily through all of this deceit and abuse my brother was young enough to avoid the wrath of my drunken father, and the neglect of my workaholic mother. At 13 he was simply in his own world privy to the innocence that accompanies it.

God, I wish I could have felt the fullness he felt regardless of the turmoil surrounding us. I don’t think he really, fully understood the issues until November 1st 2003 when my father packed up and walked away, and for the first time in his happy little world, my brother realized he wasn’t coming back.







Chapter 3: Rebellion

My brother was a fairly innocent child, not much trouble, got mediocre grades, and played ‘manly’ sports, blah blah blah. After my dad left he realized the reality of it all, and that’s when he became who he is today. 13 years old seems like an innocent time, where worries consist of which soccer team to be on at recess and whether you’ll bike or walk home, but for Rob it was the beginning of his deterioration. The private school he attended was affluent, co-ed, and utterly pretentious. Following his grade 7 year they asked him, politely, not to return. In a struggle to prevent him from going to the ****-hole education centre they called Lakeshore Collegiate upon entering high school, my mom decided to make a break for it – we packed up and moved for the first time.

We moved to an entirely different neighbourhood, equipped with different schools, different parks, different neighbours, everything different. For me it was the beginning of the end, the move didn’t matter much to me, I had withdrawn from all the friends I had created in elementary school, and attended an all-girls private school downtown. The move was simply a different place to sleep than I’d had before. Rob on the other hand despised my mother for leaving his comfort zone and the abundance of friends he’d created. This seemed also to be the beginning to his end in his own little world.

Rob was gifted with the ability to make friends in a heartbeat, he had sparkling aqua coloured eyes and dirty blonde hair with the slightest bit of freckles on his nose, and he was also gifted with the ‘pretty’ genetics that I missed. He had a caring and helpful personality that attracted others day in and day out, even at 13. The move was so devastating to him because upon leaving his affluent private school after his first year there he was to return to the run down, gang laden public school with his neighbourhood ‘friends’. Moving to this completely different neighbourhood meant going to the 3rd school in 3 years for him, although he had no problem making friends, he just didn’t want to. Comfort was something Rob strived for, routine, and predictability – everything that I had come to dread over the years.

So he began the new school, immediately making friends, unbeknownst to my travelling workaholic mother, these friends were not the ones she had hoped he’d make. Almost turning 14 he began the great rebellion that eventually led to abuse, trauma, and a rather un-happy ending. He dabbled in drugs, mostly cigarettes and weed, everyone was doing it do it really wasn’t that big a deal to him, mom was travelling and dad was gone so who was going to catch him? Along with the drug trade he engaged in sex, often with many different girls. Again, unknown to my mother and father, this was when the deterioration of his personality, character and consequently his young life began.

Moving on in his years he got further into the drugs experimenting with epic amounts of alcohol, weed, ecstasy and many other drugs, not to mention the sex. He evolved from drug-doer to drug-seller. Throughout it all he had physically become a man, many people often mistook him for being 20+ years old when really he was a mere 16 – during this transformation if you will, he failed to grow mentally, and remained the naïve, irresponsible child he was 3 years before. The next few years proved to be life-changing for my mother and me as her and I fought for our lives, creating somewhat of an emotionless connection between us. But we will come back to his abuse later.

[doddsjennifer]

If you've read the 3 chapters PLEASE give feedback.

Even as simple as "good or bad"

I would really appreciate input!

[BienvenuJDC]

You have begun to lay the foundations for a modern day Les Miserables. You've done a better than good job explaining the circumstances. What do you want from your audience? What is to come...maybe that will be covered in future chapters...

[doddsjennifer]

Chapter 4: Lifeless

I feel my eyes becoming glassy and lifeless again. Hopefully no one is looking and the clients on the other end of my headset can’t hear the loneliness in my voice. The nightmarish memories are pulling me further into the black void of my cave. There are too many people around for me to slash my way back into the light, in an attempt to recreate my façade I try to think of happy memories – the only thing I can think of is: My Amanda. Much like Rob I spent many years sleeping with numerous people, attempting to grasp the affection and connection I thought the sex was giving me. At the time the countless visits to the staff washroom during class and in between made me believe that I was loved, the sex made me feel for a moment that I was pretty, that I was wanted.

