I just found out over the internet that there were in fact TWO Malaysian Airlines tragedies. I thought MH17 was the same plane incident as MH370, and that they found that MH370 was shot down in East Ukraine.
It's very hard to digest, isn't it? Was it purely bad luck that MH370 disappeared, or was it the Malaysian Airlines pilot's fault, AGAIN? Was it that Malaysian Airlines hired extremely bad and potentially dangerous pilots and staff, or was it just like the saying goes, "Bad luck comes in threes"? Hopefully, nothing else happens to Malaysian Airlines, or any other airline for that point.
The passengers on board MH17... to die in a war that wasn't even theirs is just... purely unfathomable to think about. It's such a tragedy. The Malaysian Airlines pilot should not have even flown over Eastern Ukraine in a WAR ZONE. They must have known there was a war there, as it was on news all over the world. Malaysian Airlines hopefully had warned the pilot, at the least.
Sometimes, I wish that ever since the tragic news has come out, that Malaysian Airlines shut down, and re-assess their staff, planes, and especially, the pilots, mental health included. I just wish that Malaysian Airlines shut down, and go under the radar for a few years, until everything is declared as stable again for them. After all, isn't it safety over wealthiness? Surely safety for everyone on board all flights is much more important that having a lot of money?
The tragedy of the losses for all families, and for some families, they have lost many people on both flights, is very hard to imagine. Just think... if you were one of the family members alive still and were not on board the plane, would you ever fly again? Would you hate Malaysian Airlines, for them causing the loss of many family and relative members? Would you ever be able to see the bright side anymore?
The tragedy of both these flights... All we can do now is sympathise with the families, and provide our best support for them. there is no use in speculating any further than the facts, providing an "answer" and giving everyone hope, only to have the hoe pushed away again for it was a faux statement.
All we know is that Malaysian Airlines will be under critical assessment for potentially, many years to come. RIP to all passengers on board both MH370 nd MH17 flights. Both were Boeing 777-200ER planes as well, just a note.
Friday, 18 July 2014
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Anorexia
Anorexia is a well-known subject to talk about nowadays, there are many portrayals of anorexic people and their lifestyles etc., but what many people don't know is that their portrayals... well, they're correct, but they've only just touched the surface. There's so much more many people don't know, until they become anorexic as well.
One example? We have our own habits, which stem from our lifestyles and anorexia. We punish ourselves for eating when we're not meant to, and we do it, thinking it's for our own good and well-being. We have our own set of rules to follow through with, and our own quotes to keep us motivated.
Many people think it's easy not to eat food, as we haven't for so long, but the truth is, it's never easy to give up on an essential in life. Food is what gives us our energy, and we all crave for food. That's why I carry around a booklet of some quotes that make me repel against eating, and quotes for me to keep going on with this strictly no-eating diet. It's hard.
But I was quite flexible with my diet. Sometimes, I'd allow myself one bite, and only one bite, per meal. So in total, 3 small spoonfuls of whatever I decided to eat on that day, for the whole day. It's not easy, again, to having to force yourself to stop eating, because everything has its own challenges. I just thought I was brave enough to overcome the challenges.
I also exercised immensely. I exercised everyday until I could not do anymore. And then the next day, would be a repeat. The same thing. Exercise until I drop. Literally. I exercised until my legs and arms could not support my weight anymore, and I fell onto the floor. I had a treadmill at home hat I used everyday. I still have no muscles!
When I was fed, and being given one age appropriate meal after I was discovered to have anorexia, I couldn't stand to stare at the food, or eat it. Not even one bite. And you'd think that Id love to eat seeing as I craved it! But no, I think that your mind tricks you.
When there's no food, you want some. But when it's given to you freely, and it's bigger than what you usually used to consume, your mind immediately switches to the side where it says the meal has so and so ingredients, and thus this much calories, and you'd need to exercise for this many minutes or hours more to get rid of the extra unwanted fat etc. and on it goes.
How I got anorexia? Well, this stems from my abuse blog. I trained myself not to eat, but when I did manage to sneak in some food, I did eat it, but in precise amounts. I trained myself; one bite per day, so I did get my energy needs, but not so much that my stomach would grumble again when I became hungry.
It also stemmed from the bullying, and name-calling, teasing and tormenting. Mentally, I believed them, so I trained myself not to eat. From the day I believed them, my one bite per day relaxed diet was cut. I didn't eat AT ALL everyday from then on.
