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Release the Beast

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no explanation

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“Do what you wanna do, I don’t care anymore!”

I hear these and similiar words almost daily.  I am killing him.

I am unable to explain why.

I know he will be gone soon.

I am unable to explain why I am letting it slip away. 

 I want to get up.

 I want to live.

 I want to know why. 

 I want to scream.

I am so lost.

Written by Tiffany Sams

May 26, 2011 at 5:58 pm

demons

with 3 comments

I used to think when people said they had demons in their head, it was just an over-dramatization  or misunderstanding they had within but now that I have these demons, I feel so naïve for downplaying the raw honesty of this statement.  I suppose it is human to try to minimize the hurt you may have caused for someone through words, actions, thoughts or whatever avenue taken but eventually they come back to haunt you. 

 I have certain memories in my head from childhood that just arrived about 2 ½ years ago.  As quickly as they entered my mind, I felt paralyzed by them.   I’m not sure if these memories were squashed, repressed, blocked out  or,  as  in the most recent development of my mind;  dreamed up and  not in fact genuine at all.  I quickly filed them away because clearly I was in no shape to confront them but now they are a constant.  They resurfaced last fall.

I’ve never felt such confusion in my own memories.

I have never confided in anyone what they are, I AM SO ASHAMED.

 I DO know that if, in fact, these things really did happen, I just don’t think I can live with it.  This is not an exaggeration.   I can’t even actually put them in to written words because I don’t think I would be able to handle reading them. I don’t know what I would be capable of if I accepted these thoughts.    

My suicide mission years ago was something I really wanted and although I haven’t attempted since, I still pray not to wake up at times and the shame of even this keeps me from succeeding in the life that I do have.   Three weeks ago I thought I was having a heart attack.  Instead of telling someone, I prayed to god to take me and I went to sleep.  I haven’t been to work since.  I have barely left the house.  I want to give up.

 It is never on purpose but each day as I try to wake up and start new, I just can’t.

Or won’t.

And don’t.

It is a cycle that I keep repeating and each and every time it happens, I die a little bit more.  I feel like I am losing myself.   

Eventually I somehow manage to get it together and try again, each time with such determination and I sincerely feel happy when I get into a routine but it never lasts….never even for a full month. 

 I shouldn’t say that because in January it did last for a full month, exactly 30 days, and then I fell off again.  I was so proud of these 30 days and almost like clockwork, as I began to feel confident that I could turn it around, I just let it go.  I could feel it slipping from my fingers, yet did nothing to stop it.

Why don’t I stop it?

 

 

I had a party for the holiday’s last year and if you were there you would have never guessed the pain I held inside that night.  I did the standard phony, happy girl routine I regularly perform and there were a few great moments but the night before and the hours after the party were spent in total self hatred.  I spent the entire next day absolutely hating myself.  I feel that way so often that the days normally blend into each other but every once in a while a memory will stand out and the feeling of loathing towards myself during that period of time is one of them.

I spend hours contemplating if this is mental illness or karma of past events.

Not long ago, I learned of a confession made by my father.  It seems that I was born because my mother raped him or this is the story he is telling anyway.  I never knew this and I am conflicted as to whether I needed to ever learn this.  On the one hand, it would explain why I have always felt I didn’t belong here on earth as a human being and why I absolutely hate myself in every way possible.  On the other hand, I feel so incredibly hurt by this thought of being a curse to my parents merely by being born.  It stings so badly, I can’t even type this without being in a full hysteria. 

I feel so worthless.

 

 

I don’t know if I have ever felt pain like this.  It’s different from being mistreated, having a broken heart or feeling lonely. It’s something I can never change.

This is the worst information I could have ever learned, maybe it will be the most healing somehow but for now it is the fuel the demons are feeding on and I am at a loss as to how to turn the devastation into something positive, something that will give me the strength to…..

I don’t even quite know how to complete that sentence.

