It hurts, it really does.

I know I shouldn't be jealous, I shouldn't be upset, I have no right, no place. Yet... I can't help it. It swells inside of me, jealousy over taking my senses and my logic leaving me for a better place. I watch all of my friends, my enemies, my family, complete strangers, all making far more success than me. They have their lives planned out. Graduation, mission/marriage, college, family, happiness. Throw a job or two in there and you're good. Some of them even have what college they want to go to figured out, where they're going to work, everything... I watch as one by one, they each find something they love, and devote their energies to it whole-heartedly. I know, I sound like I'm whining, but honestly... What can I do? My friends go on to state for drama... (Drama for @#%&* sake! The one thing I used to think I was semi-decent at!) Some dance, others play sports, others have musical skills, and still others can draw. Things i used to think I could do... I used to think I was strong, and then I saw myself in a mirror. I used to think I could act, why then am I so afraid of auditions? Failure perhaps? I used to think I could dance, and then I watched myself. I used to think I could sing, and then I listened. I used to think I could draw, and then I looked. And one by one, I realized...

I have nothing.

Nothing but this empty pit that slowly engulfs everything within me, eating like acid at all of the hope I once had. I always say I hate men... I hate children, never want a family, never at all. I'll let you in on a little secret: I lied. I want a family as much as any other girl, if not more. I want to have little me's running around, making messes, driving me crazy and eating me out of house and home. I want a husband to lean up against, to have him hold me, comfort me, tell me everything is going to be alright as long as we're in it together and with the gospel... I want to be able to paint a room in a nice little home with dinosaurs and space stations and hobbits and Calvin and Hobbes while balancing a paint brush on my swollen belly. Of course I want children... It's something engrained in us, that we as women are meant to have kids, to raise a family to the gospel and watch them grow. I am no different... I want a family of my own, for once in my life. And yet I know it'll never happen. Sure, no tests have been taken; sure, I've never discussed it with my doctor or my mom. But I know I can't have kids. Either because I was damaged when the abuse happened, or because I'll never get married. Marriage isn't an option for me... I'd damage the poor guy too much, I have so much baggage, so much anger and independance, he'd hate me. And it hurts, to know that I will never have the family that haunts me in my dreams every night. And I think...

Would things be different if I had had a father?

Would the abuse ever of occured? Would I have had a stay at home mom, so we would have never had to move from Chicago? Granted, I wouldn't know anyone from here, but at the same time... Who has friends from highschool? No one... It just doesn't happen. Would daddy have protected me from the abusers? Would daddy have saved me from my self destruction? Would he have cradled my head and held me close as he promised me there were no monsters in the closet? I know why I can't handle God, why I rebel so much... It's because I've never had a man stick around in my life, never a single good decent one in my whole life. Why should this one be any different? It hurts... that my fath-Stephen will never know what he's put me through, what a HELL I live daily because of his assinine choices. No, I won't commit suicide; if there is a heaven and hell, I don't want to throw the fight before I have a chance. But I'm ready to die. Even if I lived longer, there would be nothing for me, nothing at all... I'm ready to die, just waiting for my soul to slip away unnoticed, and the shadows erase the memory of me.

I've forgotten what it means to be happy...