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valeriacastaneda · 4 years

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My Autobiography

I remember being pretty young when all this inner turmoil began to stir. I remember an intense hatred of myself for no good reason. I was always too emotional. I don’t remember a time in my life where I didn’t hate myself. I remember being a little girl and feeling abandoned. I always had my parents around me but they weren’t very supportive and I don’t think they meant it to be that way. I felt like no one cared about me and I didn’t feel like I had anyone to turn to as I was growing up. I longed for my mother to put her arm around me and protect her little girl. But my parents were completely absorbed in the constant drama and fights that their relationship entailed. I just wanted my parents to get along. I was a really sensitive child and it was completely agonizing to be dragged into their fights. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy to write but anything worthwhile is going to be a bit painful. It’s been difficult to go through all of this while trying to be as honest and thorough as possible. This isn’t the first “timeline/autobiography” I had to write. I wrote one in my first rehab. But the last one wasn’t very honest- it was as honest as I could be at the time, I still had a lot to go through.

I grew up with two immigrant parents. In an immigrant home there’s a lot of stress behind closed doors. I always saw casual drinking and even binge drinking as a child, as a way to cope with emotions. I grew up on the east side of San Jose in the late 90’s. I feel like I had a complicated childhood. I was a happy child but I was also shy and incredibly anxious. I never had many friends, I felt like I always had to hide a part of myself. I dreamt of being a social butterfly cos that’s how I felt on the inside. But I was such a shy kid, I didn’t trust anyone and I had no sense of stability. It was hands growing up feeling completely alone. I even feel like there was a disconnect between me and my siblings because of how I felt about myself. Since I was a toddler, I remember feeling a deep sense of shame that I couldn’t shake. Anything that triggered this deep internal shame was to be avoided at all costs. I always felt deeply embarrassed for my existence, I always felt insecure.

I looked for stability in all the wrong places. I tried to cling to people, begging to be saved from being drowned only to drag them under the current with me. I didn’t understand that salvation could be found within myself. I looked in all the wrong places and I let my heart be broken countless times before I was able to look within myself to find the strength to push forward. I feel like I had a lonely childhood at times because I remember crying a lot. I remember feeling a deep sorrowful sadness as a child, a sadness I couldn’t express. My mother suffered from postpartum depression after I was born, maybe we had a difficult time bonding. People who know us probably wouldn’t say that we weren’t close. I felt abandoned by my parents at a very young age. They argued so loudly it shook the house and the core to my being. My dad would storm out of the house and slam the doors. I would feel shaken to my core. There was always yelling and cussing in Spanish. Words I could never whimper or my mother would strike them from my lips as soon as the thought crossed my mind.

I felt like my siblings had a bond with each other that I could never be apart of. I was too sensitive, always too emotional. I remember being a child and hiding in the darkness of the closet while my entire body shook from sobbing because of the constant torment I felt inside my soul. I never fit into my family. I always felt like the odd one out, the black sheep, and the ugly duckling. My brother’s would tease me and call me the ugly duckling and that definitely got into my head. When I grew up I started looking for the attention I never received from my father in guys my age, and eventually men. I was always looking for attention in all the wrong places. I was waiting for someone to come and save me from myself. It took me many years to realize that no one would come to rescue me. I had to do that work myself so I could be a decent partner but I didn’t realize that for many years.

Some of the happiest moments of my childhood include me learning how to read. I remember being so enthralled with my ability to read books and escape. I always had a need to escape my reality. I remember being a kid and staying in an after school program. My childhood was short and sweet and I look back on it fondly. I loved playing make-believe on the playground with my two friends. I always kept a small circle. I loved art and crafts and as an adult I learned embroidery, sewing, and cross-stitch as a hobby. I enjoyed photography and showing people my art. I was always extremely imaginative and that’s something I continue to hold onto as an adult. My parents never demanded straight A’s from me but at one point I felt like the pressure was so intense and I didn’t feel like it was fair. My other siblings weren’t held to the same standards as I was but as an adult, I now see that my parents were encouraging me to do my absolute best.