I'm improving slowly now, it's hard but I'm working on it. I still exercise everyday, but at regular intervals. I don't over-exercise anymore, which is a huge step in the right direction for me. I hope to be able to eat a regular, age appropriate meal by the end of this year, and so far, I'm doing OK to my standards, and the hospital staff are quite... surprised to say the least, from my improvements. Thanks dad! <3
One example? We have our own habits, which stem from our lifestyles and anorexia. We punish ourselves for eating when we're not meant to, and we do it, thinking it's for our own good and well-being. We have our own set of rules to follow through with, and our own quotes to keep us motivated.
Many people think it's easy not to eat food, as we haven't for so long, but the truth is, it's never easy to give up on an essential in life. Food is what gives us our energy, and we all crave for food. That's why I carry around a booklet of some quotes that make me repel against eating, and quotes for me to keep going on with this strictly no-eating diet. It's hard.
But I was quite flexible with my diet. Sometimes, I'd allow myself one bite, and only one bite, per meal. So in total, 3 small spoonfuls of whatever I decided to eat on that day, for the whole day. It's not easy, again, to having to force yourself to stop eating, because everything has its own challenges. I just thought I was brave enough to overcome the challenges.
I also exercised immensely. I exercised everyday until I could not do anymore. And then the next day, would be a repeat. The same thing. Exercise until I drop. Literally. I exercised until my legs and arms could not support my weight anymore, and I fell onto the floor. I had a treadmill at home hat I used everyday. I still have no muscles!
When I was fed, and being given one age appropriate meal after I was discovered to have anorexia, I couldn't stand to stare at the food, or eat it. Not even one bite. And you'd think that Id love to eat seeing as I craved it! But no, I think that your mind tricks you.
When there's no food, you want some. But when it's given to you freely, and it's bigger than what you usually used to consume, your mind immediately switches to the side where it says the meal has so and so ingredients, and thus this much calories, and you'd need to exercise for this many minutes or hours more to get rid of the extra unwanted fat etc. and on it goes.
How I got anorexia? Well, this stems from my abuse blog. I trained myself not to eat, but when I did manage to sneak in some food, I did eat it, but in precise amounts. I trained myself; one bite per day, so I did get my energy needs, but not so much that my stomach would grumble again when I became hungry.
It also stemmed from the bullying, and name-calling, teasing and tormenting. Mentally, I believed them, so I trained myself not to eat. From the day I believed them, my one bite per day relaxed diet was cut. I didn't eat AT ALL everyday from then on.
I'm improving slowly now, it's hard but I'm working on it. I still exercise everyday, but at regular intervals. I don't over-exercise anymore, which is a huge step in the right direction for me. I hope to be able to eat a regular, age appropriate meal by the end of this year, and so far, I'm doing OK to my standards, and the hospital staff are quite... surprised to say the least, from my improvements. Thanks dad! <3
Saturday, 12 July 2014
My Struggle With Self-Harm
The topic of self-harm. I started when I had another one of my mental breakdowns. It was at my primary school's corridor, and I found a sharp piece of glass inside my school bag. From what, I'll never know, but all I know is that it was there for me when I first needed it.
It wasn't planned or anything, I never even thought of self-harming before that one incident. I used it on my wrist, and all I felt was... joy, intense happiness, like nothing mattered any more, as long as I have the piece of glass with me wherever I went. It hurts, but only if I want it to.
From that day on, all of the words people called me, I used my little piece of glass to help me cope. It was my coping mechanism, nothing else seemed to work. The bruises I got, I thought I deserved them. I was stupid, ugly, who would wan me even without the scars, cuts and bruises that littered my body? So i allowed them to continue, but what they didn't know I did to myself, wouldn't hurt them, would it? So I continued.
They didn't realise I was harming myself until the year after, I 'celebrated' my one year 'anniversary' of having a best friend with showing my scars out to the world, not caring who saw. But my personal torturers saw, and from then on, my life got a whole lot worse.
And again, I depended on my best friend so much more. At the end of that year, I had 30 sharp blades, 20 razor blades, and an infinite amount of small pieces of glass. I hid them everywhere, in classrooms (only the small pieces of glass), in my locker, in my school bag and in pockets on my uniform. Nobody ever saw or questioned me about them, or my scars.
The bullies used my self-harming against me, which in turn made me love and cherish, and not to mention use, my sharp objects a lot more. It was one huge cycle that I did not see could make a big impact and change in my life.
I'm not going very deep into this subject because it's private and personal to me. I'm still trying to get rid of my habit, but as they all say, old habits die HARD.
I used self harming to go against me and the control, or loss of control, of my life. I hated me for it, but I still continued. My body was littered with scars, all over my wrists, on my stomach, inner and outer thighs, my chest, and some even on my neck. But they were always covered with something, and so that way, I could continue my habit and have nobody see.
