Is it weird to look up to someone younger than you?

     I look at smiling pictures of my little cousin and think, "Wow, I wish I could smile so happily." But then I remember anyone can put on a fake smile in a picture and make it seem real. I remember that we've been through the same experience. I remember being four years old and getting molested for the first time. I remember her telling me she had been getting molested by the same man. Only difference was he lived in her garage and she was two years younger than me. Then I think, maybe she's forgotten about it. Maybe she received therapy, maybe she found a way to deal with it, maybe she was young enough to be able to turn it into a simple nightmare that was never reality.
     Is it weird to look up to someone younger than you? When I was in forth grade and she was entering second grade she finally told her parents what had been happening. When I was asked if it ever happened to me my body reacted on its own embarrassment and denied any such claims. It might have been the fact that my mother asked me while washing the dishes and my brother standing next to her or maybe it wasn't. But I regret it because maybe it I had admitted it, if I had told someone, anyone, I wouldn't feel as disgusting and perverted as I do now. Maybe if I had always admitted everything that has ever happened to me I wouldn't feel the need to cut myself. Maybe if I told my mom that five different guys molested me at different times I wouldn't suffer from depression.
     But in this life maybe isn't good enough and it doesn't get you anywhere. Still I can't bring myself to acknowledge my past and admit it. Not to anyone besides the cousin I haven't seen since I was 10 in the fifth grade. The only one to ever know my secret will be her and her alone.
 

Disgusting.

     I never go on facebook, mainly because I don't like social networking sites. But while surfing through 'friends you may know' I saw a name I recognized but a face I didn't. So I clicked in. I found this boy I knew from elementary only now he was a lot cooler and better looking than before. I'm not saying he was cute, because to me he wasn't even slightly attractive, but he looked better than before. It was not until after that I realized it could have just been someone else with the same first name, because I couldn't seem to remember his last name at the time. Still, I realized something.
     I always stand against bullying and say I hate it and the people who do it, but I was one of them, to this boy at least. Sometimes. I would make fun of him and blackmail him with horror stories from third grade (peeing yourself in class is something you can never out live). It's not that I was so bad or mean that he hated me, he liked me and we got along fine, but I still sometimes playing bully with him.Yet when people made fun of him or made him cry I would go crazy trying to defend him.
     The point is: when I made him cry, or sad, in return I had a gratifying feeling. And I find that disgusting.
     That I could find happiness from someone elses pain scares me more than anything. I do not want to be labeled a sociopath or some other kind of -path I just want to be happy. But then as I was writing this I realized this happened in sixth grade.
     That was the period in which my parents were going through a divorce and I was no longer the only kid in class with parents who were still together. I was coming to terms with my father being from a third world country from where a women's place is the kitchen and her king, her husband. A father who I learned told my mother to get an abortion the moment he learned I had been conceived. A father who, now that I learned, was mentally and emotionally abusing me and was neglecting me. A father who called me an idiot and was convinced I would never amount to anything in life. A father who my mother felt sure would try to kidnap if he had the chance.
     This is the man that 'raised' me. This was only a short list of things he did to me, the list of mental and emotional abuse he did to my mother could go on forever. An abuse I never even noticed.
     And I realize, now, that the reason I found happiness in his, the boy I bullied, pain is because my home life went to shit in a matter of two seconds.
    In these two seconds two things happened; One: my mother was physically abused, for the first time. And two: I saw it.

As a child

Dismembered on the inside

smiling on the outside.

I still hear my cries

from when my father hit my mom.

The slap still echos

through the valleys of my mind.

The first act of violence

I've ever been scared of.

As a child of nine

dealing with the pain

of losing a father

who never cared

being reminded

your just like him

they turn their back

and say bad things.

Does this mean

I'm as bad as him?

As a child of ten I had no way

to deal with the pain.

Going against my family

and going insane.

Acting like an angel

with good grades.

While lying to my mother

and going to a club.

Having a boyfriend

and going to his house.

As a child of eleven

I discovered sharp objects.

Feelings tearing away

from the inside out.

Taking the razor

and dragging it

across my wrist.

They took away the pain

of being me.

As a child of twelve

I discovered hot metal objects.

Placing them against my skin

feeling the tear down my cheek.

The discolored skin

of being burned

by a flat iron.

It eliminated the pain.

As a teen of fourteen

I discovered my mother was a liar.

She promised never to get married.

She doesn't even love him.

Yet here I am

being torn away

from my mother

and left with my grandmother

like a piece of luggage.

She didn't even care.

I continued with my escapes.

As a teen of fifteen

I discovered something

I don't very much like

my family.

No one noticed

when I started to change.

The black pants and shirts.

The sudden want of darkness and cold.

Long sleeves in the middle of summer.

No skin shown when it's 100 degrees.

No one ever noticed

how much pain I hid.

No one ever cared

to undo the mask

that hid my pain.

No one ever cared

enough to make me change.

So I lie here in my grave.

At the age of sixteen

because I discovered

I never meant a thing.

Oh Momma

‘Mom, mom, mom,
Mommy, mommy, mommy
Maria, Maria, Maria’
‘What’
‘I love you’
I turn around and walk away
I picture your smile on your face
I want to turn around
To see it one more time
But I fear if I do
I might break down and cry

Battered and used
By the man you loved
Watched helplessly by the blood filled couch
As the man you loved beat your child
You wanted to help me
Believe me momma I know
It’s not your fault
Why I do what I will
But the pain the man caused is just so real

Please forgive me
For what I do
Say you’ll forgive me
For what I say
There’s not much any one can do
Forgive yourself for what you think
You didn’t raise me like this
But the pain is still in your eyes
I want to make you feel safe again

I’ll take this razor and slit his wrists
Take a bat and break his ribs
Shatter a beer bottle on his head
Nail his hand to the coffee table
Cut his precious toy off and hang it above the mantel
Make him scream for help
And watch the salty tears run down his face
Make him feel what we both felt
And when I’ve finally had enough
I’ll take the gun and put it to his head

And when I’m done
I’ll take the gun and run
So you won’t feel more pain
I’ll lay your worries at rest
I’ll take this next right and jump
to my glorious death

Screams

He screams her name
Slaps her across the face
He wants answers
That don’t exist
He throws her against the wall
Punches it until wires touch his skin
She begs him to stop
She tells him no lies
He won't have it
He wants her to say yes

She screams his name
The lies he tells
She never questions
She’s scared of his hands
They encircle her neck
Evidence always left behind
She reminds him of the girl
Sitting by the bedroom door.

She hears the screams
Her mothers voice
Clouds up her ears
She so afraid
Cowering in the corner
Covering her ears
She hears the door slam
But knows it's not over.