Looking back I realize that the connection my heart was screaming for was never really found in my casual sex rendezvous’ – rather it made me realize how empty I was, and how I didn’t even know myself. To conquer this in my immature fantasy world I tried to take my life. What I didn’t know then was that I didn’t want to die, rather I wanted to escape from this numbness I couldn’t avoid, I did what any hopeless teen would do. Rather than hiding myself and doing the deed, I left a trail of hopeful letters outlining my goals to end my life. Little did I know at the time, these sub-conscious attempts would not simply leave my memories and hopes for others on the lined pieces of paper, instead they would ‘save’ me from attempting another cowardly, sinful act.

The notes made it to my schools guidance counselor and vice principle before I could off myself and in doing what they thought was necessary they called my parents. Early Tuesday morning on the day I thought would be my last I was prematurely pulled from my drama class by the vice principle, I knew it couldn’t be good. As we made the endless trek back to her office I walked into absolute hell. The voice inside me screamed to turn and run, to never come back, but I calmly, solemnly walked into the office, 5 pairs of eyes examining every bit of me. Paranoid, I sat furthest away from everyone, hoping to be invisible, no such luck. Two of the faces I recognized, mom and dad looking surprised and disappointed, the other two I soon found out were one of my school’s guidance counselors and the other was a social worker. Radford, the vice principle sat down at her desk and held up one of my trails of notes – damnit, I was caught.

The meeting was dark, intense and painful, more painful than cutting myself each night and watching the blood flow, at least that was medicating, soothing in it’s own sick way, this pain was driven by anger, that i realized I was not invisible but rather exposed, in a terrifying way. The outcome was to see the social work which would be paid by the school on a weekly basis, as a back-up I was required to ‘check in’ with my Wolfson, the guidance counselor on a daily basis. Why did these people want to know my secrets? Didn’t they know that I would have to go home to my parent’s wrath of disappointment and anger, the reputation I have ruined for them? Fortunately no one was smart enough to check my arms; I could keep that sinful secret a little while longer.


Chapter 5: Denial

I had many secrets that day when I was pulled into the office. None of which I was ready to share with anyone, let alone a shrink who was a stranger and Wolfson, whom I’d just met. I also knew that two people who could never know my secrets were my parents. The sinful secret of my self mutilation was merely the result of all the other issues pounding in my head. I was angry at my father, for hurting me when I said something he didn’t like, for sleeping with other women while my mom travelled, for drinking his was into a slurring stagger. I was mad at my mother for leaving us to travel the world and live in her fantasy where everything at home was peaceful. I was furious with my brother for aggravating the already broken family and for abusing us in order to feel something. The difference between Rob and I was when things were ****ty, I just took them out on myself, hoping to be invisible, Rob on the other hand made my mom and I suffer for his pain.

The biggest battle I was fighting was not the anger at my mom, my dad or my brother, nor was it the slashing myself to freedom from numbness. It was the fight I was having with myself, fighting to figure out who I was, who I wanted to be. Since the age of 13 I slept with many people, earlier I mentioned that it was for a connection, some sort of meaningful affection. What I didn’t mention was that although some were men, many of my partners were girls. I fought the idea that I may be gay by hooking up with boys, the difference was, when they were pounding into me, I lay motionless trying to picture myself with a beautiful and caring woman rather than with him. I still don’t know why I sought comfort, affection and happiness with girls, I made many excuses – trying to convince myself that because of my history with my father and my brother I was fearful of men, and that girls were simply easier to access since I attended an all girls school. This battle was all me, I fought myself to push it away, as if I could some how throw it away like garbage. This was my other sinful secret that no one could ever know.

I basked in the idea that the only people would knew I feigned for women were the ones I slept with – I figured everyone else could believe in their own minds that I was a happy straight teenage girl looking for love. I made myself believe I simply needed the connection and that it didn’t matter which gender I found it in. This secret was one I spent the majority of 3 years fighting, denying and hoping it wasn’t true. Not that I was homophobic or anything, but the thought of being gay meant to others that I would be less than perfect. Being gay meant deviating from my mother’s perfect world, where I would marry a wonderful man and have beautiful children and raise a perfect family in a home with a white picket fence. Her need for me to be perfect, and my need to live up to that expectation made me hate the person I was, the person I knew I’d always be. No matter how hard I tried I could not simply throw the fact that I was gay into the garbage.