I didn't know what I did would cause so much damage and after-effects. I loved my blade for so many years, I used it from when I was 7-8 years old until I turned 14. I only just tried to stop, ad I still find it hard to lose that control I had over my life, the only control I had over my life.
All other aspects of my life, they were controlled by my torturers, my parents, school, bullies, and I was confined by the rules and laws of both school and the country. I felt trapped, and my way of release was through self-harming. Because there never was a rule blocking it from happening, was there? So I continued, and loved it for so long. Too long.
I thought my blades were my only weapon against life. But ultimately, I used the weapon, against myself. The only person who actually cared whether the blades were there or not. The only person who could get hurt by them. Me.
I was always screaming out for help through the use of my visible scars, but at the same time, I was hoping nobody would see them. Whenever a teacher walked by, I made sure my wrists were out in the open, but nobody ever saw.
That was the way it continued until ninth grade, and my science teacher, now foster dad, saw them. That wasn't the end of my struggle with self-harm though. I'm still struggling, trying not to reach for the blade, but I am 7 months clean. Sometimes, I'm so proud of myself for not getting the blade and surviving through the taunts and my cries, but sometimes, I'm just itching for that ONE little cut.
But I know if I allow myself to, just to have ONE little cut for my achievement right now, I know that I will ruin all of my hard work, and the cycle will continue. So if anybody has any suggestions on how to try to stop self-harming, you can write it in the comments below. Please, I need some extra help!
And a tip for people trying to stop self-harming: You're using the blades AGAINST yourself. The ONLY person who cares is YOU. The ONLY person who could get hurt by them. It's all YOU.
It wasn't planned or anything, I never even thought of self-harming before that one incident. I used it on my wrist, and all I felt was... joy, intense happiness, like nothing mattered any more, as long as I have the piece of glass with me wherever I went. It hurts, but only if I want it to.
From that day on, all of the words people called me, I used my little piece of glass to help me cope. It was my coping mechanism, nothing else seemed to work. The bruises I got, I thought I deserved them. I was stupid, ugly, who would wan me even without the scars, cuts and bruises that littered my body? So i allowed them to continue, but what they didn't know I did to myself, wouldn't hurt them, would it? So I continued.
They didn't realise I was harming myself until the year after, I 'celebrated' my one year 'anniversary' of having a best friend with showing my scars out to the world, not caring who saw. But my personal torturers saw, and from then on, my life got a whole lot worse.
And again, I depended on my best friend so much more. At the end of that year, I had 30 sharp blades, 20 razor blades, and an infinite amount of small pieces of glass. I hid them everywhere, in classrooms (only the small pieces of glass), in my locker, in my school bag and in pockets on my uniform. Nobody ever saw or questioned me about them, or my scars.
The bullies used my self-harming against me, which in turn made me love and cherish, and not to mention use, my sharp objects a lot more. It was one huge cycle that I did not see could make a big impact and change in my life.
I'm not going very deep into this subject because it's private and personal to me. I'm still trying to get rid of my habit, but as they all say, old habits die HARD.
I used self harming to go against me and the control, or loss of control, of my life. I hated me for it, but I still continued. My body was littered with scars, all over my wrists, on my stomach, inner and outer thighs, my chest, and some even on my neck. But they were always covered with something, and so that way, I could continue my habit and have nobody see.
I didn't know what I did would cause so much damage and after-effects. I loved my blade for so many years, I used it from when I was 7-8 years old until I turned 14. I only just tried to stop, ad I still find it hard to lose that control I had over my life, the only control I had over my life.
All other aspects of my life, they were controlled by my torturers, my parents, school, bullies, and I was confined by the rules and laws of both school and the country. I felt trapped, and my way of release was through self-harming. Because there never was a rule blocking it from happening, was there? So I continued, and loved it for so long. Too long.
I thought my blades were my only weapon against life. But ultimately, I used the weapon, against myself. The only person who actually cared whether the blades were there or not. The only person who could get hurt by them. Me.
I was always screaming out for help through the use of my visible scars, but at the same time, I was hoping nobody would see them. Whenever a teacher walked by, I made sure my wrists were out in the open, but nobody ever saw.
That was the way it continued until ninth grade, and my science teacher, now foster dad, saw them. That wasn't the end of my struggle with self-harm though. I'm still struggling, trying not to reach for the blade, but I am 7 months clean. Sometimes, I'm so proud of myself for not getting the blade and surviving through the taunts and my cries, but sometimes, I'm just itching for that ONE little cut.
But I know if I allow myself to, just to have ONE little cut for my achievement right now, I know that I will ruin all of my hard work, and the cycle will continue. So if anybody has any suggestions on how to try to stop self-harming, you can write it in the comments below. Please, I need some extra help!
