Minutes bleed into hours

 Physical and mental abuse for me started at 18 months. My mom's husband at the time was an alcoholic who had no idea what the fuck he was doing with kids, and thought it was ok to beat, force-feed spinach, and play mean "tricks" on me. I grew up in a trailer-park, where I either constantly had head lice, or worms. When I say worms, I literally mean I had worms. We called them pin worms, but either way it's disgusting. We went through winter time sleeping in one room with a space heater because we couldn't afford the heat bill one year. The few things I can remember from my childhood is the crap I'd rather forget. My mom's husband spent the money my mom made working three jobs, on booze and cigarettes. Being someone undependable, at age five I was caring for my two younger siblings when my mom was at work, because he would be out doing stupid shit with his friends. He'd finish off food purposely so we would not have any, and he was overall very childish. By age 8, the sexual abuse added in. I'd had shoes thrown at my head, bruises from his idea of "wrestling", and my forearm fractured by the man by the time I was 12. It got really bad with the sexual abuse at age 11. I'd get stuck being locked in a room with this man... And this went on 4-5 years. My mom never noticed a thing. By that point mom was contemplating divorce, and I was the therapist for both of them, listening to their bullshit (as if being worried about if I'd have a place to live in the next week or so because bills may not be getting paid due to lack of funds), and being somebodys sex plaything. My mom should've protected me through this. And she didn't. I think she tried her hardest to raise me right, but there are some things that she didn't do right. I was not an adult, yet at 13 I was responsible for watching 4 young children alone, doing chores, keeping up with schoolwork without any help on things I struggled with, and giving up a lot of my social life to help my parents out. By high school I started cutting. My arms have so many scars... When I finally came out about being molested, after the divorce had already taken place, I had to testify in front of him and his family who treated me like dirt for coming out about it... My mom set me up with community counseling, and assumed I'd be ok, no more work to do. Sophomore year I was suicidal. I was planning to swallow a bottle of aspirin pills. I had a set plan to kill myself. My grandpa had died, I was dealing with the emotions I'd locked up in the past on being molested, and my boyfriend broke up with me after almost a year of dating for some fat heiffer bitch who had stabbed me in the back and convinced him to break up with me. It was hell for me. I cut, I isolated myself. I was not happy, and then this year, I became pregnant with my baby Jeremiah. For the first time in my life I felt happy, and blessed, and excited when I found out about my pregnancy. A month and a half later I miscarried. I hadn't even been able to get an ultrasound picture... And no one but the father and my best friend knew. I had no one to confide in that would understand. My family sure as hell didn't notice. All I could think was when I started bleeding was that those clots were my baby... and that they were getting flushed down the toilet, and how I was a terrible bitch who deserved to die, and a terrible mother. I don't want to feel this... isolated, closed up pain... I need help, and I need someone to notice I need help... And I need to figure out who I am... I need to understand, WHY did I lose my baby? Why did I get the shit end of the stick? And why didn't my mom care and be there for me when I need, and have needed her the most?