When I was a young child, someone abused me. I never shared what happened to me with anyone else in my family and if anyone had a clue about it, or would ask about it I would pretend I had no memory of what they were talking about. I remember struggling with the constant shame throughout my life. Guilt and shame are themes that pop up into my life.

I fell in love for the first time when I was 16 in high school. I was at my new school after getting transferred out of my local high school because of my emotional issues and drug abuse. I was sitting on the bus on my way to the trade school that I would go to for half the day, I was taking a forensics class. There was a handsome football player that would ride the bus with me and I was sitting with my friend when he leaned over and asked for my number. His name was Tarunbir but I always called him T. I tried not paying any attention to him but he was persistent and it made him all the more attractive. I was smoking meth constantly at this period of my life and he asked me on a date to go eat somewhere and I clearly remember replying with, “I don’t eat.” and smirking at my friend. He asked for my phone so he could call his mom and I let him but he put his number into my phone and asked me to text him.

I had absolutely no intention of talking to him but the next day I was bored at home so I decided to text him. I had no idea this interaction would change the course of my life forever. We became entangled in this relationship or more accurately described as a “trauma bond”. There were clear red flags that I chose to ignore because I thought his jealousy and possessiveness meant he actually loved and cared about me. I was always trying to break up with him but he would show up at my door crying, begging for me back with flowers and gifts. I would always give in. He physically, mentally, and sexually abused me. He abused me in every way but I stayed with him on and off for four years. I was addicted to him like I was addicted to escaping my reality. We gave into each other’s drug abuse and eventually I could only cope by constantly being high. I truly felt stuck with him and I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave him until he left me first. I remember him pushing me and forcing my head into the concrete one night. I remember an incident that happened between us that led me to a trip to the emergency room. I still have the scar on the back of my head. He went to jail but it wasn’t long before we were back together; entangled in a cycle of abuse and denial.

I constantly dealt with suicidal ideation. I remember being 18 years old when I decided I didn’t want to live a moment longer. For a bit of background, I was struggling with my sobriety and I badly wanted out. Earlier that day I had received a message on my blog from someone anonymous telling me to kill myself. Unfortunately I was so sick, I listened. I bought some pills off my dealer and I popped them all. I took one handful after another. I finished them off with my own medications, that I had somehow stockpiled. I was hanging out while my boyfriend, T, went off somewhere. I remember having a soft drink in my hand and a snack with me. I was at the apartment complex that he lived at. I started walking around after I had taken them and I don’t remember much after that. I just know what I was told afterwards. T found me unconscious and not breathing at the bottom of the concrete stairs. He started doing compressions on my chest and I remember the pain of him nearly breaking my ribs as he sobbed on the phone to the paramedics. I don’t remember what he said only that I never heard him cry like that in my life. I remember saying, “Ow” to get him to stop cos the pain was so intense. I was put into a medical coma for a few days. When I woke up, two days later my mom told me they pumped my stomach. I remember while I was intubated how much it bothered me to have that uncomfortable machine in me. I kept attempting to pull it out so they had to tie my arms down. I was basically dead. They didn’t know what was going to happen to me when I woke up. I remember waking up from that coma and asking for my baby sister, Lilibeth. I remember the dry, scratchy feeling in my throat and the hoarseness in my voice. I still carry so much guilt from that day because I know I hurt my siblings irreparably and that’s probably why I’ll never be close with them again. They saw me in so many terrible situations that I’ll never stop feeling guilty about. Words could never describe how sorry I am and I know words will never soothe their pain.

