I guess you can say this is my New Year's resolution

I know it's been a while. I was on a writing spree, and then I choked. To those that were reading my story and listening to my insights, I'm sorry. I got scared. Plain and simple. Knowing that He had the link to my blog and had read what I had written previously and would most likely read more if I wrote more scared me. I froze. I had a lot to say, but I felt trapped. I still kind of do. But I'm going on a limb here. I have decided, so what if He reads it? I am entitled to my emotions, thoughts and opinions. It shouldn't matter that He might be reading what I'm saying...

The thing is though, it does.

Can you blame me?

Because, technically, these are His secrets, His stories, too.

Now, I try to not be one to step on other people's privacy. But I am human. It happens. I can't be perfect.

So is this an invasion of His privacy? He may think it is.

Is this an invasion of my privacy? Knowing He can read what I say, what I think?

We are all only human, after all. Who knows?

But I won't let it hinder me. I can't. If I do, I'll just do what I've always done. I'll hide it and run. Silently. I am tired of running from this. I'm tired of hiding from those I care about. I don't want to anymore.

So. You. Go ahead and read on. I will not hide anymore. I will not run. It's time for me to face my demons. And if that means you read everything I have to say, then fine. I guess it's better that you know. So if you really are trying to become a better person, maybe I can help you see who you were, so you don't become that person ever again. And I can finally free myself from this shadow that shades the most brilliant part of sun from my life.

This is a new year, a new phase in life. And I am determined to come out on top.

To whom it may concern...

So, yesterday, I got contacted by my former friend who's hands caused a lot of my hell. He was emailed my blog and in so doing contacted me yesterday to apologise. This post is for you.

To Whom it May Concern,

I did not intentionally want anyone to find out who these stories stemmed from, or who any of the main characters were except for, obviously, me. So if people put two and two together, I cannot help that. I tried very hard to keep your name a secret. And apparently I failed. I apologise for that.

My goal in writing this blog is not to make everyone I know hate you, or think ill of you. My goal for this blog is to help me get over everthing that happened to me.

You said you don't recall certain things happening. True, the story I posted yesterday was based on a true story. I had to flower it up for my English class. It's English. And I chose that story because it's always on my mind, whether I'm thinking directly or indirectly about it.

But there would be a lot of things you wouldn't remember, because it wasn't you who did them. If you recall, I was locked up in your bedroom with a bunch of your other friends too. Most of the time they were worse than you. And they wouldn't tell you about it. I was your property. It's like painting grafiti on a school. If you tell, you get in trouble. And it doesn't help you weren't sober all the time either.

And, no, it wasn't all that bad, all the time. Like I said before and I'll say again, I had thought of you as my best friend. I cared about you. I still do. If it was all bad, all the time, then the outcome would have been very different.

I don't want to ruin anything for you. I never did. I'm just trying to find ways of coping with what's happened. Because I was affected. I used to get panic attacks if I ever heard someone say your name. Whenever I hear an older truck driving, I want to run away and hide. Some days I can't even kiss my husband without going into a panic attack, because the memories are so raw and terrible.

How could I fake that?

Again, I'm sorry if people put two and two together. I was trying to protect your identity, and I failed, obviously. But think about it, not very many people I know, know you. So how could they hate a person they don't know?

And as for you apology... I'm trying really hard to accept it. But, I have to admit, I'm angry. I'm angry that you were upset with me for saying the things I did. This is a blog. This is where I'm supposed to be free to write whatever I want short of cyber bullying and slander. I'm angry that it took you this long. I'm angry that you thought everything was fine, when I'm pretty sure you knew everything wasn't. I was cutting and suicidal! You knew that! How could you not know what it stemmed from? How could you not know the source of my never ending depression?

I'm angry. And I don't like being angry. I hate it. I don't want to be angry anymore. I just want to move on. I don't want to cause any problems with you or your family or friends. I hear you are trying to turn your life around. I'm happy you are. I'm happy that you have been able to move on so easily. It's not so easy for me.

So, forgive me for being angry. I'll get over it. Thank you for your apology, I hope that one day I will be able to accept it.

Sincerely,
SuperMana

Prison Break

Here's a story I've been writing for my English class, and it's based on the story of my prison break from my abuse captivity. In hopes with sharing this, maybe you can also find a way to break away too.

Prison Break

“Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” That question has always haunted me. I cringe when I think about what used to happen every day in that room, what would start after that question. It marked the hell I was living in. It symbolized the bars I was behind, imprisoned in a daily routine in which there was no escape.