I continued to experiment with girls, often with very close friends, hoping they would keep my secret safe and assume it was a phase for me as it often was for them. It was easy to sneak into the bathroom at the hockey arena or the basement of the school and engage in the sexual interaction that pulled me away from reality for a few moments. The idea of someone wanting me even if they were female made me feel something more than numb. I alternated my choice of partners, often inserting boys into the picture, as well as other things, in order to alleviate my worry of being gay. It may sound like I overreacted, but I knew that my secret would not only ruin my parent’s reputation, but forever burden me with the fact that I am not perfect. Being gay meant never being perfect, no matter what I could have achieved; the fact that I was going to bed with another girl would never be good enough for my parents.

Hiding this secret was more difficult than housing the anger at my family, the secret allowed me to search for love and affection in sex on a daily basis, somehow it lifted the feeling of emptiness and worthlessness for a little while. But the secret ate away at who I was and who I wanted to be: the perfect daughter. The wall of denial I built around being gay was ignoring who I was, and the only way to free that denial and hatred for myself was to go home to the beautiful silver blade that awaited me in my room, and drift into the fantasy world where there was still hope that I could one day be the perfect child, the perfect daughter, the perfect person.


Chapter 6: Fear

While I spent my teenage years battling the dark cave I dreaded, and making beautiful crimson lines across my forearms, and denying who I really was in order to attempt the impossible act of being perfect; Rob released the anger he’d bottled up in a way no one could ever imagine. When my parents split he lived the fantasy world that everything would be ok, and until he began dabbling in the drugs and sex, his future looked hopeful. What we didn’t know was that Rob had secrets of his own that he had been stashing away deep inside; we were all unaware of the outcome of his hiding.

It began with simple anger, in an attempt to be macho in his warped mind he would punch holes in the walls, searching for the same soothing relief I did with my silver blade. My mom continued travelling, and dismissed his anger and physical outbursts as merely teenage problems. What she didn’t see was the deterioration of his mind, his hope, his life. He skipped school to meet the men he dealt for, used mom’s blenders to grind his weed into perfect little pieces, and he stayed out most of the night searching for the same affection I lacked. My mother was away so much she missed the subtle hints that his eyes were becoming empty; the beautiful blue that used to sparkle with happiness now looked cold and angry. Instead of seeing the happiness and comfort in his eyes you could simple see nothing but a boy becoming numb and empty and not knowing how to be free.

The more he stashed away his emotions, the hate, the anger, the resentment and anything else he felt, the more violent he became. He gradually evolved from punching holes through walls to torturing those around him, in a sick attempt to gain the control that was spinning out of his mind. I spent most of my days walking on eggshells, praying that I did not say or do the wrong thing in his presence in order to avoid the wrath of his violence. My mother, in an attempt to be a good mother, decided it was time to take a job closer to home, and insert herself into our lives. As frustrated as I was with her choice, it meant I wasn’t alone walking on my eggshells, it meant that someone else would experience the fear and paranoia that I did when he was at home. Rob was hard to read, since the life had drained from his once aqua sparkling eyes, he was somewhat of a werewolf, one minute he would be chatting and laughing with us, and the next he would be screaming vulgar words and beating you until he was satisfied. The game was to make sure you could stay away when the latter emerged.

It did not take my mother long to sink into the fear I had lived with for many months, I remember one night I had accidently bumped his arm on the way to my bedroom, he decided that was enough – I needed to pay. He punched me hard, again and again, I fled in an attempt to free myself, I unsuccessfully ended up cornered. My mother intervened, terrified at her first witness of my brothers insanity, little did she know her attempt to help was a big mistake. My brother beat her, pushing her onto the bathroom tiled floor where she fell, sobbing and in pain, meanwhile he had me cornered by the door. Rather than beating me more he reached for a case of full pop cans in the closet beside him and threw them at me with all his strength, one by one; my mom lay helpless on the bathroom floor. Finally I was not alone, someone else had experienced my pain and fear, little did my mother know: this was only the beginning.

[doddsjennifer]

Thank You BienvenuJDC!!! keep reading, maybe it will clear things up? hopefully!

[doddsjennifer]

Any replies?

I would love to know what you guys think!

Thanks :)