T helped me talk to my parents about sending me to rehab when I was 19 and I couldn’t stop shooting up. I was addicted to feeling the needle as much as I was addicted to drugs slipping into my vein- I could romanticize what I felt and describe it to you in detail. It’s kind of sick. The excitement I felt when I would finally register and push the plunger down was almost better than the high itself. Almost but not quite. I remember sitting on the floor of his room in his mother’s apartment for hours on end trying to hit a vein. It was pure agony because I tried every vein in my arms and legs until I was covered in small pin pricks and bruises. When I finally registered, I can’t even describe to you the calm that would wash over my body. Some people get tweaked out and start bouncing off the walls on meth, but not me. I lay back and felt the iciness crawl up my throat, and I would cough as my heart tried to pound it’s way out of my chest. My rock bottom was when I was filled with agony, covered in pricks and bruises and spending hours on end trying to get high without success. After rehab, T picked me up and brought me home. Not before I relapsed again. My parents made a huge sacrifice financially for me so how did I relapse leaving rehab? I had a Xanax prescription that a doctor had prescribed for me so I didn’t think that was an issue. T still had some of my script on him and I asked him for some. That’s how the slippery slope began. Before I knew it, I was back to shooting meth and then, I fell in love with heroin too. I started hanging out with adults who were ten years older than me and I started dealing drugs to support myself and my habit. I was filled with so much self-hatred and I felt like using drugs was the only way I could escape feeling the constant bombardment of emotions that I was constantly subjected to. I was always miserable and I didn’t know the key to true contentment was within myself.

By October of 2016, I was 20 years old with two rehab stints under my belt which also happened to be wrapped around my arm. I clenched the leather between my teeth as I tirelessly attempted to shoot up a mixture of meth and heroin. I remember being so frustrated because my hands were shaking so hard from withdrawal that when I finally did register, I slipped the rig out of my vein and ruined my drugs because the blood in the syringe had coagulated. I was trying to get high and I ruined my drugs so I chose not to use it had to shoot it into the trash because if I would’ve used it, I was risking a blood clot going to my brain and killing me. I didn’t care about those consequences- but I did care about continuing to get high. A recurring theme in my 7life is a need for escapism and I needed to escape the everlasting depression and misery I constantly felt that tormented me. I felt like I had tried to get clean so many times on my own and I felt like I couldn’t get it right. I wanted so badly to be clean even though I truly believed in my soul that I could only be happy on drugs. I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom when I truly realized how tormented I was, I knew that I was failing at my attempts at sobriety. I couldn’t understand how people in sobriety could “have fun” without drugs. I remember going to young people’s Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and not being able to understand how they could achieve long-term sobriety and be happy. It seemed so fake and unattainable to me but I knew what I kept trying was failing, I had to try something new. T had broken up with me by now, because of my addiction. At the time, I truly loved heroin more than him anyways. Heroin was awful but it never put me through the various types of abuse that he put me through. I was so hurt and angry with him that I swore to myself that I would never go back to him for leaving me when I needed someone there for me. I know it sounds twisted but I’m honestly so thankful that he had left me because it left me with resolve to do something about my situation. I didn’t have the strength to leave and stay gone during our years together because of how vulnerable I was at that point in my life.

I always knew something was different about me. I have a hazy memory about being a small child in elementary school and being attracted to a girl in a way that I had never felt about anyone. I was 6 years old when I had my first “crush” on a girl but I felt shame deeply in my young soul even then. I never pursued my interest in girls until I was an adult and I had my first girlfriend, Kemi. I was still struggling with my sobriety at the time that I met her. She had been sober for two years by the time we were together. I remember her and I sitting on the floor of my bedroom while I fixed myself a shot. I don’t remember exactly what was happening but my parents were throwing a party. I had to wear something to cover the track marks and bruises on my arms even though it was a hot August day. My memories from the time are a bit hazy from the drugs but I made her look away while I did what I had to do. I remember feeling guilty but ultimately not caring that I was possibly risking her sobriety by using around her. I was so self-centered that nothing mattered to me but having the feeling of calmness wash over me. Things ultimately didn’t work out between us but that’s okay. She was good to me and she brought me around A.A. and introduced me to what sobriety had to offer me.

I attempted sobriety again in November of 2016 and I can’t pinpoint exactly what changed this time around. I no longer desired to keep up the facade that I had perfectly crafted. Anyways, it was all crumbling down around me pretty quickly. I remember having a sort of epiphany about the state of my life. I was 20 years old and I was speeding down the highway and into my grave. I don’t think I instantly wanted to live a righteous life or anything close to it, I just needed to try something different. Especially with turning 21 years old in a few days looming over my head. I couldn’t believe I legally couldn’t drink alcohol yet but I could buy heroin and I was a pretty decent hobbyist phlebotomist at this point.

