I'm High & I'm Happy & I'm Free.

Is it sad that I've begun to use weed to self medicate? I would say yes. I mean, I've been smoking it for almost five years; you would think that the novelties of being high would have worn off by now. Writing all of these things down may help me, as well. Knowing that at least one person has a portal into my mind and can judge me justly and fairly from the things that I am so openly writing about gives me a sick kind of comfort. So, with that being said, I think today I'll delve into the fucked up period that was my childhood.
I didn't meet my biological father until I was 14. My mom married Dan when I was three years old, and I was conditioned to call him "daddy" from the very beginning. I don't remember much or any abuse inflicted by Dan until after my first little sister was born. (Again, I will not be using their real names as to not embarrass.) Ashley was (and is) a beautiful little girl who quickly took on the roll of the favorite. Because after all, I was not Dan's real child, and he had no problem reminding me of that often, starting when I was about four. Things got even worse when Annie was born. Not only did Dan completely stop paying attention to me, he would beat me, tease me, and encourage my sisters to do the same. Of course, it wasn't their fault that they were instigated into making my life a fucking hell on earth, but I was young, and I began to hate them nonetheless. My mom was also subject to Dan's abuse, but fortunately for her, she had a driver's license, a car, and the town bar to go to in order to escape his torment. [Note: my timeline is kind of off from my childhood, so dates and ages are all approximate.] She knew the way he treated me, and yet she left me at home with him night after night after night, and I was fair game. If Ashley or Annie did something wrong, I would get beaten for it, though he knew perfectly well who the real culprit was. If I spilled a drink, I would have to stand in the corner for hours on end. By the time I was six, I had been dragged down the hallway by my hair; I had bruises all over my body, and I hated coming home from school. I remember sitting on the school bus every day for years, dreading the rest of the evening with Dan and my sisters.
Dan and my mother would often get into physical altercations, usually around the holidays, and they would end with Dan being on top of my mother, smacking her and punching her, and screaming at me "Is this what you fucking want?! Are you fucking happy now?!" No, I wasn't fucking happy.
Though there were countless nights in which I was abused, the night I remember most began with my mom going out to the bar. She always looked and smelled so pretty; it was hard for me to be mad at her for abandoning me. "Be good," she'd say. "Don't give him any reason to yell at you. Stay in your room and read." This one particular night, however, I was determined to get him to love me. I wanted to be as good as my little sisters; I wanted him to bring me presents like he brought me and take me to see his parents whom I adored. So not only did I want to be good, I wanted him to see how good I was being.
As was custom, Dan began his evening by grabbing a beer from the refridgerator, sitting on his recliner, and turning on the television. As a 7 or 8 year old little girl, I was not much interested in the football he was so obsessed with, but I opted to stay in the same room anyways, and lay on the couch that was across the room from him. I ended up falling asleep for a little while, and woke up, ecstatic to not have been yelled at once. Haha. That was not to last though, however. When I stood up to go back to my room, I knocked over a beer can. Now even as a young child, I KNEW that he had planted that fucking beer can right under my fucking feet. I told him I was sorry, but he beat the shit out of me anyways. I waited for my mom to get home from the bar and I told her how good I had been and how I had knocked over Dan's beer and how he had beat me for it. Finally, my mom stopped going out at night.
When I was about 12, after I had endured about nine or so years of abuse, Dan did something which at the time, I didn't think to be much worse than anything else that he did, but apparantly my mom was unaware of how bad things were. (That's what I'd like to think.) I don't remember what I did, or even if I did anything at all, but Dan was on one of his rampages. He was screaming and swearing at me, and as was custom, I retreated to the top bunk where I slept to escape his punches and anger. Dan was not having that, however. He ended up chasing me into my room, and grabbing me by the hair and literally trying to drag me off the bed through the railing and in between the ladder. Now if any of you are familiar with bunk beds, this is an unfortunately tight space through which entry is pretty muc h impossible. Now most of this I don't remember; my mom told me about it, but she said that when she walked into the room, Dan had my body so contorted that she thought my back and one of my arms were broken. She grabbed my little sisters, threw some suitcases into our rooms, and demanded that we pack up and be ready to leave in 15 minutes. And that's when we moved into my grandmother's house.
Now, it is what it is. Nothing I write about is intended to induce any kind of sympathy out of anyone; as of now, no one I know is even aware of the presence of this journal. I'm trying to read in between the lines though. I want to know what all of this did to me, and if contributes to the way I am now. Of course, I should have turned out a lot worse than I am. After we left Dan, my mom picked up where he left off and often took out a lot of her rage on me--resulting in scratches on my face, bruising, beatings, having things thrown at me, and my favorite: a visit from child services. She has since apologized frequently, and I have stopped blaming her. Her life has been hard. Mix in the Orthodox Presbyterian upbringing with child abuse (mental and physical) and you're bound to have a recipe for some intense emotional problems later in life. I don't want anyone to think that all I do is wallow in self pity and live in the past and blame other people for my problems. I just want to get this shit out. I want to write it down, read it, and figure out how I feel. (Not to mention, it wouldn't hurt to brush up on my writing skills, lmao.)
Is anybody out there? Can anyone relate? Talk to me.