My story:

I would like to post my story with my email and be a Kids in Trouble email volunteer. My name is Emily Spalding. I am almost fifteen, and I live in the USA. My email is live4jesus@hotmail.com. (no longer working) But I would also like them sent to inhisgrip_emily@hotmail.com (no longer working) if that is possible. I would like to not post my last name. This is my story; "I grew up in one of those homes that would appear to be normal. But who really knows what normal is, right? :P Anyways, I lived with my mom and my dad, and I had a supportive family, who loved me greatly. I probably didn't appreciate it much, at the time, but when that comfort was taken away, my world came crashing down. My parents divorced when I was three. Kids always blame themselves, so, even at a young age, I felt guilty. This was my fault. When I was four years old, my father gave up his parental rights and responsibilities. Meaning, he didn't want anything to do with me anymore. I was then legally adopted by my grandfather, but I was still allowed to live with my mom. I felt horrible about myself. My father's exact words to me were, "Emily, you are not good enough for MY family, I think we need a break." I don't care what kind of fake story he told the rest of the world, this is what he said to me. And I grew up with that mindset. I will never be good enough. Ever. No matter how hard I try. . . My mom, become super depressed after the divorce. She know was didn't have a partner, and she had to support a child financially and emotionally, by herself. Because of this, she suddenly started dating a bunch of men. I can't count them, or even name them at this point. They didn't last very long, but we always ended up in their house or them in ours. It was terrifying to me, but she didn't care. She didn't talk to me at this point. At least not very often. These men came first. One particular relationship seemed to last a long time. Not sure how long, because I was only six, however, I remembered more of that relationship than anything else. This man sexually abused me. I grew up being fondled, and touched, and being forced to touched him. He would rub his hands on my breasts and put his fingers inside me. Then he was make me rub him over and over, until he moaned with satisfaction and left the room like nothing had happened. This happened daily, during the day, and in the middle of the night. And my mom never say. One day I got the strength to tell her, and she shut me out. "You fucking liar, don't ever say that again!" So I remained silent, and was exploited more and more as the days progressed. She finally got married though, when I was about ten. Things started to get a little better. I was no longer being sexually abused, and I thought for once in my life, I may be able to find some sort of self worth. Maybe I am not that worthless. However, two years later, I was raped. I was raped at a friend's house by a family friend. He came into their house, without permission, and came to the room I was in. He picked me up by my shirt, shoved my friend out the door, and my onto the bed, and then he removed our clothes. He touched me, much like my other abuser had, and then, he shoved his body on top of me, and put himself inside me. He moved up and down, up and down. I had sex before I was even a teenager. Sex by force. The force of a thirty something year old man. I felt the most dirty I ever had in my life. I still never told anyone. I broke my silence about the abuse when I was fourteen years old, this year. I was then evaluated for all sorts of things, and my story finally came out. I was diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Depression. I felt pretty messed up looking at my diagnostic list. I was also a cutter. I would cut to relieve the pain, and to gain back the control these men had taken. It got so bad at one point, I was in need of medical assistance (but never got it). My doctor also informed me that I had bulimia. I was one of those girls who never ever ate, yet worked out all the time. Then I would binge. Eating 3,000 or so calories in a matter of sixty minutes. Then I would go to the bathroom, shove my finger down my throat and throw up my last hours consumption. I always felt fat. Always felt like I needed to lose weight, and I may be happy, or someone who love me without hurting me or leaving me. That wasn't the case. No matter what I did, I was never satisfied. I wanted more. I needed something else to fill my emptiness. I felt hopeless. All this time, I was living with emotionally abusive, and emotionally neglecting parents. They would call me slut, bitch, worthless, stupid, fuck up. They would yell at me all the time. Tell me that I was never going to be good enough. They criticized everything I did, and would humiliate me in public in front of their friends, and my own. They never said they loved me. Never hugged me. Never kissed me. Never talked to me about anything that I had struggled with or was battling at the time. Nothing. I was just there, living in my own world. Because no one else cared enough to enter in. I thought I was worthless, and the only thing I was good for was giving some sex crazed man pleasure. My body wasn't my own. I let people use it. I remember specifically, fourteen years old, two months ago, going to a pool. There were lots of college boys there. Right away they started hitting on me, clearly thinking I was older that fourteen. They then began to touch me. A group of them. Touching my chest, and putting their hands down my swimsuit bottoms, while another one rubbed him self from my pelvis to my chest. I let them. I didn't scream. Didn't ask for help. I got to a point in life where I just didn't care. They could do whatever the fu** they wanted to me. I was sexually assaulted. But I didn't say anything. . . This was my life. Hopeless. It was never going to get better. I couldn't change anything. I couldn't be anything. It was stupid. And I was done. I attempted suicide twice. The first time, I tried cutting so deep, I thought I would bleed to death. The second time I tried to overdose. Both times, I stopped myself. For some reason. I said I wasn't going to do this now. I stopped cutting deeper, I threw up the pills. On a third suicidal episode, someone was finally concerned enough about my suicidal behavior to get me help. My school brought me to the ER, where I was admitted to the hospital for a while. I was on constant suicide watch, not even allowed to use a real bathroom. It was hard, but it kept me safe, when I know I would have done it had I been alone. I then got to see a therapist. I got placed on medications (eight of them a day). I also went into eating disorder treatment. I still struggle sometimes. I still feel hopeless some days, and thoughts of suicide creep up on me. I think about it. I sometimes still binge and purge. I sometimes still self injure. But I learned something. There is hope. Always hope. Even when it doesn't feel like it. I learned that there is something more in life, but you have to stick around long enough to see it. You are never alone. There is help. If you are being abused, being bullied, feel depressed or suicidal, or are struggling with eating disorders, self injury or running away, there is help. There are hotlines, and website sources. There are people that care. Reach out to them. Ask for help. Be open and honest, and you will become so much better. You will feel relieved that you shared your story. And, reaching out is the first step in healing. You can overcome this. You are more!!

If you need support, someone to talk to, or advice, feel free to email me. I would love to hear from you. We can talk about my story, my life, or we can just talk about yours. I am glad to answer any of your questions, or simply give you a sounding board to get your feelings out. I check my email everyday, and will respond within twenty four hours to your email. There is hope."

Emily