I had a best friend.
Let me rephrase that. I have more than one best friend. I never liked saying one person is my best friend. In my opinion you can have more than one. That's how I roll, but for the longest time I did have just one. Here's the story.
Once upon a time, there was a girl I met in 7th grade in English class. We sat next to each other. I was friends with her two other friends first, then typical teenage drama happened with the other friends, her and me. By the time summer came around we became friends. Not long after, we were best friends. We did everything together - rode bikes, spent the night at each other's houses, the whole nine yards. In High School we remained friends even through rocky times of other friend's, boyfriends (she even dated my ex which I didn't have a problem with), death of family members, etc. She was there for me and I was there for her.
We were joined at the hip. Where you find one of us the other wasn't far. My uncle called us the Bobbsey Twins. After we graduated high school and I went to college, we still remained friends. She was family, a big sister I always dreamed of having.
Our friendship was so simple, we were nice to each other and respected each other. We weren't catty to each other. True genuine friends. Our friendship stood the tests and trials of time especially with my family issues. She was the one I could count on when times got bad. It was like that for 16 years.
Then things changed.
We decided to move into together, like we had always planned as teenagers. We were both in our late 20's. I was thrilled to be out on my own, out of my parents house, and with my best friend. It was kind of like Laverne and Shirley. At first it was great. We were having fun ...or so I thought.
Her true colors started to show. At first I didn't notice. I was a bit blind but it became more and more clear. I had to walk on eggshells around her. It seemed like she was a bomb ready to blow. I hated to be home when she was there. It was to the point where I couldn't stand it and wanted to move.
Don't get me wrong, I loved her to death, but I was unhappy with our current living situation. I felt more like a servant than a roommate or even a friend. I had no privacy. We shared a room, and her boyfriend and family were always over. I worked overnights, but there was no respect for my schedule. I couldn't sleep. If I could turn back time, I would have never, ever done it. They say never live with your best friend. It is so true.
I wanted out, but I was afraid it would tarnish what was left of our friendship. When I broke the news to her, I was such a wimp that I had to have my dad there with me. She took the news well.
I began my journey to find a place, eager to get out of the situation I was in with her. By April, I had found a place and was going to move on my vacation. My final day, I packed up everything with no help from anyone, said goodbye to her mother (who also lived with us) and never looked back. My friend was at work when this all happened. She knew I was leaving that day, but she had been giving me the cold shoulder. I didn't even tell her goodbye.
She came by to see my place once, but other than that I didn't hear from her. She never checked to see if I was settled or anything. That hurt.
I was upset at first because she was my friend, my sister, my confidant, roommate, and now nothing. Being apart bothered me, but after a while it didn't. I was tired of "trying" with her. Communication is a two-way street, and it seemed like I was the one always contacting her. If she wanted to talk to me she knew how to reach me, but it became clear she didn't want to.
My birthday was just after I moved. She totally forgot. We even had lunch together, but she didn't even get me a card. All I got was a Happy Birthday text hours later. I was so angry. I knew it was over.
Plus, I also felt our maturity level was different, even though she's about year older than me. I would say, "When she grows up I'll talk to her."
Maybe I'm just as immature?
That was four years ago. Now I don't even speak to her. The last time we actually talked was when my sister died eight months ago. I knew she would have never forgiven me if I hadn't told her about my sister. I even asked for her to help me go through pictures to display at the services. When she came over, she brought her "new" best friend along. They were going to dinner and movie afterwards. I admit that hurt because I needed a shoulder to lean on. I wanted to catch up, but I had been replaced.
Now I sit here thinking about her, and how much I miss her. We were such great friends. Now we're nothing. At first it didn't bother me now it does. She doesn't even know that I have a boyfriend.
Would she be happy for me?
Would she even care?
I always thought maybe one day we could be friends again, but I don't know anymore. I feel like there's too much distance now to salvage our friendship. Since I was the one making the first move in the past, I'm stubborn and don't want to now.
How do you mend a broken bridge?
Beaten hollow, silence is only my cry
as the days go by the wounds keeping getting deeper
making me wince in pain i know m alive..
The memories are too harsh and refuse to go away,
my heartbeat keeps racing with the hands of time
every time i go back to where it all ended,
Beaten hollow by the jolt of words that pierce my ears and echo
every time i close my eyes.
Losing sight of the past and what may come ahead i live in the uncertainty of today,
time seems to be frozen, and the days seem like years and refuse to go by...
Lost in deep slumber i go in search of a different world where the world will hum my tune
where my mind will open its windows to beautiful memories where i will be no longer misunderstood, judged but only loved.