And a tip for people trying to stop self-harming: You're using the blades AGAINST yourself. The ONLY person who cares is YOU. The ONLY person who could get hurt by them. It's all YOU.
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Family Abuse- My Past.
I'm back! I did the bullying blog yesterday, and throughout the blog, I mentioned a few times that there was more to my life than just lots of bullying. There was abuse, as well. I always used to believe that families were loving, parents always looked after and cared for their children, and older siblings were always there to help you in times of need, when parents couldn't. I was taught to think like that.
When I was 4 years old, the abuse started. At such a young and tender age, what could you do? You were seen as innocent, harmless and powerless. The parents always had the upper-hand, even more so when you're just a 4 year old child who couldn't yourself.
My parents started smacking me when I was 4, for reasons beyond me. I remember thinking, "Mummy, Daddy! What did I do wrong?" but I never got the reason. It started as harmless smacks, it stung, yes, and I did cry, but it only happened approximately one smack a month. I grew to become afraid of them, never knowing when they would hit me.
Every day in the house, I tried SO hard to be the perfect child to them, helping around when I could. I thought that it would stop the smacks from coming, but that was never the case. My parents accepted the help, but the hits never stopped.
One day when I was walking around, my mum looked at me and told me to "Work!" I didn't know the word, so I looked back at her. She stared at me hard, and yelled the word "Work!"again, but this time, with much more force. She was angry at me, I knew that, so I started crying out of sheer desperation. I didn't know what she wanted me to do, but I knew that I would have to do something to calm her down.
I cried and cried, until she came up to me and smacked me hard on the head. The force from the blow, added with the unexpected hit, made me hit my head on the floor (I was a short child!) and I cried even harder. I heard her walk away, and when I knew she was gone, I looked up and saw blood. My head was bleeding.
I'm lucky there was no permanent internal damage, but I did have to get stitches. My dad soon came in and saw my bleeding head and me crying in pain, and he drove me straight to the nearest hospital. The nurses questioned my dad, who told the honest truth. "I don't know what happened, she wouldn't talk to me. She was crying too hard." The nurses then tried to ask me what happened, but being 4, I cried even more. Even during the pain from my head, I was expecting a smack from the nurse, knowing that was what my mum would do. I thought that everyone was the same.
I got back home in the late afternoon, and my dad was told to feed me liquid medicine and make sure I get a lot of undisturbed sleep to heal my head as fast as possible. I slept for the rest of the day without having dinner.
However, when I was fully healed a few days later, as said to us by our local GP, the abuse was more. I was hit everywhere except for my head, and I was constantly burned everywhere, mainly on my stomach and thighs.
When I was 5, I started Kindergarten, and I was immediately seen as the outcast, "scary monster" by the students because of all the bruises and burns visible on my skin. I was taught by my parents to lie about them, saying that I was learning to cook, and being as clumsy as I am, I got burnt on the stove. As for the bruises, they were self-explanatory. I fell down the stairs. Typical lies to cover up the abuse, but back then, abuse wasn't seen as a common, need-to-be-addressed issue.
When I was in Year 1, everyday was a day I wanted to escape forever. My childhood dreams had all vanished, leaving me to be seen as a soulless person. I told all of my friends at the time that there weren't such things as a "happily ever after" ending, there was no Santa Clause, Easter Bunny, nothing. I was reality-grounded due to the lack of love from my parents outside of school.
Year 4, I did everything around the house. I cooked and cleaned, I fed my parents and myself, I was the cook and cleaner of the house. My parents just lounged around getting fatter and fatter as the days went past them. However, if I did one thing they didn't like, I was punished. The severity, depending on their mood. Sometimes, I'd be burnt 3 times around my body, sometimes, I was thrown against the wall or pushed harshly down the stairs. Other times, I got no food the next day at all.
I started becoming skinnier and skinnier because I was training myself not to eat, in case I got fed no food. My stomach wouldn't grumble and annoy my parents even more when I could train myself not to eat. I'll talk about this in a later blog as well.
As I grew older, I was hit more often. Every second I was near them, my mum or dad, and sometimes even both, would hit me, punch me and use me as a punching bag. For what reason, none at all. I was just there, so I was the one they picked as a punching bag. My sister was the perfect child, but even she did nothing to help me.
I couldn't get comfort from her, because I was scared of what would happen. So every night when everyone was asleep, I'd cry myself to sleep. Which constantly resulted in me catching the flu, of course. And then the abuse kicks in again, blaming me for wasting their money to get more medicine for me. Eventually, they stopped buying medicine, and if they did, it was locked in a cupboard, only for my parents and my sister's use.
