The truth is, I hate my life. I wake up every morning wishing it was my last. I kiss my family goodnight and pray that I won’t wake up the next morning. I wish that I wouldn’t have to live another day, won’t have to suffer anymore. Because every day is a battle. I spend my days failing to distract my mind from the event that changed my life. I spent my days questioning if the thoughts, dreams and nightmares will ever end. If I will ever be able to move on, and actually live my life.

I have this dream of living alone in a secluded area. Just packing my bags, and leaving. Maybe to a different country, or maybe just down the road, but a place where no one would know where I am. I dream of being a mystery, disappearing from daylight. Strolls through wooded areas, sitting by a pond or river with no problems, just a book.

I want to go, I need to go.

The truth is I don’t actually want to die, I just want to escape reality. Escape day to day life. Never look back. I thought living on my own would change the way I think, but it doesn’t. It just makes me want it more. But sadly, these are just dreams. Im not a child, nor am I stupid, I know these types of realities happen for those living in the lap of luxury. I know that in order to survive, I have to work. I have to work a crappy nine to five job, come home, cook food, sleep and repeat all the next day. But what harm does dreaming cause? Because dreaming is my escape from reality, even just for a moment.

I realise that I have shared stories in the past, mostly about how I have overcome struggles in my life, but I have never actually shared the real story. BY this, I mean the story that defines my life, and changed me for both the better and for the worse. These are not the type of stories one usually likes to share, but I mean if placing this outside to the word is going to help raise awareness, well then, thats the best feeling I could ever imagine. I guess I should begin with the event. And by event, I mean a very traumatic experience. Just over a year ago I was sexually assaulted, in the worst possible way. Although I never like to use this word, as I feel it victimises me, I feel like in this particular post it is needed. I was raped. Was forced to do things I didn’t want to. For anyone else that has experienced this, or anything to a similar extent, would know the effects. The problem was, I didn’t experience the after effects until almost a year later. I pushed it to the back of my mind, forced myself to carry on with everyday life. I made a joke of it, and carried on as if nothing had happened. As if it was just a typical one night stand. At the time of this ordeal, I lived in a very small town, almost a village in fact, so as you can imagine I saw him almost everywhere I went. I saw him on nights out, I would see him shopping in the local Tesco, I even saw him at my local doctors with my mother. He was everywhere, so in my mind, pushing the thoughts back made me feel less of a victim.

I didn’t know him well. I had met him a few weeks prior at the local pub, a place full of youngsters much like myself. He was a friend of a friend, nothing more, nothing less. Honestly, I wasn’t too sure what I thought of him at first. He had this bad boy manor, which much like many other nineteen year olds, was attractive to me. He wasn’t cute. In fact, he was kind of ugly. He wasn’t fit, didn’t have a nice body, and had shaggy hair. But I was sucked in. He treated me well, he bought me a few drinks and walked me home, my friend tagging along. It was about a week later when my friend messaged me and asked if I wanted to meet her for a chat. She openly told me that this guy, who we will call ‘Andy’, wanted to see me again. I agreed to meet them, I thought what do I have to loose? Im single, nineteen and was sick of spending my nights alone in my room. Again, he had the kind manner about him, walking me home, and we even shared a little kiss. Nothing special, but it felt nice to be getting to know someone new. That was it. After that the only time I would see him was in the local, neither of us really talked. We grew apart, and had our own lives to carry on with. That was until the night of what happened. I was out with friends, had a few drinks, and received a message from ‘Andy’, stating that he was heading out and was wondering if he wanted to meet up. I agreed, thinking that we would go for a few drinks alone and talk, as I didn’t really know the guy. When he arrived, he was still in his work clothes, dirty and smelly. I tried to not let it bother me, and continued with my night. He joined us for a few drinks, and all in all it was a good night. A few drinks later, I began to feel very tipsy. My friends offered to walk me home, as it was only a two minute walk. But ‘Andy’ offered, as he hadn’t had much to drink, to drive me home. I willingly got into his car, and told him my address. We talked for a while, about mutual friends and shit. It was only then I realised we were going the complete opposite way, and actually leaving the town. I asked him where we were going, and all he said was somewhere out of town to talk. He pulled over to this lay-by in the middle of nowhere, and we talked for approximately two seconds before he went to stick his tongue down my throat. I told him that I’m not sure what he thinks is going on, but all I want to do was go home and sleep. He ignored me. He ignored everything I said that night.

The next few weeks dragged, I went out every night and pushed all thoughts to the back of my mind. I almost ignored the whole situation, and told no one. Not a friend, family member, no one. I guess back then I thought that was the best cure for this situation. A few weeks later found out I was pregnant, was being the operative word. Unaware of what my body was going through, I spent my days drinking and partying, ultimately killing the baby I never knew I had. This killed me for two reasons. One, I had just lost a child. And two, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted it anyway. For some this would have been some kind of wake up call, but instead I worsened myself. I suddenly had too many emotions to deal with alone, and couldn’t handle them. That when my emotions started to turn dangerous. I tried to kill myself approximately five times in the weeks to follow. I was in a downward spiral, unsure of what to do next. So instead, I packed up my stuff and moved to my parents in a small village in Wales.

The thoughts started to ease. I got a new job, started college and never felt better about myself. I even told my family what had happened, and even spoke to the police (although I never took it further). I was finally moving on. Everything was good until only a few months ago, when suddenly all of the emotions I had pushed back over the months came flooding back all at once. This time, I was seriously ill. I had finally pushed myself to my limit, and couldn’t see anyway out. Once again I tried to take my own life, and almost succeed at one point. I was admitted into the mental health ward in my local hospital, and was finally starting to get help, something I was reluctant to receive for a long time. Once I returned home, I received regular counselling and anti depressants. I started to feel better. I was FINALLY carrying on with my life. It was at that moment in my life that I started this blog, for some reason writing helped release my emotions as a-pose to bottling them all up.

Now I am attending University, for writing I might add, and living away from home. Sure I have bad days, but they are most definitely over run by the good ones. I think for the first time in a while, I can say I am happy. Like really happy. I know that there are others out there that have experienced this, and are most probably struggling, just like I was. But I can tell you that it honestly gets better. Don’t get me wrong, its not an easy journey, I know I have been there, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Trust me,

I found mine.