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Daddy’s Girl

Living With Emotional and Verbal Abuse

By Alissa CoronaPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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It was a sunny day in October. The sun was out, wind blew breezes from the tree. We were supposed to go to the pumpkin patch later in the day. It started just like all of my ordinary days. I got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, got ready, and headed to work. I spent the first half of the morning working with my favorite manager, laughing and messing around through our shift. I’m a delivery driver and tips were good that day. I made over $40, which is a good day. I had no idea that later this day, I would decide I wanted to take my life.

You see, I’ve struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts since I was thirteen. The antidepressants worked... at first. Therapy wasn’t any better. It was just someone telling me to put my problems in God’s hands and pray for him to heal me. No offense, but I don’t think God’s been listening.

It was approximately four o’clock when it all fell apart. My dad and I went at it again. And like many times before, I told him he was the reason behind my depression. He’s the reason why I have low self-esteem, no confidence, and no self-worth. It’s been this way since I was a little girl. In elementary, I was stupid because I couldn’t understand math. At 13, I was a whore because I ran away. I was a slut, I was always going to be a slut, and I was most definitely going to be a teen mom. I was a drug addict, because I smoked marijuana. I would never amount up to anything. That’s what he always told me. And this time was no different. My father, my protector, had the audacity to tell me that being suicidal was my fault. He said I was an adult that could make my own choices. And if I were to take my life, I’d have no one to blame but myself.

We spent twenty excruciating minutes screaming back and forth. My ears burned red, tears steaming down my face. My voice was nearly gone, since I still hadn’t gotten over the cold I was fighting. My heart felt heavy. It was as if I had chains wrapped around my body, dragging me back to the deep, black hole I was trying to hard to get out of. He had me. He always had me. He always knew just the right words to say to take the tiniest bit of self-love I had built up, and rip it all away from me. I’d thought of this many time before.

How would I do it? Overdosing was always my favorite, but then again hanging myself was much more dramatic — a visual that he’d never be able to forget. I had plenty of time to plan it out. All the while, the love of my life sat on the bed between us, listening to all of the hurtful words said to his future wife. I slammed the door closed and he looked into my blood shot eyes. I told him, “You need to leave. I’m going to hurt myself now.”

It took an amazing man to tell me all of the things I had never heard in all twenty years of my life. If you’re reading this, it’s because I chose not to. I can’t let him win this time. It’s taken all the strength I have left to fight against the urge I have. And each day, I’m afraid that he’ll win. I know he doesn’t want me dead, but maybe that’s what it’ll take for him to change his abusive ways.

depression
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