That was another way of punishing me, I suppose. It was only until I was in Year 8 that a teacher noticed me. He saw that I was constantly bullied, and he took me to the side. I was in his class, so I knew who he was. He asked me what were the burns and scars on my arms.
I tried lying to him, saying that I was clumsy and burnt myself. As for the scars, I said that I had a cat, and I broke many mirrors, as I was clumsy at home. All that time, I never looked up to talk to him face to face. I was too scared.
He didn't buy the lies at all, and took me into his staff-room. All the teachers that belonged in the staff room were there, and the noticed me, but all went back to their conversations. I was brought to sit at his desk, and he cleaned the burns as best he could. The recent ones from the night before hurt a lot when he cleaned them, but he didn't bandage them. I think he knew what happened, even without me telling him. Well, he knew enough not to bandage the cuts and burns.
I'm lucky I was in that school, I don't know what would've happened if I wasn't. I would still probably be in my parents house still, never being allowed to leave, and my job being to look after the house and the tenants (them).
My parents have life sentence in jail, and my sister is serving her worth of community service and counselling. She was forced to go counselling by the judge of the Family Law Court, the reasoning was that she may have suffered emotionally as well.
At the time, I didn't believe that she suffered emotionally from seeing me hurt, but now, maybe she has. Although she didn't help me, maybe she was too scared to, too scared to speak up in case she became a victim as well. I'll never know. My sister can't contact me under any circumstances, so I'll never be allowed to speak to her again. I guess it's for security reasons? She was a bystander, after all, but she made no harm on me... I miss her, wherever she is now.
I've moved in permanently with my foster dad, yes, my teacher adopted me. Unusual, but I don't mind. He's not abusive in any way, and although I haven't opened up to him completely about my past, I hopw he reads these blogs. This is my way of communicating with him. I'm too scared to speak about my past, but writing it down, this helps a little.
There's still so much for him to learn about my past... self-harm as an example.
When I was 4 years old, the abuse started. At such a young and tender age, what could you do? You were seen as innocent, harmless and powerless. The parents always had the upper-hand, even more so when you're just a 4 year old child who couldn't yourself.
My parents started smacking me when I was 4, for reasons beyond me. I remember thinking, "Mummy, Daddy! What did I do wrong?" but I never got the reason. It started as harmless smacks, it stung, yes, and I did cry, but it only happened approximately one smack a month. I grew to become afraid of them, never knowing when they would hit me.
Every day in the house, I tried SO hard to be the perfect child to them, helping around when I could. I thought that it would stop the smacks from coming, but that was never the case. My parents accepted the help, but the hits never stopped.
One day when I was walking around, my mum looked at me and told me to "Work!" I didn't know the word, so I looked back at her. She stared at me hard, and yelled the word "Work!"again, but this time, with much more force. She was angry at me, I knew that, so I started crying out of sheer desperation. I didn't know what she wanted me to do, but I knew that I would have to do something to calm her down.
I cried and cried, until she came up to me and smacked me hard on the head. The force from the blow, added with the unexpected hit, made me hit my head on the floor (I was a short child!) and I cried even harder. I heard her walk away, and when I knew she was gone, I looked up and saw blood. My head was bleeding.
I'm lucky there was no permanent internal damage, but I did have to get stitches. My dad soon came in and saw my bleeding head and me crying in pain, and he drove me straight to the nearest hospital. The nurses questioned my dad, who told the honest truth. "I don't know what happened, she wouldn't talk to me. She was crying too hard." The nurses then tried to ask me what happened, but being 4, I cried even more. Even during the pain from my head, I was expecting a smack from the nurse, knowing that was what my mum would do. I thought that everyone was the same.
I got back home in the late afternoon, and my dad was told to feed me liquid medicine and make sure I get a lot of undisturbed sleep to heal my head as fast as possible. I slept for the rest of the day without having dinner.
However, when I was fully healed a few days later, as said to us by our local GP, the abuse was more. I was hit everywhere except for my head, and I was constantly burned everywhere, mainly on my stomach and thighs.
When I was 5, I started Kindergarten, and I was immediately seen as the outcast, "scary monster" by the students because of all the bruises and burns visible on my skin. I was taught by my parents to lie about them, saying that I was learning to cook, and being as clumsy as I am, I got burnt on the stove. As for the bruises, they were self-explanatory. I fell down the stairs. Typical lies to cover up the abuse, but back then, abuse wasn't seen as a common, need-to-be-addressed issue.
When I was in Year 1, everyday was a day I wanted to escape forever. My childhood dreams had all vanished, leaving me to be seen as a soulless person. I told all of my friends at the time that there weren't such things as a "happily ever after" ending, there was no Santa Clause, Easter Bunny, nothing. I was reality-grounded due to the lack of love from my parents outside of school.
