I’m sick again. It’s not the kind of sick most people think of when they hear that someone is sick. I’m emotionally sick. I feel like this is going to be a never ending roller coaster of me being emotionally sick – of missing her, my mother. If I didn’t love her my life would be so much easier. I just want her to stop denying every little thing I say and to believe me. For once. I need her to listen. I want her to listen.

I’m Liza.

Texas.

21.

Suffering from PTSD and Major Depressive Disorder.

My parents are divorced.

I’m the oldest child/daughter on both sides of my family.

My mom had custody of me when I was little because of what had happened,

but that’s not what this is about.

I keep thinking maybe it’s my fault things are the way they are.

Like…

What did I do that was so bad?

How could a mother despise her daughter so much?

I mean, if she didn’t really want me, she didn’t have to keep me.

Plenty of other people would have rather had me as a daughter instead.

Lost, forgotten, neglected…

In second grade I was a Tigerette.

It’s the drill team for Wills Point for the little kids.

I think it’s changed a lot since then, though.

My coaches used to tell me I needed to stop

playing too rough.

Because we wore skirts, I couldn’t hide my bruises.

I couldn’t control the bruises; they just happened.

No matter what I did, I gained bruises.

I never asked for for the bruises.

In third grade I had to do soccer.

I hated it because I kept getting hit with the ball.

But I was told that it’s normal,

so I hate soccer now because of it.

In fourth grade I’d wear skirts

because I thought that if someone saw my bruises at school

that maybe they’d do something about it.

Instead teachers allowed students to

point and laugh and call me “Scottish”.

But I started hating myself more

because of the laughing and pointing.

I have Tourette’s Syndrome.

Being made fun of only seemed to

make my tics worse.

I didn’t even realize I was doing them anymore.

They just… happened.

In 7th and 8th grade my life kind of sucked, too.

I don’t know if my friends/classmates/teachers knew.

Either way, they never did anything.

Sometimes I’d hear some of them talking about it.

One of my best friends at the time –

Carol Lu –

reported it to a counselor.

Because I told her

EVERYTHING.

I remember getting really MAD at her

because the counselor

said she’d have to

call my parents.

I told her it was nothing

and that I was fine.

I apologized to Carol.

Don’t know where she is now

because we were writing letters,

and my mom and stepdad

stopped letting me check the mail.

🙁

In 8th grade in Pre-AP English class

we had to do some kind of paper bag project

to go with Tangerine,

a book I hated from the start.

I hadn’t done it because

I had to watch kids,

and I didn’t really have much to share anyway.

It’s hard to do projects where you have to bring stuff of yours to school.

He called my parents.

My best friend, Sage, was over at the time.

They sent her home.

I was beat that day.

The next day I had his stupid project.

I thought he could help me,

but he was a teacher who

ONCE AGAIN

made my life miserable.

I wanted the failing grade instead.

In school I didn’t have the time

to learn.

In school I had to think of

HOW TO SURVIVE

and get through and out of the place I lived in.

Family knew.

2 cops told my mom and stepfather

to “beat her”

because “she deserves it”.

I ran away when I was in elementary school.

They called the cops.

He’s the one who said that.

He didn’t even ask why I ran away.

And yet people ask me why I never told anyone

at the time.

FEAR.

When you live in constant fear

and are brainwashed and told no one cares,

you believe it because it’s all you’re told.

I contemplated suicide a lot growing up.

I tried to in eighth grade.

The apartment complex had a ravine.

And some kind of dam thing.

It was concrete.

I figured if I jumped

that I’d die

or get severely hurt

that people would take me away from them

and send me to my dad’s or another family member.

My brother Cody saw me and heard me

praying to God to just take my life away

because I couldn’t continue struggling anymore.

He told on me, and I was beat.

Again.

I’d already been beaten that day for

forgetting to do whatever it was I

had forgotten at the time.

Oh… did I mention my mom’s side knew about it all?

They never did anything

but tell me that I’m okay and I’ll get through it.

But this video is already long enough.

In 9th and 10th grade I attended

Forney High School.

I decided to try to reach out and get help again.

In English I’d write about what I’d gone through

and what was going on at the time.

I received A’s for effort.

But I was told the essay/poem/whatever

needed to be a realistic event

that had/was really happened/happening.

I attended Fellowship Forney with my friend, Heather.

She knew about the abuse,

and she wanted to keep me away from it.

However, I was even grounded from church.

…

I am a needle in a haystack.

I’ve been called so many things:

pointless

fat

a mistake

stupid

disrespectful

a loser

a cow

a pig

ugly

ridiculous

ignorant

an idiot

and so many more.