Written by Tiffany Sams

May 24, 2011 at 4:07 pm

bitter SWEET

with 5 comments

Once upon a time

Once upon a place

You were here with me

We were face to face

 

You said we’d be forever

Our love would never die

You said you always be there

Although it was a lie

 

I wonder why you did this

Why you’re not here today

Wonder what I did

To make you hurt me this way

 

Maybe it’s not your fault

Somehow you went amiss

But you never said goodbye

Not even one last kiss

 

Even though I am angry

And probably will never forget

The way that you just left me

To live in such regret

 

There will always be a place

In the center of my heart

That never will forget you

And feels we didn’t part

 

So even though you’ve killed

Any chance that I may have

To live a happy life

With someone else instead

 

My heart will always love you

As long as I may be

On this lonely earth

Without you, just me

 

 

Written by Tiffany Sams

March 17, 2009 at 11:59 pm

Critical Condition

with 7 comments

I had finally had enough. 

 

I went on the Internet to find some suicide advice and there it was.  My migraine medication at twenty pills was considered a lethal dose and I was off to the pharmacy to refill my last 75 pills…or so I thought.

 

My mind was clear and my heart was sure.  I had really tried to make the best out of what I was given in life, but some of us are just born bad and I felt that God’s cruel joke should finally come to an end.   I picked up a 6 pack of Budweiser’s to swallow my pills since my refrigerator only contained 4-5 ketchup packets from McDonald’s that were there long  before I moved in.

 

The pills were hard to get down in such abundance, so at 65 and two Buds, I felt I could stop without consequence and for a moment after they were consumed I had the urge to force myself to vomit, but the thought quickly passed and I laid down on the couch and said goodbye to my precious kitties.  The ex came by every Friday to play with them which is why I picked Thursday.  I wanted to make sure the pills had enough time to work their magic and ensure that the cats were well taken care of.   He always did say that he could provide a better home and now he would have the chance.

 

I thought that I would feel sad but my heart was content.  I was sick and tired of being sick and tired and I was finally doing something about it.  My attempts in the past were weak and futile, this one was for real and there was no possible way I could survive.  I waited for my sedatives to kick in and within 20 minutes I was unconscious.  I remember being suprised at how quickly I was getting tired and then….darkness.

 

I was proud. 

 

I woke up a few days later, bruised and battered and completely disappointed.  How could this have happened?  My entire life had been full of failures and this was the one thing that I was sure I would get right. 

 

How could this be?

 

It was a Thursday and my isolated lifestyle had ensured that there would be no suprise visitors.  

 

The next guest arrival would not be until Friday. 

 

Did my visitor come early? 

 

DId I take the wrong pills? 

 

Did I really take 65? 

 

What was going on and why was I here in the hospital with bruises on my body and a 24 hour nurse by my bedside?

 

And then the doctor came.

 

He explained to me how there was no rhyme or reason for me to be alive.  He told me that I should be dead and then he looked at me with pity and asked me how such a beautiful young woman with everything going for her would want to do this to herself.   I wanted to spit at him.  Who was he to judge me?  He knew nothing about my life and I have spent half of it pretending that I am someone I’m am not and this man was going to seriously try to convince me that I was lucky to be alive. 

 

I have heard this for years.  Everytime I hit a new low in life, someone comes out with some idiotic point of view that that always starts off the same.  “How could someone so beautiful”

 

WTF?

 

Since when does someone’s appearance determine their happiness and if I were the ugliest human being on the planet would it then be ok to be so screwed up and commit suicide?  As I wondered how this man was able to think that his advice was something I seriously cared for he said something that took me by suprise.

 

The doctor explained to me that during my period of unconsciousness I was calling out for my brother.

 

And chills went up and down my body.

 

I remember looking for Billy in what seemed like a hospital but with no other people or objects.  I remember wandering through the never ending hallway calling for him and asking him to take me to heaven but I couldn’t find him.  I just kept walking and walking with nothing in sight.  I was confused.  Why wouldn’t Billy come and get me?  I felt betrayed.  I wondered why he did not want to protect his little sister and take her to a better place.

 

And then it occured to me.

 

Billy would not let me die.

Written by Tiffany Sams

October 16, 2008 at 3:06 pm

FAMILY TREE

with 2 comments

Imagine…

 

Always having to skip over the family history section of every medical form.

