Life

Hello people of the world.

My name is Mandee.  I am 18 years old and I am attending college pursuing a degree in Medicine.  I am "smart" according to my nearly perfect ACT score and 4.0 GPA, but that is only in school.  In life, I have made SO many stupid decisions that I couldn't write them all down without developing carpel tunnel in my hand.

I guess my weight was always one of the reasons that I had social issues.  I have been obese my entire life.  I don't remember a single time in my past that I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.  This left me to be absorbed in my school work, because I wouldn't want to go to a birthday party when I was a child because I knew my peers would mock me if I even glanced at a slice of cake.

I secluded myself fairly well, reading a lot of books or singing karaoke with my mother or a friend from school (I had a few, but not too many).  Perhaps my most vivid memory from grade school was in second grade.  It was a health day, and everyone was weighed for some reason.  I heard my teacher say that she weighed 127 pounds, and I thought WHOA that's a lot compared to the 60 and 70 pounds my classmates weighted... I got on the scale and it came to 124 pounds.. three pounds less then my teacher, and she had a good two feet of height on me.

I didn't act like I cared, but I really did.  I contained my emotions until I arrived home to my empty house (my parents were divorced, my Dad lived in Michigan [I lived in Mississippi], and my mother worked second shift at a factory).  I shouldn't have been home alone, but I lied and told the bus driver my Mom was home today and forged a decent note to back it up.  Those books came in handy even at such a young age.

It wasn't too long after that I fell into depression.  I was so young, but I recall crying daily, missing my parents.  I only saw my mother for a few minutes a day.. our schedules did not coincide very well.  My dad called but my mother limited the talk time (he was an alcoholic and a "bad influence.")  I was lost in a world I wasn't ready for.

My parents got back together shortly after that.  I believe I was nine, if my memory serves me correctly.  My dad was disgusted at my appearance, and I was put on a diet.  I was not allowed to eat sugary snacks or fried food, and I walked on the treadmill for an hour a day, as fast as was required to make me sweat.  I hated that damn treadmill with all my heart.  I dreamt of destroying and burning it with a jackhammer, gasoline, and matches, but I knew I would get in trouble..  My hatred was driven even farther by the hypocrisy of my father, who would tell me to pick up the pace before shoving M&Ms or buttery popcorn into his 330 pound mouth.

So it wasn't until I was a bit older that the treadmill finally broke.  I was happy.  It wasn't making that much of a difference anyways, I was still gaining weight and was still obese and unhappy with my appearance.  I was getting older, developing breasts, starting my period, regular things a teenage girl goes through.. but it was somehow different.

I felt rejected.  On the school bus, cute boys would play around with the girls, but would only pick on me, calling me fat ass or something like that.  It hurt me so badly.  My father told me the reason my mother "fed" me like she did (I have no idea what he was talking about), was so that I would always be so fat that no boy would ever want me and I would be her baby forever.  I vowed to prove them all wrong.

On December 17, 2004, at 7:38 p.m., I left my empty house and wandered down the driveway, where a green car and a cute 17-year-old boy awaited.  I shivered with both cold and excitement, but mostly excitement (Mississippi doesn't get too cold in December).  I sat in the car and took a deep breath as he pulled away.  The smell was intoxicating, sweeter then any rose I'd ever smelled and more appealing then chocolate cake.  It was the smell of a man, and I liked it.

It was ten days after that night, my mother found out about my secret encounter.  She read my diary, an action she swore she would never do.  I burnt that diary, even though she had read the entire thing because, she claimed, "God told me to do it."

Bullshit.  God doesn't tell you to break promises, genius.  Anyhow, they wanted to press charges against the guy for rape, but I refused to cooperate at all.  I said it was all a lie, although the doctor confirmed otherwise, and eventually they let him off the hook.  But they have never let me off the hook.  My father called me easy, and my mom said that I would eventually be no more then a prostitute on the streets, and that I would probably already be one if anyone would actually pick up my fat ass.

I cried every day for five months after my mom said that.  It hurt so much worse coming from her mouth.  She had always been there for me, kind of, but now I was the whore of the family.  I couldn't compare at all to my idealistic Christian sister or brilliant brother.  I was just doomed to be the slut, and later was accused of being a pothead.

By the time I turned 16, I had slept with 19 guys, taken up cutting, and I was bulimic.  My mom would congratulated me on the 30 pound weight loss in three weeks, and thought no more of it.  For my sixteenth birthday, my dad bought a large strawberry-filled sheet cake, but told me that I was not allowed to eat any, that I was fat enough already.  He was right, but it still hurt so bad to watch everyone stuff my birthday cake down their throats and I wasn't permitted to even inhale it too heavily.

I cut too deeply that night.  I carved a perfectly shaped pentagram into my wrist.  It bleed alot, but I got it too close to my hand and made it a bit too large.  It wouldn't fit underneath my wristband, which usually covered my cuts flawlessly.  One of the points on the star stuck out, but I figured neither of my parents paid any attention to anything I did besides making sure I didn't overeat, so I didn't worry. 

Three days later, my mom invited me on a shopping trip with her and my sister.  Although it seemed strange, because I was never invited, I accepted the offer hoping I could find a few new things for school since all the others didn't fit because, for the first time in my life, they were too big.

I should have known better.  I really should have known better then to get in that mini-van and go "shopping."  Because it was a big fat lie.  They pulled up to a mental institution, with the fenced in area, dingy windows, and tall trees lining the drive until we came to an abrupt stop and the doors locked around me.  I stared in disbelief as they turned in unison to face me.  In the reflection off of my sister's huge, tacky sunglasses, I could see that my eyeliner was messily smudged from a tear that already fell from my eye.  I saw my lip quiver.  But I wasn't sad.

