People always say “it gets better.” And I always hated people saying that to me. But you know what? It does. It damn well fucking does.
I’ll tell you my story.
My biological father split when I was 11months old, leaving my mother and me with nothing. But my dad stepped in and took care of us. He may not be my biological father, but he’s been my dad since the beginning so I think of him as nothing less.
For 13 years I had a loving, caring father. When my younger sister was born, he kicked me to the curb. I wasn’t his flesh and blood.
I saw the subtle differences; he called me Sym, not Possum; he wasn’t interested in my school work; he wasn’t interested in new music or movies I found for him; we didn’t go on spontaneous road trips anymore; and whenever I said “I love you, Dad” he’d say “I know.”
I stopped calling him Dad. I didn’t speak to him unless he spoke to me, which was rare. I started to rebel. I started smoking pot and cigarettes, drinking with my “friends” in the middle of the night at the skatepark. You know how it is, thinking you’re hell cool and no one can say shit about you.
That’s when I met P. He was my best friend’s cousin. He was older, had tattoos, a motorbike. He ooozed “bad boy.”
I was trying to get back at my dad for “abandoning” me, so naturally I was drawn to him. I was young, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.
P was violent. As first it was holding my arm too tight, then it progressed to slapping and hitting me.
One night, mum, dad and the younger sister were away for the night. I was supposed to be staying with my friend, but being the rebel I was, I didn’t. Instead I stayed home with P. Our neighbours came home and found me lying in the street with 3 ribs, my left arm and my right ankle broken. I had severe internal bleeding, if they hadn’t have come home when they did I would be dead.
I left school, moved to the city. I tried to commit suicide, several times, and I was admitted to a hospital. I stayed there for 3 months. Then I moved back home.
Dad picked me up from the hospital, without my younger sister, and we listened to our favourite Cat Stevens mixtape on the way home. I was happy.
When we got home everything was different. Little sister was in his arms as soon as we walked through the door. “My dad!” she screamed at me.
I went to my room, locked the door, and didn’t come out when they were around.
Dad tried to force me to be happy. He grew up in a household that believed that the body could only hurt physically not emotionally. They didn’t believe in mental illness. So naturally he thought there was nothing wrong and I could be normal again.
When I did venture out eventually, I saw R again. I had met R back when I was in year 10 in highschool.
R became my best friend. He let me cry, he let me scream, he didn’t force me to act like I was happy, he didn’t tell me to “stay positive” or “think happy thoughts.” He let me think about the bad things, he let me dwell and sulk. He let me be sad. Now you’re probably thinking, what an asshole! That’s not helping! That’s making it worse! You’re supposed to move on!
Well you know what, it DID help. I got it out of my system. I flushed out all the tears, all the anger and hatred. It was all gone.
And I smiled for the first time in 3 years. And R said, “I’m proud of you.”
From that day forward, my life got better. R and I started dating. It came naturally; we’d already shared every second of every day together. And he let me go at my own speed, which was glacial.
Sorry to bore you with my story. And it may not be anything like yours. But you know what? I know how you feel.
I know you struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I know you just want to escape, to sleep. To die.
I know you cut your skin because you feel pain. You feel something. And it’s something physical. Something you can fix.
When I was deep, I carved THIS into my upper arm. When I was a little girl, Dad would ask me, what hurts, and I’d point to my scraped knees and reply, this.
I know you think about swallowing those pills. I know you think about falling asleep and never waking up.
I know you cry. All the time.
I know some of you drink.
I know you just want to stop.
Well you know what. Stop. Take a deep breathe. Exhale. And say this. “It gets better.” And while you may have tears in your eyes saying it now. You may say it hatefully. You probably wont believe it now.
But you will.
Somehow everything’s gonna fall right into place,
If we only had a way to make it all fall faster everyday.
Everything WILL fall into place.
Promise me you’ll give it time. Pinky promise me.
So one of my sims died, and the grim reaper turned up to do his business, but then another of my sims went into labour and the grim reaper started freaking the hell out
"THIS IS NOT MY JOB. THIS IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF MY JOB."