Friday, August 14, 2009

I Died at 12: My Real Story

August 13, 2009 by

(Originally published by Catrina McKechnie on Associated Content)

Obviously I didn’t die, but my heart did; everything that I was died when I was 12. I used to be outgoing, and genuinely happy. That all changed when I went back to school in seventh grade. As a preteen anything someone does to you, or that you do to someone can be devastating. In my case, it was almost

more than I could bare.

My “best friend” in seventh grade, did what a lot of kids do to get ahead. She started a vulgar rumor about me. My life came crashing down around me. I was being laughed at by everyone, and others were calling me vulgar names and making vulgar gestures to go along with the nasty rumor. My life as I knew it came to an end so that another could get ahead.

Sitting alone at lunch draws attention to you; there is no question about it. A boy, (who I later found out was mentally Ill) decided that since the rumor claimed me to be, among many painful things for a 12 year old to handle, a whore; I must be easy. He doted on me and like any vulnerable child I thought I was in love. I was smart enough to logically understand that I wasn’t in love at 12 years old, but emotionally I wanted whatever anyone would give me, well, until he wanted more. I told him no! I told him that I wasn’t ready for sex at 12 years old. I told him to stop.

I can never thank my mother enough for what she did that day. She invaded my privacy and stopped him right before I was raped. Damage had been done. I had no one to talk to about how he touched me. I had no one to tell that I didn’t want to be touched. I wasn’t raped but I was molested. I didn’t want to be touched and I wasn’t ready. I wanted my first time to be special not forced. Sadly, two years later, just after I entered high school, he returned and tried again. I am weak, and still I didn’t want to be touched or hurt or intruded upon, but I couldn’t stop him. I did, I don’t remember much but I told him to leave, I told him to never come back. I told him I hated him. I told him how he hurt me. He just laughed. He laughed in my face. Per

haps the threat of my father with a baseball bat scared him away, I don’t know, but I couldn’t take back what had happened a second time. What I let happen. I let him hurt me and I don’t know why. More than anything I want to stop him. I want the nightmares to stop. I might have been able to prevent the future issues.

The vulgar rumor followed me to high school. Tantamount to torture I just wanted to die. I woke up every morning wondering how I could end my pain. I suffered through every day until I could take it no more. A girl in my English class had presented the rumor to the class. Two days before I had walked to my softball game and been followed and beaten on. She hit me in the back of the head. I kept walking, Tears streaming down my face. I was hoping she’d kill me. I couldn’t fight back, there were 4 of them. I wasn’t “good enough” she said. She didn’t “like me”, I was a “coward”. So I kept walking, waiting, hoping, but they left me alone. They left me t

o suffer more.

English class, I was doing my assignment, they all laughed, I looked up. They pointed to me, you did “THAT”? The girls all claimed they saw me, in action. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t true. We all know they wouldn’t believe me. So I left class, I emptied my locker and left the school crying, as hard as I had ever cried. This was especially frightening to those who knew me. I don’t cry in public, let alone in front of other kids. I got on the bus and cried the whole ride home. I cried.

One teacher pretended to care. (I later, (about a month ago) found out that he was a pedophile, another disaster averted thank God).

I couldn’t wait to just end it all. My parent’s cared but no one else. When you’re a kid, it’s just not enough. I was planning to say goodbye to everyone I loved and then find a way to die quietly. I was 14.

Two years of torture and hatred, I was going to end it.

“What’s wrong” someone asked. I did what I had done for so long and ignored it. They didn’t really care. If they cared they’d make it stop. They’d tell them all to stop.

“Catrina, what’s wrong” The voice was a little stronger this time and I still ignored it. Chances are it was someone just wanting to start another heartless, hurtful rumor. I just wanted them to shut up.

“Catrina, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong”

Help me? You want to help me. Through tear filled eyes, I lied. I said I was ok. To anyone who knew me, which I believe this person did, when I cry, things are really bad.

“No you’re not. Talk to me. I can and will help you, I promise.”

I was petrified of empty promises. For some reason, this offer was very genuine. I believed that this person would help me. I wish I could say that my problems ended, they didn’t. However, they lessened if for no other reason, I had someone to talk to, that cared, and that wasn’t my parents. I love my parents, but at 14 you believe they HAVE to love you. You believe they have no other choices.

More rumors followed, but it was bearable to hear. I felt a little stronger. I did drop out of school, but continued on with night school. I still suffer unimaginable nightmares. Also, extreme self esteem and social issues, but that day, and over 4 years; I became capable of living. I’m still learning to live. I have a daughter of my own. I hope she doesn’t have to go through what I went through. I pray that she’ll be ok. I pray that she doesn’t hide when she see’s those people. The one’s who hurt her. I pray that she doesn’t run when invited somewhere. I pray that she can someday feel free to just drop in on friends and maybe ever one day feel completely comfortable with her friendships.

I had several plans to kill myself. Because, one person cared; one person chose to not judge me by others comments; one person chose to continue contact with me even now. I am alive. That person really doesn’t know what they did for me. I’d love to tell them but I’m scared. What if they find what happened to me. I am starting to feel, that it’ll be ok. That’s why I am writing it down. Because I can hold it in no longer.

There is a lot more to compound this, but perhaps all of the other issues wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t already willing myself to die.

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