I’m lying on the floor of my room surrounded by my physics homework, starring at my light blue wall. I watch as the fading sunlight flickers through my lime-green curtains, trying to figure out my last homework problem when my younger sister knocks on my door.

“Mana, the phones for you,” she says, brushing her perfectly straight blond hair out of her face and frowning at me.

“Who is it?” I ask, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to wake up from the daze the physics homework gave me. I hear a mumble as she speaks into the phone and a faint reply from the receiver in answer.

“He says his name is K----, and he needs to talk to you,” she says with a tight lipped smile. I groan. I contemplate having her lie to him saying I was busy or something, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I sit up and grab the phone from my sister, waiting for the click of the door closing before I speak into the phone

“Hello?” I finally say into the receiver.

“Hey, Bitch, wha’ took ya so long ta getter the phone?” I hear his voice say.

“Because,” I reply after a small pause, “I was finishin’ somethin’ on my homework. Wha’s up?”

“I’m bored. Be at my house in ten, or ya know wha’ll happ’n,” was the quick reply.

“But, K----, I don’t know if –“ I hear a beep and then silence. Sighing, I gather my homework up and put it in a pile on my desk. I grab my black jacket off of my bed and head out of my room. I turn the corner into the front room and make a beeline for the door. “I’m goin’ on a walk. I’ll be home later,” I yell down the hallway to my mom, hurrying out the front door before she has time to reply.

It’s an early fall day, the leaves beginning to cover the damp earth in a carpet of golds, reds, and oranges. I glare at the colorful leaves, jealous of how simplistic their short little lives were. My mind wanders, trying to distract itself from thinking of what’s coming once I reach K----’s house. How wonderful it would be to be a fall leaf. I reflected. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. There would be no such thing as school or friends or family. I would fly away with the wind. I would be free, with nothing to feel. I wouldn’t be able to feel any pain. I pick up a particularly large leaf off the sidewalk; it’s red color as bright as blood. Nor would I be alive. I would finally be free.

I hold onto the blood-red leaf until I reach his gate. Hesitating, I look around the yard covered in Halloween decorations and the white, eerie fence shining in the late afternoon sun. I glance at the bright leaf in my hand then slowly drop it, my hopes of leaving drifting off with it in the wind. I start to cross the yard and smile when I hear the two four-year-old, diapered twins yelling my name through the front window, everything else muffled by the glass.

I cross the threshold of the front door and get bombarded by K----’s other younger siblings, all of them dying to tell me about what’s happened since the day before. I try to make sense of their little squeaks, but their small voices like high-pitched church bells clang together and I give up trying to understand. I take a brief glance around and notice C----, K----’s guy friend from school, lounging on the couch and my heart sags. If he is here, that means K---- won’t be the only one who locks me into his bedroom today.

Leaning down, I ask one of the twins to take me to where K---- is. Feeling the sticky, dirty little hand in mine, he leads me through the pillow and blanket fort to the stairs. Before we go down, I nod a brief hello to C---- as we pass and he nods once back, intent on beating the car race he is playing. We tread down the flight of stairs, walking stealthily as toy tripping hazards appear. Reaching the bottom, the small boy points to K----’s bedroom then gives me a kiss on the cheek and races back up the stairs, giggling. I take in a deep breath and release it slowly, smiling slightly from the kind gesture of the four-year-old. I tip toe my way across the toy infested floor until I make it to the bedroom door. Knocking on the swollen wood, I close my eyes and hold my breath, wanting to disappear. A click and the door swings open to reveal my prison cell.

I turn into his bedroom, the strong smell of axe failing to cover the cigarette smoke drifting from the far corner. I walk in and close the door, the soft click sealing my prison bars. I continue to face the door and pick at the chipping white paint; the soft bass lull of Trace Atkins playing in the background. I stay there and wait for K---- to speak first.

“Well sit down, Bitch. I gotta finish this here smoke first.” says the voice hidden in the corner. I do as directed and sit down on the un-made king sized bed. I pull my feet up under me and kick off my tennis shoes, remembering the smack he gave me last time for having my shoes on the bed. I sit there on the stiff mattress trying to look at nothing in particular for a while, listening to the large stereo on the shelf in front of me beating out K----’s favorite country artists. Finding nothing worth looking at, I close my eyes and lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the world around me, but unable to get the picture of the blood-red leaf floating away in the wind out of my mind. And then I hear it.

“Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” I snap my eyes open and sit up too fast. I finally look at the subject of my misery. He stood there in front of me, arms folded in an impatient stance. I take in his appearance in a glance to surmise what he wanted today. I notice his cowboy boots in the corner by the door next to the baseball bat, and his usual baseball cap on the shelf with his collection of pocketknives. His shirt was un-tucked and hanging loose, his large belt buckle hanging down from the Wrangler belt loops and his button and zipper undone to show the red boxer briefs underneath his jeans. I knew that, today, I would not receive any mercy.

“I said, where’s my hello kiss, Bitch?” K---- growls, his hands clenching into fists. I look into his deep green eyes, trying to see the friend I once had but knew wasn’t there. The bruises on my back, ribs, and thighs start to throb, reminding me again of their presence. I pull my eyes from K----’s gaze and glance around the room, memories racing to be remembered. I look at everything that has caused me pain: the baseball bat, the pocketknives, the holes in the wall, the broken whiskey bottle glass that was swept underneath the bed, the desk stool, and his hands. I look back into his face, his mouth slowy turning into his crooked smile. He steps forward, the smell of axe and cigarette smoke reeking from his body. More memories from the past five years flood before my eyes: all the pain and fear, the hatred and the love, the hope and despair, the loyalty and the shame, the fun and the depression, all originating in those devilish green eyes and sinister crooked smile.

And I hear that question one more time. “Where’s my hello kiss, Bitch? I ain’t gonna ask again.” I look down at my hands and invision the blood-red leaf again, flying away in the wind. I make up my mind and lean over to put my shoes back on. “Wha’ the hell do ya think yer doin’?” I hear above my head as I finish tying my shoes.

I straighten up and glare directly into the devil’s soul. “Wha’ am I doin’? I’m leaving. I ain’t staying here. I ain’t gonna be your bitch anymore. My name is A-----, if you recall, and I’m leavin’ and ain’t ever comin’ back.” I shove him out of the way and reach for the door handle. He grabs my arm in a vice grip and lashes me around to face him, pushing me backward until my back slams into the door.

“I didn’ say you could go.” He spits into my face, his face turning red. He stares me down, my mind racing in fear. I break his stare, looking for something that could help me. Out of the corner of my eye I see his pocketknife collection, and before I know what I’m doing I grab one and flip it open towards those evil green eyes.

“I said I’m leavin’. Now let go of my arm before I give you a scar on that beautifully chiseled face.” I grumble through my teeth, hoping he wouldn’t catch my bluff. I feel his hand start to relax on my arm and I get a burst of more courage. “If you let go of me now, I promise I won’t ever tell a single soul what happened in this room. But if you don’t, I will carve my way out, and your mom and the police will get the full story.” I could see the blood pumping through his neck. I hoped this was a good sign. On my arm, I could feel his hand going limp, and I seized my chance. I pushed his chest as hard as I could and without looking back I race out the door. I hurdle the piles of toys and run up the stairs, taking 3 at a time.

“Wha’ the f –“ I start to hear before I barrel into C---- head first. We both tumble to the floor at the top of the stairs. I shake my head and check that C---- wasn’t hurt too badly. He starts to mumble something, and I decide he’s alright. Behind me I hear the loud stomp of someone else coming up the stairs and an angry voice calling my name. I scramble to my feet and rush for the front door. Adrenaline racing, I fumble with the door handle. I hear K---- coming up behind me, and I start to panic. I grab the handle and jiggle it, praying it would open. I turn my head and see K---- turning the corner towards me, red face full of rage. I face back to the door and pull at it, and right before K---- grabs me again the door swings open and I fly out, running.

I don’t remember how long I ran or what route I took. I don’t remember how I got home or what happened the rest of that night. K---- didn’t call me for weeks, and it wasn’t long before I learned through the gossip wheel that he had moved to go live with his biological father sometime after my escape. I don’t know what will happen if he ever moves back and calls me. But that doesn’t matter, because I broke out of my prison. I had found my key to freedom in a blood-red leaf flying away on the wind. 

Remember, you are strong, you are important, and you are a survivor, and there is no shame in that. You can write me your story of abuse of any kind or your story of escape, or if you have a friend, neighbor, or family member has a story and they don't mind you sharing, you can tell me at supermana.iamasurvivor@gmail.com.  I am here as a kind of outlet, if you will. And I believe in you.