Year 4, I did everything around the house. I cooked and cleaned, I fed my parents and myself, I was the cook and cleaner of the house. My parents just lounged around getting fatter and fatter as the days went past them. However, if I did one thing they didn't like, I was punished. The severity, depending on their mood. Sometimes, I'd be burnt 3 times around my body, sometimes, I was thrown against the wall or pushed harshly down the stairs. Other times, I got no food the next day at all.
I started becoming skinnier and skinnier because I was training myself not to eat, in case I got fed no food. My stomach wouldn't grumble and annoy my parents even more when I could train myself not to eat. I'll talk about this in a later blog as well.
As I grew older, I was hit more often. Every second I was near them, my mum or dad, and sometimes even both, would hit me, punch me and use me as a punching bag. For what reason, none at all. I was just there, so I was the one they picked as a punching bag. My sister was the perfect child, but even she did nothing to help me.
I couldn't get comfort from her, because I was scared of what would happen. So every night when everyone was asleep, I'd cry myself to sleep. Which constantly resulted in me catching the flu, of course. And then the abuse kicks in again, blaming me for wasting their money to get more medicine for me. Eventually, they stopped buying medicine, and if they did, it was locked in a cupboard, only for my parents and my sister's use.
That was another way of punishing me, I suppose. It was only until I was in Year 8 that a teacher noticed me. He saw that I was constantly bullied, and he took me to the side. I was in his class, so I knew who he was. He asked me what were the burns and scars on my arms.
I tried lying to him, saying that I was clumsy and burnt myself. As for the scars, I said that I had a cat, and I broke many mirrors, as I was clumsy at home. All that time, I never looked up to talk to him face to face. I was too scared.
He didn't buy the lies at all, and took me into his staff-room. All the teachers that belonged in the staff room were there, and the noticed me, but all went back to their conversations. I was brought to sit at his desk, and he cleaned the burns as best he could. The recent ones from the night before hurt a lot when he cleaned them, but he didn't bandage them. I think he knew what happened, even without me telling him. Well, he knew enough not to bandage the cuts and burns.
I'm lucky I was in that school, I don't know what would've happened if I wasn't. I would still probably be in my parents house still, never being allowed to leave, and my job being to look after the house and the tenants (them).
My parents have life sentence in jail, and my sister is serving her worth of community service and counselling. She was forced to go counselling by the judge of the Family Law Court, the reasoning was that she may have suffered emotionally as well.
At the time, I didn't believe that she suffered emotionally from seeing me hurt, but now, maybe she has. Although she didn't help me, maybe she was too scared to, too scared to speak up in case she became a victim as well. I'll never know. My sister can't contact me under any circumstances, so I'll never be allowed to speak to her again. I guess it's for security reasons? She was a bystander, after all, but she made no harm on me... I miss her, wherever she is now.
I've moved in permanently with my foster dad, yes, my teacher adopted me. Unusual, but I don't mind. He's not abusive in any way, and although I haven't opened up to him completely about my past, I hopw he reads these blogs. This is my way of communicating with him. I'm too scared to speak about my past, but writing it down, this helps a little.
There's still so much for him to learn about my past... self-harm as an example.
Bullying- Of All Kinds.
Well, I'm new here, but my name is 1Disawsum, obviously not my real name. The reason why I started posting under a fake account name is that people find me and can track every one of my accounts on the internet. What I'm trying to get at is that I'm a victim of bullying, and a whole lot of other things, but we'll get to that a bit later.
People always say that you LET yourself be bullied, you let the bullies get to your head, but NO! That is NOT how bullying works. People who have never experienced being bullied don't know or understand the effects of being the victim, so what gives you the right to tell us or judge us on the way we react with bullying? Being a victim is the worst, you're victimised, alone, negatively criticised, hated on and pointed at, wherever you go. People take words differently, but either way, you don't let yourself be bullied.
I go to a girls school, but don't be fooled by girls- they can be vicious when they want to be. I've experienced all sorts of bullying by now- physical bullying, verbal bullying, alienation, a sub-set of bullying, sexual bullying/harassment and cyber-bullying. Yes, a lot, but not all of what I've gone through.
Now, it may seem extremely unlikely that I've been through everything listed above and more, but I have bruises, scars, stitches and X-rays to prove it.
Physical bullying is not the one that takes its toll on me. However, in saying that, I have been hospitalised more than I can recount now of instances of physical bullying. I've undergone many surgeries on my legs, spine, arms and head. I've been tripped down steep stairs at school, my head has been repeatedly smashed into metal lockers, and my body has taken many, many beatings in its lifetime of 14 years. Yes, from what I can remember, I've had to live this life for 14 years, and I have been bullied for 8-10 years. The other years, we'll get to it a little later as earlier mentioned.