Beaten hollow,a burning flame resides in me which is a stark reminder of the injustice done, the helplessness which creeps in and out, lost in the mighty ocean of tears i try to swim ashore, i gather myself to know that,
Some day i will make it all right, my dreams won't shatter like the glass of a window pane,
and no one will no longer possess the power to beat me hollow all over again,
I will rise up someday as for now m like a wrinkled leaf swaying in the strong winds of pain
I have lost direction and see no end to this lingering pain,
As i surrender to what's beyond my reach
a part of me is already dead inside, a part still winces in pain,
the only sign of life inside me now is the gushing blood passing through my veins,
The scars keep getting uglier with time as i try to hide the pain,
My broken smile has no longer the strength to wipe it all out,
so i take refuge in the darkness of loneliness
and my heart seeks comfort in the deafening silence of now...
Walking alone on the path of my broken dreams
nothing makes sense anymore,
I can't feel a thing,
I only wish i only knew how it felt to be whole again...
You tried to take away the only dream that kept me going and i lived for
by shattering me to pieces,
You did beat me hollow
but this is a promise i make to you
i will be back and relive my dream
and rebuild the castle of my dreams,
Once again i will fly in the winds of freedom
and be the captain of my destiny...
The scars of today will seem beautiful someday..
Some day when i will look back in time i will know i survived...
I want to feel better. I am hoping that writing about it will help.
I was raped by three fraternity brothers in college. Most of the frat guys are nice guys, and we are friends, but I didn't know the men that did this. I was drunk, but not as drunk as my sorority sisters. While helping a sister I got dragged into a room, was tied up and abused for 2 hours. I thought it was my fault and that I was a slut. I have never spoken about it until now.
It happened during this time of year.
I should be over it by now. I just feel so guilty. I am sorry I let it happen. I should have fought harder or told someone sooner. Hopefully by saying something now I will feel better.
I received a friend request from one of them. Today, I heard one of them married a sorority sister recently. It's put me in a bad place. I really hope I wasn't at fault, but it feels like it.
I am finally coming to accept that my mother has a variety of mental illness. I've known all my life something was wrong. Mostly I have ignored it, and even joked about it, trying to blow off steam.
Nothing was ever good enough for my mother. If I came home with B's on my report card, she would want to know why they weren't A's. She would say that I could have done better. My father only talked to me about how to fix something. He never shared much about his life, other than stuff about his job. He would tell stories for hours that went on about nothing. In lieu of parenting us, my mother just bought stuff for my sister and me.
Mom was also a bulimic. Day after day when I was growing up, I would hear her in the bathroom throwing up after every meal. If we asked about it, she would deny it and change the subject. Dad defended her and said it was none of our business.
My grandmother knew they were incapable of parenting so we stayed over at her house as much as possible.My grandmother basically raised me from the time I was 12 years old. I moved in with her and took care of her after her first heart attack. Sadly, I was an adult from that day on. I cooked, cleaned and ran her house. We had a great relationship.
Then, my grandmother found out I was gay. She told me I was a sinner, an embarrassment, and told me I wasn't her grandchild anymore unless I was "healed". I moved out on my own for the first time. We didn't speak for years.
After granny died, and later, my father, mom was on her own. For the first time in her life, she had control of the bills. It took less than two years until she had spent all of the money in the saving accounts my dad and granny had left. She then mortgaged her home in order to go shopping and go to the bingo halls. She recently moved in with me because she had no choice. She couldn't manage her money and had gambled it away.
Mom has always been controlling, She gets mad if I go someplace or even leave the house without telling her where, when and why, even calling my friends to find out where I am. She argues with me over everything: the food and even the type of trash bags I buy. She says I owe her and refuses to chip in with the utilities. If she is driving in the car with my sister or me and she doesn't like the music or the conversation, she will tell us she's going to ram the car into a tree.
She is home all day alone while I go to work. When I get home, if she hasn't already called me ten times, she has had the whole day to get worked up about something. She will unload on me as soon as I walk in the door.
She gets "nervous" about some story on the local news, or something she heard on the police scanner she listens to all day, or something horrible a friend told her about, and has to tell me it could happen to me so I must be careful.
Almost every night is a war and a screaming fit complete with her shaking her fists and slamming my door. The next day, she says "Good Morning," like it never happened. Tonight she screamed at me, told me to go to hell and stay there and slammed my bedroom door. I cant stand it anymore, she refuses to go to a doctor. Tonight I told her if she didn't get help, I would call an ambulance and force her to see a doctor. I have no support, no family to help. She badmouths me to her friends, and they always act like I'm such a jerk.