I broke up with Rami last year. I was pretty unhappy with myself and where the relationship was going so I took our dog and moved back into my parent’s house. I needed to start figuring out what I was going to do with myself and my sobriety. The stress I put on myself after Rami relapsed after we broke up in December of 2018 and it absolutely ruined me. It helped lead me here, to Center for Discovery but not before I was hospitalized at Stanford for my low body weight. Rami never asked me to be with him while he struggled with his sobriety. I blamed myself for his relapse even though the rational side of my brain knew it had nothing to do with me. My anxiety was so bad I started restricting and I wasn’t even really aware of it at the time. I just knew that my mind was constantly spinning and I was on the edge of breaking down every day. I would take some anti-anxiety medication and it was like magic, I could finally be calm enough to eat. Rami continued to relapse and I continued to work hard and skip meal after meal. I was becoming frail and I was losing my ability to think clearly. I was worried about how I would pay my bills. I didn’t want to lose the independence from my parents that I finally felt I had earned. The heavy medications I had been taking made it impossible for me to hold down a job. I was finally able to prove to myself that I could work long shifts and over 40 hour weeks. I remember when a 4 hour shift was absolute agony for me. I could never go back to how things were. I earned my independence and I didn’t care if I starved myself to death for it, I wasn’t willing to give it up even though I was sacrificing my health.

Earlier this year I started a new job and it was extremely demanding. It ruined me. Or maybe it put me on the fast track so that I could ruin myself easier. I had to work long hours extremely hungry. My boss didn’t care about me, he saw me as another dispensable person: to be used up until I wasn’t worth anything and he could easily throw me away. I quickly became aware of what kind of person he was and I wondered what I could do. My best bet was finding another job but he paid me pretty well and I didn’t have to worry about a lot of things anymore. I was becoming independent for the first time in my life and that was all I ever wanted. I started skipping meals cos I had so many routes to do. I worked for a cannabis service that existed in a gray area in California law. I worked as a delivery driver and eventually I started working the desk. There was no human resources for me to ever turn to. He called me into work when he needed me and if I didn’t drop everything in that moment to help him, he wouldn’t call me for a few days to make my pockets run dry. I was constantly stressed and unhappy- but the money was good so I stayed. I didn’t have any confidence to go and find another job and he worked me so hard that I was constantly an anxious mess. I was constantly crying and on the edge of a breakdown. I think me staying irregardless of any abuse I faced is a problematic recurring theme in my life.

I was misdiagnosed bipolar for many years. I took every medication they could prescribe me. I’m sure there are a few I hadn’t tried but antidepressants cause a manic reaction in me and make me suicidal. But nonetheless, I took my medication religiously but I was medicating the after-effects of my drug abuse. I kept trying to fix something by taking drugs or taking medications but I didn’t realize the answer was in years of therapy. There’s a lot in my history that I can’t explain or find an answer for but that’s okay, I don’t need to understand everything that happened. All that matters is now. I don’t know how I managed to have so many clinicians misdiagnose me. Even when I tried avoiding the bipolar label I still got diagnosed with cyclothymia. To me that made it pretty clear to me that I was on that spectrum. A few months ago my doctor came to me with a diagnosis that frankly, pissed me off. I had heard it before but I felt like I had been in therapy long enough that I didn’t warrant that diagnosis or the stigma attached to it. When I heard the words “borderline personality disorder” it made me angry and defensive immediately. I definitely feel like that reaction made sense with the diagnosis. The doctors didn’t realize that some of my symptoms may have been residual from my drug use.

I never really realized I was anorexic until I started feeling the pressure to keep up an appearance. And I don’t mean that literally. I didn’t have time to look in the mirror and I hated the skeletal mess that always met my eyes when I would make the mistake of looking at my reflection. I didn’t think I was anorexic but my mind is much clearer now and I see that although a lot of stereotypical behaviors weren’t there, they didn’t need to be. I started looking at what made sense. I took being perfect to a flaw. I couldn’t leave the house unless I was fashionably dressed and if I didn’t have the nicest clothes then I felt bad about myself. If my makeup wasn’t impeccable I wasn’t shit. All I had to hold onto was my appearance of a well put together girl. I still don’t fit into that label, my anxiety has made it feel impossible to eat. I look back on my years of drug use and I see that I definitely used for weight control as well as mood management throughout my adolescence and young adulthood. Labels really don't mean much though cos we're in the same place for similar reasons. I feel like at a time of my life I honestly did hate my body. I think I might have hated it for a long time- for keeping me alive when I’ve wanted so badly to give up. I’ve hated it for not being the same shape or silhouette as other women. But I don’t feel that way anymore. I’m beautiful, scars and all.