Physical bullying has hurt my body, even punches leave a multi-coloured bruise. I have them everywhere, on my stomach, legs and arms, even my head. I've had things thrown at me, fists and legs punching me, and I've fallen over deliberately, yet strategically timed, feet, placed in front of my path.
Verbal bullying is harsh, words can kill you inside. Being called a sl*t, bitch, h*e, and other degrading words, for example, dumb, stupid, cray, mentally ill, ugly, idiot etc. do take its toll on me. People say words won't or don't hurt you. They do, and are just as harmful, if not more harmful, than physical bullying.
When I was first called that, my first real taste of being a victim of harsh words, I laughed it off, like they were just joking. But when other people joined in, and day in, day out, I was called those words, I started to really believe them, because if they didn't mean what they said, surely they would've stopped by now? After all, it was everyday they tormented me, until they began to see the changes in me.
I used to walk like I was proud of being myself, I used to fend off insults like I was a professional at it, but soon, everyone saw me as the girl with the hunched shoulders, the girl who never looked up at people, the girl with no life. I got scared.
I was scared that if I looked into anybody's eyes, the same would happen to me if I look into the bullies' eyes. I would get kicked, punched, and get called names. I was scared of even looking into teachers' eyes. I was scared of everything. Every corner, in and out of school, I would be paranoid about somebody hiding there, waiting for me to walk past so they could get their daily dose of 'fun'. Most of the time, i was correct. There really was someone there, in hiding.
I got scared of the dark, again, thinking someone was hiding in the dark, and at an unsuspecting time, I'd be hit and punched and bruised afterwards. I was scared of night time, but then, I became scared of daylight too. Night time because of darkness, no visibility, and I feel that I am more of a victim at night than daylight. Well, I felt. I realised soon after, that in the daylight, you are exposed, your secrets, revealed.
Being gossiped about behind your back is not a pleasant feeling to feel, especially when things are taken to a whole new level. For instance, rumours. For a year and a bit, I've escaped being the subject of a rumour, but after that, I started noticing things. The writing on the back of every toilet door, has a conversation about me, pictures of me photo-shopped stuck everywhere around the school, people even started vandalising the school's property. Then began the destruction of everything that I owned, and then the alienation began.
Two years into bullying, I've been the subject of gossips and rumours. Everywhere I went and looked, I saw something related to me, all negative, as expected. But during all of this, I was included in a group for group work by some brave people who dared to go against the bullies. But then 2 years later, I was never included for anything, because the bullies have forced others not to talk to me or do anything with me, otherwise they'll be the next victim.
I was alienated. In class group work activities, the teacher had to force people to accept me into their group, but even then, after the teacher left, I was taunted by words, secret kicks and punches under the table. I had to pretend nothing was wrong the entire time. It was pure torture. So I took it upon myself, to tell the teacher I wanted to work alone. They grudgingly agreed, due to my high marks they said, but placed me in front of their desk, so I don't do anything I'm not supposed to.
For most people, they feel it as punishment, being placed in front of the class, but for me, it was the best idea. I was so wrong... Leaders of bullies are always smart. They found out other ways of hurting me. This led on to become cyber-bullying. They tracked me down, found all of my usernames and the sites I go onto, everything.
Then, I was sexually assaulted by the bullies' male friends. At first, they wolf-whistled at me, then some started making hand motions, eyeing my parts, looking me up and down, and then smacking me on the bottom.
The next year, I was raped. Yes, raped. It was a group one, but luckily, I took no part in it, except being the victim. So no, I'm not a virgin. It's hard to speak about it, so I'm just going to leave it at here.
The bullying has not ended, but I suspect its had its peak last year, hopefully, nothing new will happen. living sand breathing itself is such a pain, but emotionally and physically, but I will hopefully be able to soldier on. Once I'm out of the bullying etc. zone, I know the scars will forever remain with me, and I can't say I'm happy with it at all, but I know I will learn to accept it. After all, it's never going to magically disappear forever. I've known that long enough.
People always say that you LET yourself be bullied, you let the bullies get to your head, but NO! That is NOT how bullying works. People who have never experienced being bullied don't know or understand the effects of being the victim, so what gives you the right to tell us or judge us on the way we react with bullying? Being a victim is the worst, you're victimised, alone, negatively criticised, hated on and pointed at, wherever you go. People take words differently, but either way, you don't let yourself be bullied.
I go to a girls school, but don't be fooled by girls- they can be vicious when they want to be. I've experienced all sorts of bullying by now- physical bullying, verbal bullying, alienation, a sub-set of bullying, sexual bullying/harassment and cyber-bullying. Yes, a lot, but not all of what I've gone through.
