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I Finally Want to Live, but I Don’t Always Believe I Deserve To

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“Do it. See if anyone cares.” I was 9, standing in the kitchen holding a kitchen knife. My then-stepdad — who had just spent hours arguing with my mom — was watching.

I knew he hated me. I knew a lot of their arguments centered around me. My idiosyncrasies. My needs. My meltdowns. My trauma from childhood sexual abuse and my dad disowning me because I was a “bad girl.” The care my mom poured into me.

That was probably what he hated most of all. I burst into tears, and tried… but I physically couldn’t do it. I put the knife down, and ran into my bedroom, angry and ashamed, knowing at some level that my reaction would add fuel to his arguments that I was just “attention-seeking.” (So what if I was!

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