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Gerry Weir @ti-on-suxandrox

n/a, Male

Location not disclosed

Joined on 7/31/09

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I was at home and I started crying uncontrollably. I started recording myself towards the end of my breakdown because I wanted to see how it looks when I cry. I'm not okay, I need help, I need support and I'm just not getting it. Going out on a limb here, but, could I get some love from some of the nice people on Newgrounds, please? Just... I don't know...

I wrote a journal as a way of exorcising my demons. This was the first entry I wrote:

I remember spending two weeks in Yelapa. When I returned home I found myself at the tail end of a terrible situation.

I remember entering the house and being shown the numerous empty baggies that used to contain cocaine in my sister’s bedroom hidden behind her dresser. Seeing the massive pile of 60 empty baggies was absolutely heartbreaking. I remember my step-mom asked me and my dad to taste the trace amount of cocaine.

We drove to a drug rehabilitation clinic to pick up my sister and bring her home. I remember picking up her beloved stuffed bear, Cuddles, so that I could give it to her when I saw her.

I don’t remember much about the clinic because I was so overwhelmed with information. My step-mom had deliberately made sure that I didn’t know what was going on while I was in Mexico so that I could enjoy my little vacation. Once I got back I had to process about a week’s worth of drama.

I remember my sister constantly shouting “I’m not on fucking drugs,” with tears in her eyes.

As we drove home I remember looking at my sister and seeing a look on her face that reminded me of my mother. Seeing what looked like my mom’s face caused me to have a mental breakdown, but I tried my best not to let anyone know that I was freaking out.

Once we were close enough to the house that I could walk I asked my dad to stop the truck and let me walk home. He did, and as I walked home my mental breakdown got worse and worse. All that I could think about was my mother.

Then, I remembered the rape.

What triggered me was that, somehow, my sister’s face reminded me of when I was raped in a trailer park. I remembered being dropped off at the trailer park by my mom so that they could babysit me, along with a number of other kids. The other kids might have been raped too, and that sickens me.

I remembered being woken up during naptime and being taken to another room. I remembered being asked to undress, and I remembered being abused. My memory is still very hazy about what exactly happened that day.

One thought was playing in my mind over and over again as I had my mental breakdown. “She knew.”

Maybe the reason why I harbored so much resentment for my mother is because ever since that day I believed that she might have known about what had happened to me. It’s been something that I was thinking about ever since the event happened.

“Did she know? Did she set it up?”

However, I don’t think that my mother knew about the rape. As much as I know that she’s capable of doing bad things, I firmly believe that she loves me and that she would never have allowed her little son to be raped if she had suspected that he might be raped.

But then again, my mother used to abandon me at the day-care in the casino regularly, which hurt me a lot. At first, I would think “oh goodie! I get to play with the Playstation!” But, when the novelty of playing Crash Bandicoot wore off, I would think “where is my mom? Why did she leave me here? I’ve been here for hours, what is she doing?”

“Does she not love me? Does she not want to be with me?”

To this day I know that my mother’s addiction to gambling is stronger than the love she feels for her children. This knowledge has helped me understand her a lot better than I did when I was young.

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