I’ve shared the deepest, darkest moments of my life for only one reason: in hopes that someone hears this and knows it doesn’t always have to be so dark. Things get better, maybe not all at once but I promise they do. I never thought I would be able to climb my way out of the pits of hell. I struggled with constantly feeling like I was just digging myself into a deeper hole. Through the adversity that I’ve experienced in my life, I’ve grown as a person and I’ve turned into a woman that I can say that I’m proud to be. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows but I know that the clouds in the sky will part and the rays of the sun will kiss my skin. I always carry hope in my heart and I truly believe things will be okay as long as I continue to keep my goals in mind. I finally understand that I have a purpose in life and that’s to help people. I know I can only achieve that goal if I continue to better myself and it’s been hard work but it’s had to be done.

#autobiography #writing #book

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ashleyrobyn · 3 years

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I started doing art and music because i wanted my soul and my voice to live on after I died. You see, when I was young, I never expected to live this long. My brother told me every day that he would kill me and it would be the best day of his life, while he was beating me, kneeling on my chest, and throwing me around like a rag doll. He would strangle me and block off my nose and mouth just to watch the fear in my eyes. I'd lay in bed at night staring at the birds on my ugly wallpaper in my little bed wondering how long I had. Wondering if it would be scary once he finally beat me to death. Having nightmares of being buried in the backyard next to the dog. I was so young. And i hid in my room and started creating things because I wanted the people I loved to have something to remember me by... When my brother killed me. It's just insane... It just kind of hit me.

The craziest part is that I actually made it to adulthood. People will forever think that's a dramatization but it really is a miracle. I was beaten almost daily up until the day before my 14th birthday. That was the day my mom finally left my dad over her resentment of the years he spent abusing her. She told me she was going to do it in the summer. To quietly pack my favorite things in the next couple months and not to breathe a word of it to anyone. The abuse seemed more bareable during those months when I knew my salvation was finally coming.

My dad resented me for not telling him ahead of time. I knew and didn't warn him. Him and my 2 brothers felt that I had betrayed them. He blamed me for the dissolution of the family and put all his suicidal thoughts on me the next day, for my 14th birthday phone call from him. But had I told him like he thinks I should have, him and my brother would have killed us and let the buzzards pick our bones clean in the woods. These are not the people that talk out problems. They are not the ones that try counseling. We would have both been destroyed for wanting to go and even at that age I knew that.

I traded abuse for neglect as my mother worked a lot, and focused on her new relationship with the man I'd later call my stepdad, and built her life back up from scratch. I joined marching band in my freshman year of high school to try and escape the pain of my total lack of family and I worked on a dairy farm starting at age 14 to support myself as far as hygiene, clothes, and food. My dad never paid a dollar of child support. My mom was either too stubborn or too scared to ever push for it.

There was no love felt. I felt like my mom just took me out of obligation. I didn't feel loved or like I belonged. My stepdad had no kids of his own. He didn't seem to like sharing my mom's attention with me. In hindsight, a damaged teenage girl IS a hell of a crash course in parenting, but I digress.

I had an older friend named Heather, who had a car. She gave me something to do. A place to go to get away. But she had an ex that was stalking her and I didn't know it at the time. She introduced him to me. He was 21 and I was 15 but she encouraged us to date so he would leave her alone. Again, hindsight is 20/20. I was desperate for love and a sense of belonging, support, and protection. He manipulated me into thinking I had that with him. All I needed to give in return was my unconditional obedience and loyalty.