 

Not knowing about your ancestry or where you came from.

 

Never really knowing if your parents were married.

 

Not knowing the names of your Grandparents.

 

Knowing that you have a half sister out there and wondering is she ever thought about you.

 

Making the dreaded family tree in elementary school.

 

I feel that if this still is a practice in school today, it should be stopped immediately.  This was utter torture for me every single time that I had to do it   The feeling of embarrassment and humiliation that I felt when I didn’t have names to put in the little boxes of my cut out tree was overwhelming.    I hated my self.  I hated all of the relatives that felt it would be easier to pretend I didn’t exist.  I hated the way my teachers fumbled over their words as they tried to assure me that it was okay that I only had four other names to put in the boxes.

 

But most of all, I hated the day that my father told me at my brothers funereal that  I had “to understand Tiffany, your mother was crazy and I just couldn’t deal with her, but now you are an adult and I would love to get to know you”.  My father asked me to dinner for our fifth possibly sixth “dinner” together. 

 

I was 28 years old.

 

The man who only called every few years when his father was in the States because he needed to trick my grandfather into thinking he saw his kids suddenly wanted to “get to know me”.

 

I never hated my father until this day.  I had a void there before.  I always wondered why it was that I felt so indifferent or why my blood ran so cold that I didn’t have love or hate towards him.  I wanted to hate this man for my entile life and I really tried but I just couldn’t.  I had always imagined that it was the beast who wouldn’t let him see me.  For years I gave him every excuse I could  think of to give myself the gift of thinking that someone out there may have wanted me.

 

I was never sure if it was true but there was always the possiblity.  I didn’t know what his side was and didn’t want to.  I never asked and was perfectly pleased with keeping things the way they were. 

 

But now he just threw it out there.  BOOM!

 

He knew the beast was crazy and he left his children there alone and defenseless.  And now, the only other person in my whole life who ever really knew what I went through was gone.

 

AND I HAD TO UNDERSTAND? 

 

No! 

 

I will never understand how a man can know that his children are in the hands of a monster and just choose to walk away.   I can not undersatnd how Billy and I suffered years of torment merely because my father couldn’t handle the beast.

 

 I went homeless.

 

I went hungry.

 

I went into addiction. 

 

I went to college.

 

I worked hard.

 

I managed to keep a smile on my face every single day so that everyone would think I was happy while I was dying on the inside.

 

AND I HAD TO UNDERSTAND?

 

No!

 

Understand that my father is an immature selfish man who can not handle his responsibilities?

 

Understand how my father hurts people when he doesn’t even know that he is doing it?

 

Understnad how my father could possibly think that I could understand this?

 

I did understand.

I am my father.  

And I hate him for it.

 

I have never been the same since this day. 

 

It was the day I had to bury my brother and the day my father broke my heart. 

 

It was the first day since I was 15 that I really cried and I couldn’t stop. 

 

It was the day I decided to destroy my life with addiction. 

 

It started with my brother’s cancer pills that were left behind.

 

Written by Tiffany Sams

October 8, 2008 at 12:55 am

going TO jail – ReFoRm ScHoOl

with one comment

The day the beast took me to court is a day I always find difficult to relive.  Not because she lied to the judge and said she felt physically in danger of me.  Not even because she said she no longer wanted me, given up on me.  I was too difficult – a troubled child.

 

What hurts the most about that day are the tears she shed when I was remanded into the custody of the court system.  In less than 15 minutes I had been charged, found guilty and convicted of being incorrigible “a person in need of supervision” or “PINS” is what they called it.  I was a PINS case and I wasn’t given a single opportunity to defend myself nor was my presence even barely acknowledged.  Everyone was too worried about the single mother of three who had an uncontrollable monster at home.  Somehow in my 15 years, I had become the BEAST. 

 

As she was escorted out of the court room in hysterics, I witnessed the comforting arms of the court officers, consoling the beast, assuring her that everything would be ok, she did the right thing.  And there I stood, watching this display, alone, handcuffed as even my own court appointed lawyer took her in his arms.  Waiting for the bullshit to end, all I could think of is how I would get her back.  Next, I was escorted to my cell to wait for the sheriffs to take me to my new home.  I was now a possible foster child on my way to minimum security jail or as they referred do it – “reform school”  That day was hard for me to swallow, but what was even harder was learning years later that the beast felt she was teaching me a lesson “for my own good” about obedience. 