I’ve been told a lot:

go die

no one cares

I hate you

you’ll never graduate high school

you’ll always be fat no matter how skinny you think you are

you don’t deserve to live

if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you

no one will ever believe you

if your father cared about you, he would be here, but he’s not, so he doesn’t care.

And if they felt like being cruel and I wanted to eat

I’d have to put down my dad and his side of the family

in emails, messages, online, etc.

They also had to know my password

to EVERYTHING.

I was watched CONSTANTLY.

They even put programs on my computer that allowed them to

see what I was doing 24/7,

tormenting me by playing with the mouse

and typing randomly –

sometimes even typing from their computer to mine

insults.

It got to a point where it wasn’t even me anymore on emails.

I feel like all of the things I’ve done in the past

that were somehow wrong

and also just downright horrible

are what define me today.

I feel like I’ll always be that.

I hate my name “Sarah”

because it was so overused

and used so wrong.

So I use “Liz” or “Liza” – or something along those lines.

I feel like I’ll never be able to change who I am

and/or

what I’ve done.

I feel like God hates me.

NO MATTER WHAT PEOPLE TELL ME

IT DOESN’T CHANGE

THE WAY I FEEL.

I don’t understand

WHY family members WHO KNEW

what was going on NEVER did or said anything

to anyone ELSE.

It could have changed something;

it could have changed a lot.

I wouldn’t be going through

what I’m going through right now.

I don’t trust

cops

counselors

therapists

most governmental authorities

doctors

the list goes on.

Doctors tell me to lose weight because I’m over weight

and/or have overweight parents.

Tony’s not my dad, and he will never be.

One told my mom I needed immediate attention

but she was too busy playing on her phone to care.

He said I had an eating disorder.

I’ve always been in denial.

Until this year.

But I can’t help/control it.

It makes me feel like I have control over something in my life.

I’ve been called fat and have been mooed at the majority of my life.

I want to be skinny.

I feel like if I’m skinnier I’ll be pretty.

I’m too afraid to do much driving

because sometimes my depression takes over

and I have the urge to just

drive off of the road.

I have flashbacks.

I hate PTSD;

it makes me feel like I’m going crazy.

I hate it when people put me down.

They put me down even with their words.

People say

‘sticks and stones may break your bones,

but words can never hurt you,’

but that’s a lie.

Words can hurt.

I’ve contemplated suicide,

wanted to die,

cut,

starved myself,

burned myself with

a purple hair straightener,

wore hair ties tightly on my wrists,

wore long sleeved clothes

to hide bruises and cuts and burns.

And I reluctantly played Russian Roulette.

Luckily, I survived.

I’m Sarah E. Lawson,

and I’m a victim.

I’m a victim of

child abuse

sexual abuse

verbal abuse

physical abuse.

I had to hide everything.

“All in the family” was their imaginary motto.

My mom tried to kill herself last year –

26 August 2011 –

by overdosing on sleeping pills.

Because of something Tony did.

He blamed it on ME.

I was sick that day, 20 years old.

I shouldn’t HAVE to WORRY

about my MOTHER

because HER HUSBAND

SHOULD NOT TREAT HER THAT WAY.

My brother Cody

hit me with a pencil.

It was my arm.

It was when my grandmother

on my mom’s side of the family

lived in Seagoville.

He did it because he was mad at me.

Because I wouldn’t let him watch Degrassi.

Because he was too young.

I struggled to get the pencil lead out of my skin.

I succeeded.

They don’t understand that

I’M TRAPPED

in my own life

because I’ve had to hide

EVERYTHING.

I feel like maybe if I share my story

and keep sharing it

that one day I will finally feel

FREE.

I’m Liza,

and this isn’t even the half of my story.

Thank you for watching.

Maybe he’s right though:

No one who needs to believe me

ever will believe me.

I wish it weren’t true

because then I’d love my life.

Depression is serious,

and you can’t “just be happy” in a snap.

No matter what I try,

I can’t quit being/feeling/etc.

depressed.

But I don’t want to die.

He screwed up;

I’m still alive.

I will find a way to be strong again.

If you know someone who is being abused

don’t think they’ll be okay.

I suffer from PTSD and

Major Depressive Disorder.

…and I’m paranoid 95% of the time.

I don’t trust many people.

And I cannot handle stress.

When people argue/yell/fight/etc.,

I feel like cutting, dying, not eating…

the list goes on.

It’s an everyday struggle,

and my biggest fear is that

I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to get over something

I never asked for.

I don’t even know what I did,

but it was obviously enough

for my mom to wish she had had

an abortion.

I’ll be getting index cards soon. I’ll post the video soon after; I just needed a script.