Chapter VII - The Last One I just want to quickly point out, that these chapters can get quite harsh and unpleasant quite quickly, so younger and more sensitive readers please be aware. A sudden bleep from my computer brought me back from my otherwise gloomy day. My ex from boarding school, and that I hadn’t spoken with since, had remembered my birthday, and had written a mere “Happy Birthday”. Why we had broken up back then, I have no idea, some silly childish argument over something irrelevant. All I know is, that my heart was pounding, fingers trembling, weird giggles started to form in my throat, and somehow I managed to type back some sort of thanks and how he was. This lead to a longer conversation and him listening in, as I called my current “boyfriend”, finally summoning the guts to tell him not to come back. Frederik, my ex from boarding, and I agreed to meet up the following weekend, and from then on things started going up hill. He taught me how to eat properly again, stuffing me with food whenever he was around. My cutting started to slow down, and finally came to a halt. We would spend whole nights just talking. Talking about the past, mine and his, and suddenly, words started to come to me. Tears that should have been wept years ago fell freely. Anger, that should have been aired throughout my #life was suddenly allowed me to breathe, seeing the world through different eyes, gathering the strength to live again. I was free. Our relationship continued to blossom, as I let the last scabs from wounds, so deep I never thought they would heal, fall away. I felt raw, naked. Suddenly, the whole world was new, and I was vulnerable. I had finally let myself be in a situation where I had something to loose. I started school again, with dreams of opening an institution for children who were suffering the same as I. My body started to rebuild itself, slowly, carefully, but steadily. I can’t lie, things were tough, learning to trust again, learning to love again. But this was a fight worth fighting, and I had the strongest, most beautiful warrior fighting alongside me. A few months ago we moved into a house close to the sea, with a beautiful garden for my cats to play in. Every day is filled with love and passion, even through the worst of our fights. Although we suffered a great loss in April, where we lost our first child, I am now 17 weeks pregnant, and baby talk is all over our lips. Secretive smiles sent back and forth, playful teasing when discussing the future, kisses that mean something, and eyes dancing with words that do not need to be said. I can finally see a future, and one that I am looking forward to. I feel safe, loved .. happy. My body and soul still bear the scars from my past, people still stare when they see the tortured skin on my arms and legs, I still have a hard time trusting people, and being part of an ordinary social #life without questioning myself, but I am stronger than ever, and I am not going to give up. I can truly and honestly say, that I am happy.

Chapter VI I just want to quickly point out, that these chapters can get quite harsh and unpleasant quite quickly, so younger and more sensitive readers please be aware. Days ended up passing by quickly, although whilst smoking ourselves out of our world, time didn’t really matter anyway. But as all ways, pride comes before the fall. The police found me, contacted the commune, and my mother was on to me again. I was moved closer to Copenhagen, away from my best friend, and I lived the next six months cooped up in room, never leaving, hardly eating wondering whether I had reached the end of my fight. Alcohol blurred my vision, my sense of reality – I had given up. Everyone wanted me to fail, so why not give them what they wanted? Drinking and smoking became part of my everyday #life. Causing rows at bars, staggering home in the early mornings, trying to remember why I was coming home with only one shoe and a sprained wrist and finding new people to share my misery with came to be the purpose of my #life. Finally 17, and coming to my senses. Tired of the grave I was digging for myself I reengaged in the fight and moved back to Odense. I found a flat, and a boyfriend to put in it so that I wasn’t alone. I started working at a sandwich bar to earn money alongside the money from the commune so that I could pay the rent and started to build my #life back up again. Slowly, after spending hours every morning trying to cover up the bruises and marks my boyfriend awarded me, I started to realise that I hadn’t moved an inch in either direction. I was still held captive by someone else, and I still hated every minute of it. He grew stronger and more confident by the minute, upping his dosage of drugs and number of women he would fuck on the side, and greeting me with anger whenever I came home. I became his toy, expected to please him when required, feed him when required, be his sex toy when required, and otherwise just speak when spoken to and look hot when his friends were over. I started cutting again after having stopped for the good part of six months, and sleep came only after having met the bottom of numerous bottles, constantly searching for that feeling of peace without pain. On my 18th birthday, the day I had been waiting for since I was 12, the so called boyfriend was once again out, fucking some other hopeless girl and getting as high as #life would let him, and I had been left alone, to celebrate with no one but myself and the voices in my head.

