I was 15 and my mom was working nights. He came in my room and held his hands over my mouth and told me to shut up. If I just got it over with, it wouldn’t be so bad the next time. I remember trying to clench my legs shut as hot tears streamed down my face.
I got up the next morning and walked to the bus stop that would take me to junior high. Every step was painful. I met my friends and greeted them like normal. I was normal.
Fast forward two and half years. Two and a half years of being “normal.” I actually wanted to die. Looking back on this time is all a blur. I mostly remember lying in bed at night, sick to my stomach, praying that God would take me before everyone fell asleep and my dad appeared. Being dead would have been so easy. I craved the peace. Sometimes I’d lay in bed wondering what it would be like waking up in Heaven. Sometimes I’d fall asleep plotting ways to kill myself. Sometimes I’d imagine someone finding my lifeless body, and what that might do to them, and I’d lose my nerve.