 

My first day at was much like many other girls that came and went.  I had my intake interview where I was explained the rules of the facility and the point system.  See, at my new home all activities of my daily routine would be graded by counselors barely out of high school who had no education, experience, or training on how to deal with a child like me.  They would assign the appropriate amount of points that they felt I deserved and at 5pm each day I would be presented with a point sheet that held my evaluation.  Personal hygiene, chores, eating manners, condition of my room, activities, wake up, lights out – ALL POINTS!  All the time!

 

After intake I was brought up to the second floor where 6 apartments were set up and each one housed 14 girls.  I would have 13 roommates of my own and only see the other inhabitants during meals and school.  I was shown my room and abandoned to cry.  They allowed you to do that on your first day, they wanted you to get it out so they wouldn’t have to deal with it later.  That was the last time that I cried in my teens.  From that day until the day my brother died, I did not shed a tear, not a single tear.  Tears would not protect me from my lemonade being spiked with bleach, a fork stabbed into my arm or the riot that sent in over a hundred policemen and fireman to overtake my prison. 

 

Tears were for the weak and I would make it out of this experience alive and when I turned 18 and could not be forced to do anything that I didn’t want to do, I would go to college and make a life for myself.  I would become something, anything.  I would never allow anyone to hurt me and tears were not an option towards this goal. 

 

The school, located on the first floor had its own point system and the next day I was infomed of the school rules as I was fitted for my uniform.  Being run by nuns, this school was catholic and run by one of the meanest nuns I could have ever imagined.  Before that day I was brought up protestant and my perception of nuns up to this point were sweet women who gave you candy and told you that god loved you no matter how bad you were…WRONG
 

Sister Gertrude was tough, she took no bullshit and she was always there.  I don’t think Sister ever slept, she couldn’t have.  She supervised all of our meals; she just stood there at the front of the cafeteria and watched us eat.  If anyone acted up during these meals, all would suffer.  Sister Gertrude meant business.  Ironically and what still makes me laugh to this day is that you were allowed to smoke cigarettes.  This was our encouraged reward.   My perception of religion was changing a bit. 

 

A mean nun who pushed cigarette addiction to mold your behavior was just too much for me to comprehend on my first day. 

 

Depending on the accumulation of points on your sheet, you could earn up to 5 cigarettes a day and 3 of these were after mealtime.  Sister would turn on the smoke filter and one group at a time we would be called up to the front of the cafeteria.  Since we were not allowed to carry cigarettes or any method of fire, sister held them for us, and we stood on line until it was our turn to light a cigarette off of a white candle held by a nun.  It was the same ritual meal after meal day after day…unless.. someone acted up, and then our well earned cigarette privilege was lost and the bitch who caused it would pay later…in some way or another.  Even though I was well into a pack per day by the time I was 12, I am convinced that it is here that my true addiction to cigarettes began because even when I am able to put in various months of surrender to these rolled up pieces of dirt, it is always the after meal cigarette that I miss the most.

 

The school was run pretty much the same as the living arrangements.  You were to be in uniform at all times and had to wear a pin on your vest with your level number.  Newcomers were automatically put on level 1 with basic privileges and could earn their way up or down, depending on behavior.  Level 0 was the worst because you were not allowed to talk to anyone and anyone who was caught talking to you was automatically put on level 0.  This level was the bottom of the bottom, no cigarettes, social interaction or food with the group.  The only privilege allowed on this level was school.  After that it was in your room for room restriction and T-table as they termed it, where you were forced to sit at a table for hours and stare at the wall.  T-Table sentences were usually given in three hour intervals.  Reading material of any kind was not permitted and if you slipped from your upright position, more hours of T-table were assigned.  I don’t know why they called it that, but if the T stood for torture, it was a very appropriate name.  I was put on this level every time I ran away and I found it a bit comforting, it was as if you didn’t exist and that was what I was used to – I loved level 0.

