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(Source: iintheheartofone, via that-girl-from-hell)

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teenytinydarling: “Survivor”  This is my first tattoo. I did it myself, via stick-n-poke method. My sister thinks it’s a bad tattoo that I will regret. She wishes I would have waited, gone to a professional, and got a more clean-cut version of it instead. To me, a clean-cut, well polished, pretty, and easy on the eyes tattoo of the word “survivor” wouldn’t hold any meaning to me. I didn’t survive Heaven. I didn’t have a clean-cut, well polished, pretty, and easy on the eyes life. No, I lived through Hell for almost seventeen years. My life has been messy, rough, painful, and at times what felt like an impossible life to lead and live. This “bad” tattoo represents my life, a story that is not clean-cut, but a rough, messy Hell. A life that despite all odds I am still living, I am still breathing. I’m still surviving on a daily basis. My story is a nightmare, which will have a happy ending, otherwise I haven’t survived yet. So, why would I represent my life as clean-cut, polished, and easy on the eyes to look at tattoo? That tattoo would be a bad tattoo, because it would be a tattoo with no meaning. I’m happy that I didn’t wait to have a professional do it. The tattoo I have holds meaning to me, it has a place in my heart and tells a story. Something no professional grade tattoo of the word “survivor” could ever do for me. My Story I was born into a very broken family, which remains broken till this day. I’ve lived through so much hell, sometimes it feels like for nothing. Me: I was born premature with holes in my heart. I was sexually abused from the time I was three till I was twelve. I was raped when I was fourteen. Other people knew, my mom knew, and no one did anything. I was told it was my entire fault, that I was to blame for all of it. I was a kid, and everything was being blamed on me. I’ve been in consoling sense I was five. I was diagnosed with depression and anger problems. I got suspended five times in elementary school for fights. I ran away twice when  I was nine and ten. I wanted to die before I turned six. It got worse when I was nine. I filled an entire notebook with death wishes for myself. I started to hurt myself, cutting, starving, and more. In 8th grade I tried to kill myself multiple times. In one of my suicide attempts I almost killed my father. I live with that guilt for the rest of my life, I almost cost his life. I almost took him away from my brothers. They would have been orphans. I was in the hospital for my suicide attempts. When I ran away during this time in 8th grade I stole two-hundred dollars of merchandise from a store, someone took my bag with all the stuff in it, and I pulled a knife on them. I would have stabbed them if they didn’t give it back. My brothers hated me that year, I was ruining their lives. They couldn’t do a lot of things they wanted to do. I got pregnant and miscarried when I was fifteen. I tried to kill myself twice my sophomore year. I tried again this last summer by attempting to drown myself. I have never been able to stop abusing myself, I feel as though I deserve it. I failed a lot of classes in high school. I still want to be dead, but yet I am living, breathing, surviving. My mother: She was a toxic person who suffered dearly with health problems, mental health in particular, and some secret illness that she tried her best to hide. My mom was abusive to the people around her. She abused my father and left him, taking my brothers and I away from him when I was two. She made it clear they were over when my dad walked in on my mom cheating; she was in bed with another man. My mom was an alcoholic, heavy smoker, neglectful, irresponsible, and always gone. My mom had majority custody of us kids. She did her best to keep my father away from us. When we were with her she was always smoking, drinking, or in a bad mood. She would treat us like garbage at times. She left us with nannies and babysitters for most of my time that was supposed to be with her. She never saved any money, couldn’t keep a job for long, always got let go or fired, and we had to live in a small duplex in government housing. When I was seven my mom met the most amazing person she could ever meet, her soul mate, her savior. He saved her life. She was getting better; she improved greatly in the next two years. She was killed along with the love of her life, the person I have to thank, when I was nine. That man saved my mom, saved my brothers and I, and we slowly started to gain a mother in our lives. I loved my mother, no matter what she did, or didn’t, do. I still love and miss her. My father: He is a strong person, who has gone through a lot. He has always done and tried his best and hardest to give my brothers and me everything we could always want. I use to blame him for a lot of things, things that were not his fault. He was a good husband to my mother, but he was heartbroken in the most horrible way. He was treated like crap by my mother. He slowly gained more custody of us over time. When my mom died we went to live with him full time. He gives his all ever day to give the best life to my brothers and I. He never once gave up on me during all the hell I put him through. He’s lived a tiresome life. Always working more than anyone I know, and for so little. My dad gets me to school and my appointments on time every day. He gets my younger brother to wrestling every day. He helps keep my older brother grounded. He is losing feeling, movement, and control of his right hand. He hasn’t worked in two months, he is not very happy anymore. Always in pain from the nerve damage in his right elbow. My oldest brother: I knew him from the time I was born till I was six. He was taken away by his biological father when I was six, he took him to California. He won the custody battle against my mom. He was safe. My older brother: He had severed anger problems when we were younger, from the time I can remember till I was fourteen. Sometimes he came close to almost killing my younger brother, this happened on a weekly basis. He would beat us in his anger outbursts. I lived in fear of him. In fear that he might really badly hurt me. Fear that he might kill my younger brother. As he got older he controlled his anger more. He started to abuse drugs and alcohol in middle school. He acts out; he has hurt himself during high school. I’m afraid I’m going to lose him. He tells me that if I die he dies. He can’t deal with loss, or people going away. He still plays a balancing act on a tight rope, balancing for his life. I live in fear that he might kill himself. I know that it would be partly because of me. I caused him a lot of pain and problems growing up. My younger brother: He was smiles as a little kid. Then he lost that after my mom’s death. He had really bad medical problems; I thought we were going to lose him. He almost died a few times because of them. He’s doing better now; I don’t worry about his mental health. He plays sports in high school.
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(Source: laughcentre, via that-girl-from-hell)

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