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Sometimes I wonder why I even try to beat this, this overwhelming self hatred isn’t going to just disappear because I am popping pills or because I am admitting to people that I am depressed or anxious or that I have been sexually assaulted. I am never going to be happy, and I know that sounds so emo and unproductive but let me finish. 

I am never going to be happy stuck in this place, stuck in the exact place ive been since the day my innocence was stolen. Surrey, yes I am finally admitting the place I live, always felt like home. This is the place I was born, the place I learnt to talk, walk and this is the place my life evolved in. I have walked the same streets over and over again and it always felt safe and like nothing could possibly hurt me here because the faces of people I trusted filled every corner and every alley of these streets I now fear. I use to feel safe walking to the mall with ear buds blasting music and my mind in the clouds or walking through the short cut in the forest to the pool. Not because I was naive or unaware of what could happen but because I knew I had places to run to if anything happened. I trusted the people I knew, I trusted the neighbors and the faces I grew up around and then my life up and changed. When my dad got sick I still had my “safe” neighborhood, my familiar streets, a person I could run to on every street corner. When my grandma died I had people close enough that I could call them to come over and chill so I didn’t have to be alone with my thoughts. When my ex boyfriend came out I had people around that would meet me at a park or mall or a random parking lot so I didn’t have to dwell in my sadness and pain. 

But then we moved. 

Life happens; things that are completely out of our hands get thrown at us and I understand why we had to move. I understand that housing was hard to find and increasingly harder when we had to factor in that my dad was gonna need a wheelchair in the near future. When we moved I lost more then anyone else. I lost my ability to call up someone and meet them down the street, I lost that sense of security. I couldn’t see my friends as often because it was out of the way & no one drove. Getting to school was almost impossible and I ended up missing a lot and regretfully dropping out. I was alone with my thoughts, locked in my room alone for the better part of my day because I couldn’t just sit in the living room watching my dad deteriorate. I lost most of my friends because it was always a fight to go hang out with them. I lost everything that kept me sane and slowly I began reliving the painful experiences alone and so I drank. I drank to forget the pain, I drank because it gave me a reason to leave the house, I drank because if I drank enough I could fall into a dreamless sleep. I drank with people I didn’t know which lead to the sexual assault I speak about often. The sexual assault that I had to deal with alone because the people I told didn’t believe me. 

What I always failed to share was that it happened in the same area I grew up in. That the streets and mall that once seemed so safe became a reminder of the night I wish I could forget. I would be on edge every time I stepped foot into my old neighborhood fearful that I would see him. Fearful that I would run into people I knew before the assault, people who knew me before the depression and anxiety lead me into an inactive, unmotivated, sad and tormented person I allowed myself to become. A huge part of my insecurities come from losing my safe place, losing the people I always had to run to, losing my angels that helped me keep my demons away and then, from losing the good memories of my safe place to the torment the assault left in its place. 

This house, this neighborhood that homes the faces of people I have nothing in common with, people I do not know, has taken more from me then the good memories we built in it. I am resentful, resentful that this house took so much away from me. That within the walls of this house my heart has been broken so many times. That this house has more bad memories then good memories hidden within the walls. I feel like I am living in a prison, locked in a nightmare reliving all the pain and suffering this house has made me deal with. I feel unsafe behind these walls or walking these streets because I have no comfort, no safety, no one I can run to if something happens because they would rather turn a blind eye and pretend they aren’t home. 

I sit in a house my dad use to sit in, but he never lived in this house. He deterioted here, he suffered here. He adapted to life here, he choked and almost died here; the ambulance took him from here and never brought him back. ALS stole him from us here And now his ashes are here. But he never lived here.. He never worked on cars or spent hours trying to repair something in the drive way here, he never made memories here that were positive; no, he didn’t live he existed here. 

I lay in my own bed in a room my nephew was conceived in, in a room that my sister brought him home to but that wasn’t a joyful time for me. I love my nephew more then I could ever explain, his intelligence and his attitude makes me both proud and amused everyday and I am grateful to have him in my life, however my sister never wanted children and everyone always said I’d have a baby first. Yet she was the first one to have a successful pregnancy and there I was dying inside, unable to be touched or trust a man watching my sister live my only consistent dream. Watching her prepare for her first born and seeing my moms excitement to have her first grandchild killed me. I didn’t want my pain to show, but it probably did. I didn’t want to show my jealousy, but I know it radiated in the way I acted. I didn’t wanna admit how much pain her pregnancy brought me and how much it killed me. The birth of my nephew, a happy time, was one of my lowest and most painful times. It’s still such an emotional and painful topic for me. I still cry because I took out my pain on an innocent baby. I wouldn’t bond with him because I resented the fact that he was hers and not mine. I hated these feelings, I wanted to be happy for her, to be excited that I had a nephew but I couldn’t. I wanted to be okay with the bond my mom had with her first grandchild, but I was jealous that it wasn’t my child.  I wanted to put aside my resentment but I had no one to vent to because moving to this house took my ability to maintain my friendships. 

I have dealt with so much suffering in this house that I can’t possibly fathom ever being happy here. This was the house I came home to after being sexually assaulted, the house my heart was broken in, the house my favorite uncle stole from. I can’t blame my short comings on a house, I know that, but moving here didn’t help. 

If these walls could talk they would share stories of a broken family, share stories of fights and arguments, tears and hopelessness. They have witnessed our downfalls and trapped the memories within the drywall and studs. I don’t know how much longer I can live here, how much longer I can relive the painful memories this house holds. 

I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been;

Where my heart is full and my mind is at ease.

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