Chapter V I just want to quickly point out, that these chapters can get quite harsh and unpleasant quite quickly, so younger and more sensitive readers please be aware. Continued .. 15, and pregnant. My mother was not to know, so it was a hush hush “take these pills, endure the pain for a few hours, and there you go” thing. Over and done with. I didn’t have that much to say about it. My baby girl would have been 4 now, and although I am well aware that is was neither the time nor place, and I would have had nothing good to offer her, she stays in my heart and gathers the tears I have cried for her. By this time, I had two younger brothers. They were both suffering under the same treatment as I, and both of them just as terrified. Every single day was a battle, fighting for my brothers, protecting, and standing up for them. My health was getting worse by the minute, living every day in a hazy state, drugged out of my mind with pain killers, numbed by the cuts, and always starving. School was hardly a challenge, but I had just given up. Friends had been scared away, my mother had convinced the teachers that I was nutters, and I found my self alone. I had to get out. I only had 2 options; Leave, or die. My mother was standing and shouting at me, grabbing my hair and slamming my head into the wall, spitting me in the face and reminding me how worthless I was. I guess it was now never. Where it came from, I have no idea, but my fist came flying through the air, smashing into her face leaving her stunned long enough for me to grab a hoodie, and run. When I reached the woods, I threw my hoodie in the bushes, knowing that my mother would call the police, give them a description, and say I had done something terrible, so I was willing to do anything that could delay them or lead them in the wrong direction. I stopped an elderly couple, begging to borrow their phone, called my ex boyfriend and ran towards the bus. Sneaking onto the bus through the back door due to lack of money, I kept my head down, praying that no one would see me. My ex picked me up, and we took the fastest path homewards. Early next morning, dressed in my ex’s hoodie to hide my fiery red hair, I caught the first train heading towards Copenhagen, hiding in the train’s bathroom, pretending to be pregnant and bleeding so they wouldn’t chuck me off. I reached Copenhagen, and was met by my best friends father – I was safe. Continues ..

The Past IV I just want to quickly point out, that these chapters can get quite harsh and unpleasant quite quickly, so younger and more sensitive readers please be aware. Continued .. Cutting became who I was, which, after a while, developed into not very much. Striving for acceptance and my mothers love, I started the one diet after the other. Orthorexia turned into anorexia, and I came closer and closer to the 40 kg. My hair started falling out and getting thinner, scars and open wounds would cover my arms, legs, feet and sides. I would wind bandages around my ribs as tightly as possible, trying to bend them in so I wouldn’t be so broad. Pills were swallowed by the bottle, laxatives to “clean” my system, painkillers to ease the throbbing in my chest and the bruising of my body, and pills without names on, just in case they might help for something or other. I cut all of my hair off, avoided other people and started sinking into a heavenly emptiness. My mother continued her verbal and physical abuse, my school continued looking the other way, and I continued destroying myself piece by piece. I guess that’s why I can’t remember much from back then, its more of a blur, with curious, scared and angry eyes, staring me down, as if they knew all my dirty little secrets, and were attempting to burn them into my face. At the age of 14, I met my first boyfriend, a 17-year-old schizophrenic. My need to take care of others to distract me from myself took over, and I surrendered to this helpless yet dangerous boy. A week later he raped me for the first time. Needless to say, this did not end our relationship, and I did what my mother taught me, I pleased him. I dedicated my #life to him, letting him rape me over and over again, letting him abuse in the same manner as my mother had done, letting him control me, dominate me, own me. With my first boyfriend, came my first suicide attempt. As many pills as I could swallow, along with enough alcohol to kill a horse, and fingers crossed that I wouldn’t live to return it. I remember lying in my bed, eyes towards the ceiling, or, ceilings seeing as the alcohol had kicked in, and dreaming myself away. Dreaming of a beautiful world, a peaceful world. A world without sound, a world without time, a world where everything is fragile, yet strong; a world where I could be me. Continues ..

The Past III I just want to quickly point out, that these chapters can get quite harsh and unpleasant quite quickly, so younger and more sensitive readers please be aware. Continued .. I was already a frequent smoker at the age of twelve, starting with a couple of stolen cigarettes from my mothers pack, and growing into finding and saving every penny for the next pack that would easily disappear in a day. My mother had grown tired of my ten-year younger brother, and I had become his new “mother”. Every stolen hour was spent feeding and caring for him, then sneaking out to smoke, and sneaking back to change him, and try to get him to sleep. My mother was, as always, unemployed, and would spend her days screaming and yelling at me to shut the child up from the couch as smoke poured out through her nostrils, making her look like a red-eyed dragon in the hazy room. And then I snapped. How? I can’t quite explain. I needed pain. I needed to see blood. My blood. My swallowed rage from all those years came over me all at once, knocking me off my feet. Out of breath, body boiling, heart racing I searched my room for anything sharp. Eyeing a pair of scissors, I grabbed them, holding them tightly in a fist, and drove them through my hand. My lungs filled with air, I could breathe again. Laughing, gasping this beautiful clean air into my body, tears racing down my cheeks, the scissors plunged again. I had never felt so alive, so true, so real. I could see my own blood creating bright red rivers between my fingers, feel my whole hand pounding, smell the sickly sweet smell, letting it touch the tip of my tongue, tasting it with my whole body. I was alive. My mother’s shouts from downstairs brought me back to the real world. Quickly wiping up, pulling my sleeve over my hand, I went downstairs to obey, a different person. Continues ..