Despite how it sounds, I love my mother. I know there is help for her, but she will not go. She says therapy is stupid, and she just bites her nails when she gets upset.
Is anyone else going through something similar? Does anyone have advice for me?
I was fifteen, and I thought I had met the love of my life.
Of course, when you're fifteen, everything is the end-all, be-all of your life. You think that the day you fail your history exam is the worst day of your life; that your first job will kick-start your career as a successful businessperson; and the boy sitting at the outdoor table by the bus ramp with a cute smile and big arms is your future husband. At fifteen years old, I was sure I would love no one else but him for as long as I lived.
Because I was not raised a Christian, abstinence to me was always more of a personal preference than a spiritual promise. At fifteen I was not ready to have sex. I'd had only two boyfriends before, and only one of them ever got close enough to kiss me.
And then it all changed.
He was 6'3", Hispanic, and had no plans for the rest of his life. He had a beautiful smile, was the ultimate smooth talker, and he loved to hold my hand. In short, I was doomed to fall for this guy. I met him at lunch one day; he offered me his seat. I guess that was the first time I ever liked a guy at first sight. Four days later he asked me out. Within two months of dating, I knew I loved him.
He was not a virgin, while I was as virgin as it got. I told myself I was okay with that, but honestly, it kind of bothered me. It made me feel like I had some sort of unknown standard to live up to. Within three months of dating, sex naturally came up as a topic of discussion. It made sense, of course; I was a girl, he was a boy, and we were in high school.
Still, I was really not ready to have sex.
We had been dating about six months when he started to complain about not having sex. I made it very clear to him I wasn't ready. He'd tell me he understood, and that would end the conversation for the day. By the second or third time we'd argued about it, he told me he was tired of doing it for himself. He wanted his girlfriend, the woman he loved to make love to him.
It made me feel guilty.
When we had been dating about seven months, he sent me a text message saying that I was the best thing in his life and if I left him, he'd probably kill himself. I was in class when I got the text and had to ask to be excused so I could figure out what was going on.
That was the last time he mentioned it, but it stayed on my mind always.
By nine months, I would catch his hand traveling a little too far for my comfort and I'd stop him. One night, after the homecoming dance, he asked me to take off my dress, but swore he wasn't trying to sleep with me.
Later, his family moved and he had to change schools. I promised him we'd find a way to see each other. I'd visit him at his new home every weekend. We would lay on the couch and he would hold me all day. Our relationship was more innocent than it had ever been.
For a while, we were just content to spend time together. For our first anniversary, he took me to a nice dinner and asked me to prom. We had a relationship based on honesty, and I told him he was the one I wanted to marry.
After that, he began to bring up sex in conversation again.
We would argue about it, and then not talk for days. But no matter how I fought or said no, I could feel my defenses slipping. He knew what to say to make me feel like maybe I was wrong:
"But you love me, and I love you, and I want to show you that."
"It wouldn't be a terrible thing, it would be you and me becoming one."
"It's meant for two people who love each other. You do love me right?"
We would argue and then he would stop speaking to me. He would start to say something about sex and then stop, making me feel like he felt he couldn't talk to me about it. I thought I was losing him.
Finally, I compromised: we would do it on prom night. Not long after saying that, his hands began to wander again. When I'd stop him, we'd fight and he'd pull away from me.
I fought with myself on a daily basis, telling myself that if I didn't do it, he'd leave me. I thought I couldn't live without him. And so one day, I didn't say no. He convinced me that I'd enjoy it, so I gave him my virginity.
That night, I cried myself to sleep. I wasn't ready, and it sucked. He said he felt closer to me, and I said the same. But I never told him how I really felt. He started to ask more often, even demanding it once. I'd give some lame excuse, he'd see right through it, and I'd sleep with him. This happened for another six months.
Just before our second anniversary, he had gone a short while without asking for sex. I found out he had been sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. She confronted me at school one day, revealing it to me publicly.
I was mortified.
I left him eight months ago. I recognize that even though I loved him, I was not ready to lose my virginity at such a young age. For a long time, I blamed myself for it, saying I'm the one who should have said no, I should have stayed strong. But then again, I was afraid he would leave me.
Now I know I am not at fault. I learned that what he did is called sexual coercion. I was nothing more than another conquest. I have trouble getting close to men, and not trusting many people. I am clinically depressed and in college, still in love with a guy I wrongfully had sex with. I am seeking help. In sharing my story, I have found myself again.
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