 

The school had its very own point system.  At the end of each class, we were to be evaluated by our teacher and if, at the end of the week we earned enough points, we were given the opportunity to watch a movie on Friday afternoons in lieu of classes.  It was not difficult to earn these movies as the classes were filled with girls of all ages and levels of schooling, so competing with 11 year olds was not too difficult and to my embarrassment I looked forward to these movies each week.  Not because they were interesting or because I hadn’t already seen them before, but because it bucked the system.  The school received government money for all classes we attended and most of these classes were barely more than coloring books and the basic survival skill of ensuring that the bitch sitting behind you didn’t fuck with you.  The teachers at this school were in fear of us horrible human beings and if someone hunted you, a teacher would surely not get in the way.

 

I was brought to the “school” in the summer of my 15th year.  I was evaluated by social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists’ school personnel etc.  Every move I made from my behavior to my bowel movements was recorded for one month.  After that month, “the school” made their evaluation and it was suggested to the judge that it would take at least 18 months to cure my behavior and he agreed.  I would reform myself and then maybe I would be well enough to grace another family with my presence and become a foster child.  From my experiences, I learned that the only thing families wanted from a 16 year old foster child like me was chores and sex.  I was not about to become someone else’s slave and if I was going to fuck someone’s husband or daddy it would be on my terms, not against my will.

 

When I was escorted into the courtroom after my 30 day evaluation the handcuffs digging into my wrists, the beast was there.  She didn’t acknowledge my presence or look in my direction, but seemed to be very upset upon hearing that I displayed behavior of an abused child.  It was next mentioned that I was severely depressed and that I could be a danger to myself.  The beast had heard enough, she lost control.  Yelling at a judge who had no tolerance for white trash, she dug a deep grave for herself.  “Always blame the mother, always blame the mother, she is from the devil.”  “You are all alike, believe an evil child over her mother, she’s a liar.” 

 

See, the beast thought I had told on her, sold her out, put blame on her.  What she didn’t understand is that for some reason, still unknown to me I protected her.  Not only did I not sell her out that time, but I never told anyone until now the story of her abuse.  Maybe I wanted to protect her, or my brother, or maybe I was just ashamed.  Whatever it was, the beast never would believe it and she didn’t speak to me again for over 2 years.  What I didn’t know was that the judge sent the beast for a psychiatric evaluation of her own that day and the results of that evaluation were enough for the court system to fully take me out of her custody. 

 

According to the legal system, I no longer had parents.  I don’t know what the beast could have said or done to cause this because she had always been good at playing the victim, but whatever it was, it made her mad and as thankful I was that I was not at home, I feared for Jeffrey.  The beast most surely punished him for my sins and the guilt of leaving him alone with the beast is still so shameful that I can not find it within to forgive myself.  I abandoned him as Billy had done to me one year earlier.

 

 

As other girls earned weekend visits with their families, I spent mine eating and watching TV, making myself throw up and exercising in the middle of the night.  I spent each of these weekends wondering why no one cared, why my now 19 year old brother never came on visiting Sunday or why my father who I barely knew didn’t even write me a letter. 

 

I was alone.

 

AGAIN

 

 

 

Written by Tiffany Sams

September 28, 2008 at 7:10 pm

Self Mutilation

with 4 comments

I was alone, forgotten, in my cinder block room.

 

I was angry and alone and since the tears no longer came, the razor blade took over. 

 

Most people think that when little girls cut up their bodies, it is a cry for attention.  When I was 16, I didn’t even know there was a name for this or that other children even thought of it but us “cutters” are looking for anything but attention.  We want to be left alone and we want to know how it feels to hurt because we spend so much of our lives fighting feelings.  I can honestly say that I didn’t think of much when I was cutting up my legs.  I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself at that particular time or upset, there was just something inside that told me to do it and told me I would feel good afterwards and I always did.  Something about watching the blood trickle down my legs and the wet soreness of the wounds made me feel good. 

 

I was controlling my pain. 

 

Written by Tiffany Sams

September 25, 2008 at 3:48 pm