Now, it may seem extremely unlikely that I've been through everything listed above and more, but I have bruises, scars, stitches and X-rays to prove it.
Physical bullying is not the one that takes its toll on me. However, in saying that, I have been hospitalised more than I can recount now of instances of physical bullying. I've undergone many surgeries on my legs, spine, arms and head. I've been tripped down steep stairs at school, my head has been repeatedly smashed into metal lockers, and my body has taken many, many beatings in its lifetime of 14 years. Yes, from what I can remember, I've had to live this life for 14 years, and I have been bullied for 8-10 years. The other years, we'll get to it a little later as earlier mentioned.
Physical bullying has hurt my body, even punches leave a multi-coloured bruise. I have them everywhere, on my stomach, legs and arms, even my head. I've had things thrown at me, fists and legs punching me, and I've fallen over deliberately, yet strategically timed, feet, placed in front of my path.
Verbal bullying is harsh, words can kill you inside. Being called a sl*t, bitch, h*e, and other degrading words, for example, dumb, stupid, cray, mentally ill, ugly, idiot etc. do take its toll on me. People say words won't or don't hurt you. They do, and are just as harmful, if not more harmful, than physical bullying.
When I was first called that, my first real taste of being a victim of harsh words, I laughed it off, like they were just joking. But when other people joined in, and day in, day out, I was called those words, I started to really believe them, because if they didn't mean what they said, surely they would've stopped by now? After all, it was everyday they tormented me, until they began to see the changes in me.
I used to walk like I was proud of being myself, I used to fend off insults like I was a professional at it, but soon, everyone saw me as the girl with the hunched shoulders, the girl who never looked up at people, the girl with no life. I got scared.
I was scared that if I looked into anybody's eyes, the same would happen to me if I look into the bullies' eyes. I would get kicked, punched, and get called names. I was scared of even looking into teachers' eyes. I was scared of everything. Every corner, in and out of school, I would be paranoid about somebody hiding there, waiting for me to walk past so they could get their daily dose of 'fun'. Most of the time, i was correct. There really was someone there, in hiding.
I got scared of the dark, again, thinking someone was hiding in the dark, and at an unsuspecting time, I'd be hit and punched and bruised afterwards. I was scared of night time, but then, I became scared of daylight too. Night time because of darkness, no visibility, and I feel that I am more of a victim at night than daylight. Well, I felt. I realised soon after, that in the daylight, you are exposed, your secrets, revealed.
Being gossiped about behind your back is not a pleasant feeling to feel, especially when things are taken to a whole new level. For instance, rumours. For a year and a bit, I've escaped being the subject of a rumour, but after that, I started noticing things. The writing on the back of every toilet door, has a conversation about me, pictures of me photo-shopped stuck everywhere around the school, people even started vandalising the school's property. Then began the destruction of everything that I owned, and then the alienation began.
Two years into bullying, I've been the subject of gossips and rumours. Everywhere I went and looked, I saw something related to me, all negative, as expected. But during all of this, I was included in a group for group work by some brave people who dared to go against the bullies. But then 2 years later, I was never included for anything, because the bullies have forced others not to talk to me or do anything with me, otherwise they'll be the next victim.
I was alienated. In class group work activities, the teacher had to force people to accept me into their group, but even then, after the teacher left, I was taunted by words, secret kicks and punches under the table. I had to pretend nothing was wrong the entire time. It was pure torture. So I took it upon myself, to tell the teacher I wanted to work alone. They grudgingly agreed, due to my high marks they said, but placed me in front of their desk, so I don't do anything I'm not supposed to.
For most people, they feel it as punishment, being placed in front of the class, but for me, it was the best idea. I was so wrong... Leaders of bullies are always smart. They found out other ways of hurting me. This led on to become cyber-bullying. They tracked me down, found all of my usernames and the sites I go onto, everything.
Then, I was sexually assaulted by the bullies' male friends. At first, they wolf-whistled at me, then some started making hand motions, eyeing my parts, looking me up and down, and then smacking me on the bottom.
The next year, I was raped. Yes, raped. It was a group one, but luckily, I took no part in it, except being the victim. So no, I'm not a virgin. It's hard to speak about it, so I'm just going to leave it at here.
The bullying has not ended, but I suspect its had its peak last year, hopefully, nothing new will happen. living sand breathing itself is such a pain, but emotionally and physically, but I will hopefully be able to soldier on. Once I'm out of the bullying etc. zone, I know the scars will forever remain with me, and I can't say I'm happy with it at all, but I know I will learn to accept it. After all, it's never going to magically disappear forever. I've known that long enough.
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