He let me come to him with my problems. He let me be vulnerable with him. Then he called it love when he took advantage of my weakness. I was with him for 7 months but wanted out by the end of month 2. Once I tried to pull away, he started to stalk me as well. He lived over an hour away but would show up at my high school unannounced and demand me to skip class and leave with him. If i hesitated he woukd question my loyalty and threaten to kill himself if i didn't love him the way he loved me. So i went. He had connections within my school report to him if they saw me talking to any males. He forbade me wearing makeup or looking cute at all unless it was just for him. He watched my social media like a hawk, harassing any guy that liked my pics or commented. Demanding I delete them all or else he would kill himself. I was so naive. I had no idea how those types of games worked at the time and I feared that he actually would kill himself and that it would be my fault so he kept me in his clutches for awhile. I wasn't even allowed to focus on family, friends, or class because if I didn't text him back immediately and constantly, he would accuse me of cheating and make threats. I blamed myself for choosing this but really I guess a lack of family support and a safe place to communicate was really to blame. My adult "friend" who encouraged us to meet and date. The adult "man" that thought this was ok...

He coerced me our entire relationship to be sexual. I didn't want to be. He wanted pics. I said no. And so again he threatened and wore me down until I didn't know if I would deserve love if I said no. I didn't want to be alone. I felt like I had no one else in the world. So after months of saying no, he made me give in. And it wasn't at all what I expected it would be like.

It took me my entire adult life to fully become aware and to process that I was being groomed and molested. And I seemed to have no way out because my father uponing learning of my "relationship" and the age difference, simply said "don't get pregnant." And walked away.

My mother and stepdad didn't agree with me being with this guy but shamed and punished me for it instead of letting me turn to them about the horrible truth of my situation. I came home from school one day in November to find all of my belongings outside of my mother's house in boxes. Her and my sister packed it all while I was at school. I was not allowed in the house even to pee while I waited for my dad to finish his shift at work and come get me. I waited for hours outside with my stuff, crying.

When my dad finally pulled up, he was annoyed to see me and all my stuff. He didn't want me but had no choice. So i loaded my boxes into the bed of his pickup, and cried under my breath the whole ride back to the place where my brother felt safe letting the monster come out on me. I faced returning to the abuse at home, while being forced to stay in a relationship with a child molester.

It was then that I started wanting to kill myself. I was already expecting to be beaten to death up until that point so it didn't take a big shift in my mentality to resort to suicidal ideations. I pretty much figured I was gonna die anyway. Might as well end my life on my own terms rather than waiting for the day my brother finished what he seemed to start with every beating.

Side note, for those who think this was just sibling rivalry and it's normal, no. I never even got to defend myself. He was huge and mentally ill, with equal amounts strength and rage. It wasn't an even match. It wasn't normal. One time, he held me down with one leg over my body while he tried to snap my shin bones over his over knee like old dead tree branches. He kept trying. It was so scary it makes my stomach churn thinking about it. I could feel my bones bending with every time he slammed them down over his knee. I was small enough to wriggle out his his grip but my legs hurt too bad afterward to run. Or the time he grabbed me by my face, and broke several of my baby molars inward. After that he helped clean up the blood and tried to bribe me with honey candy, not to tell my parents. I don't even remember my childhood except for flashbacks back to stuff like that. Otherwise, it's blank.

So anyway, I wanted to die. I continued to create though it was less. All of my song lyrics and poems were about abuse, anguish, and the peace of death.

The point of this post originally was to explain how crazy it is that this all came full circle. At the time, I thought of everything I was drawing, writing, and singing on record, as my legacy. A way to live on and haunt those who put me there. When 13 Reasons Why came out, it really resonated with me because it was so close to the way I had always imagined my own death.

Now, i am still creating a legacy but this time it is out of gratitude because despite all of this, I lived. I lived to have the chance to inspire my own children and now the legacy I am building is for them to hold onto me forever. I'm getting to do more than I ever thought possible. Even though I didn't plan it out this far because I never expected to make it, I am starting to warm up to the idea of becoming an old hippie lady. I wanna take my dark and twisted life experience and use it to create beauty for others who are suffering to behold and connect with. It would be most fulfilling to find a way to share my story in hopes that it may shed light to other children who are being abused and feel like they have no one.

I refuse to believe that my suffering was for nothing.

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