I was furious.  How the fuck do you tell me we are going shopping and then take me to a fucking mental hospital, right when school was starting back?  I felt my black fingernails pierce the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists to control my temper.  I saw the smirk on my mother's face as she saw me take it all in.  I just asked why.

She said she didn't lie to me, that she said that so I would come.  That she read my diary, again, and saw what I had been doing.  She heard me puke in the bathroom all those times.  She saw the cuts on my wrists, but it was not that she was so concerned about.  It was the sex with random guys that she cared about.

I spent 9 days in that Hell-hole.  Nine days of being around these stupid people who want to hear about your problems.  My main problem was being in that stinky room and squeaky desk all damn  day.  Eating the nasty food, or mostly just pushing it around my tray and compressing it as much as possible to appear as if I had eaten it.  Then, I had to wait two hours to go to the bathroom, even if I just had to pee.  That pissed me off..

It was on my family visit day in Hell that I found out that my parents were divorcing and my mother and I were moving close to where my sister lived.  I would have to change schools, after being at the one I was at for 8 years.  I would have to make new friends.  I would have to do all this shit, plus try to deal with the problems I already had.

It was a good thing they stole my shoelaces, because I would have killed myself.  I wanted to beat my head into a wall until it exploded, but I knew better then that.  I would have to deal with this a bit more rationally.  I used the cap on my shampoo bottle to cut my arm in the shower.  It was minor, it barely bled, but it relieved me so much.  And no one ever knew about that.

I got out feeling a whole lot more depressed then I did before.  My dad picked me up in my car, but wouldn't let me drive.  He said I wasn't emotionally capable of driving.. ok.. whatever...

I hated my new school.  I hated sleeping on a pull out couch in my Grandma's tiny trailer with my mom.  I hated being watched while I ate.  I hated being checked for new cuts.  It drove me crazy.  I yearned for some freedom, and it came a couple of weeks later.

I got to go to town on September 6, 2006, for good behavior.  I was so excited.  I chose to go to the local hangout spot, a parking lot in the middle of town, where I knew several of my friends would be.  I parked my car and started walking around, running in to some new people who somehow knew my name.

They offered me something to drink sometime in our meeting.  I remember that it was sweet tea from a restaurant.  It had a taste of aspartame to it, but it was also different.  I remember everything starting to look different.  Things got blurry and I struggled to hold on to the cup.  I remember dropping the cup and closing my eyes.

When I opened them I was naked and surrounded by five huge guys holding knives and lit Zippo lighters.  They said that if I screamed they would kill me without a second thought.  It was the worst pain I had ever felt in my entire life, and those four hours I spent in that room felt like an eternity of burning in flames and being showered in ethyl alcohol.  I screamed in my mind so loud and I cried so many silent tears.  I didn't even know my name anymore.  I didn't know what to do besides lay there and take this punishment.  I had been a bad person throughout my entire life, and I was finally getting what I deserved-being raped by five people at once.

They threw me out of the car at McDonalds.  I didn't know where to start.  I couldn't remember where my car was.  I didn't even know where my keys were.  I felt my purse hanging on my limp hand.  I sifted through the items and found my cell phone.  I had 38 missed calls, all from my mother.  She called again as I stared at the screen, and I answered.  I had no words to say.  I couldn't even utter a mere "hello."  I heard her screaming at me through the earpiece, but I had no response.  All I said was McDonalds.

She arrived soon-after, along with my sister.  I was still in the same place in the parking lot, curled into a little ball in a parking place.  Wearing black, I knew no one could see more then a mass on the ground, but at that point I really didn't care if I had gotten run over or not.  My mother saw my pallid face and ran over to me.  She demanded to know what was going on as she yanked me into the van, but I was silent.  I screamed in my head but my mouth wouldn't open-not again.

She read it in my eyes.  After attempting to pinpoint my activity for a few minutes, she finally said it.  I nodded singly and then burst into tears yet again.  My sister held me close as my mom called the police and drove to the hospital.  I wandered aimlessly behind my sister's bobbing blonde hair.  I heard all the questions being thrown at me, but I still couldn't answer any of them.  My mom got pissed at me.  My dad showed up, told me that it was my fault, that I was just a slut and should have known better then to have been around any guys in the first place, and he left.  He didn't care.

My two best friends came, and hugged me tightly.  I felt more love from them then I had felt from any of my family.  They cried with me, and I finally regained my voice.  I told the police what happened.  Every little detail that I could pull from my memory.  As I was walking out, I heard my mother telling them that I was probably lying, that I had just been released from a mental institution and I had problems.  That I was probably making it all up for attention, or to cover-up that I had wanted it.

The rape kit said otherwise, revealing that my insides were badly bruised and that I had contracted  Chlamydia.  I was given so many antibiotics that I was sick for a month.  I didn't have any energy, I threw up everything I ate, and my mom accused me of bulimia again.  I didn't even answer her.

I woke up in the middle of the night screaming in terror countless nights.  At first my mom would come talk me through it, but eventually she said I was overreacting and eradicated herself from the situation.  I couldn't talk every day, I was hoarse on many days from the night.  I had permanent black circles underneath my eyes from sleep deprivation, and my newly-assigned counselor only talked about herself, and how things like her husband related to me getting raped.. right..

I am still not over it, but I have moved on to new things.  I was Salutatorian and Star Student of my high school, despite being distracted by so many other things.  My parents are unhappily back together.  And even now that I am 18, they still accusatory but wish to control every aspect of my life...

I have learned many lessons from my experiences, and I know many more will come.  I anticipate them and hope for the best of them in my future.