Hatred

I’m sitting at the dining room table doing paperwork at 9pm on a Sunday when my co-worker turns to me, “Ugh, he’s back” she says. I immediately know whom she is referring to so I try to look busy in order to avoid conducting a search. A client has returned from a home visit and heads straight to the confines of his room, likely high and trying to hide it. Relieved, I spend the remainder of my shift contemplating why I dislike this teenage boy so much. It’s not because he caused thousands of dollars in property damage, threatened to hurt me, or called me a dumb bitch, because these things I deal with almost daily. It’s because he reminds me so much of myself as a teenager. And if there were one word to describe how I felt about myself during those formative years, it would be hatred.

From the outside looking in, most people probably thought I was a happy, healthy teenager from an ideal middle-class family. This could not be further from the truth. In reality, I was severely depressed, constantly contemplating suicide. My father was abusing me almost daily as my mom stood by, too scared to intervene. I had friends but none of who actually knew me because my life was a series of lies told to protect my dad. I wasn’t using drugs at this time but drank until I passed out regularly. And I went to bed with a knife under my pillow because that was the only way I was able to sleep at night.

As a 25-year-old female, I have endured physical, psychological and sexual abuse, been called worthless and unlovable by my father, struggled with addiction, attempted suicide twice, and sold my body for money. So I guess it makes sense why working in a youth treatment center brings up a lot of unresolved issues from my past.

I’m not much of a writer, nor do I particularly enjoy it, but I do hope that getting some of my fucked up life out on paper (or a screen for that matter) will help me to work through my past and contribute to my search for self-identity and self-worth.