The Story of Bean
I'm not dead yet, so my story is not finished. I am still writing it, and every day I add another page.
In the beginning the story is about a girl. A girl named Jenna, born first and raised on best wishes and good intentions. My mother is amazing, although I didn't always think so until recently, but she tried. My father on the other hand....... He was abusive and liked to hit me. And I could handle the physical pain, it was the emotional onslaught that killed me. I felt worthless and unnecessary to the world. For a very long time.
I started doing drugs at a very young age. I wont go into just HOW young, but young. I hid it from my family by never being home if I didn't have to, and sleeping as often as I could. Depression, combined with drugs and abuse, led me to attempt suicide at age 14. I spent 5 days in a mental health institute, nearly a year bouncing between quack therapists, and months on various mood stabilizing and anti depressing medications. My medical costs where so out of hand (more guilt, yay) that it was becoming strenuous on my family. So I taught myself to act just fine. Well, fine enough to convince my parents I was better (I was still and am still an overly emotional cry baby). I never got a diagnosis. I flunked out of high school, barely got a GED, and slept and fucked the days away.
Skip ahead a few years. At 19 I met a boy online and moved in with him and his mother. I married him, left my friends and family behind, and tried desperately to start over. It didn't work though- he was no different than my father (or any other string of abusive boyfriends I had had in the past) but at this point I was tired of running... so I stayed.. I had long since stopped taking anything heavier than weed, but was slipping back into it. I was afraid of my husband and afraid of myself. I drowned myself in alcohol and drugs and sleeping pills and sex, and I cut little lines into my legs. I liked to pretend that this was because I was dealing with (more than likely) bi-polar disorder with no treatment, because it was my only way to cope...but more than likely, it was just a step below the inevitable. Suicide.
But one day, somehow, I crawled away from the train wreck and left. I got fired from my job, attempted suicide again, and then moved in with a childhood friend in a town I had never been too. Not long after, my hair started falling out and I couldn't afford to keep electricity or water in my single wide rental, so I moved back in with my mother.
Things where rough, for a long long time. And then my mother moved away from the town I grew up in and moved to Bowling Green, KY. With no job and no choice, I came with her. I enrolled in school (never actually went though), got a job, and met another boy online. (I know, I know, glutton for punishment). I was determined to take it slow, but a whirlwind of emotion that I had never felt before in my life came into play and I was at it's mercy.
This is where love comes in. I had never felt anything so strong and powerful and beautiful and wonderful in my entire life. I had said "I Love You" plenty of times- because you are supposed to, because I wanted to feel it, because I thought I did feel it... And here I was, head over heels madly in love, for the first time. I had come to terms with the fact that I never WOULD fall in love. That I didn't BELIEVE in love. And it was staring me in the face like an angry bull ready to charge. And on top of all that, it wasn't even regular, normal, agreed to love. I fought it, denied, hated it- but it had me in it's grasp. It's name was Anthony.
We talked every night, saw each other as often as we could, stayed up late together unable to sleep and slept in late curled up in his tiny twin bed in his little bachelor pad. I cried many silent nights alone in my mothers house, knowing I had found something to good to be true. I told him all my secrets, let him see all my insecurities and flaws, threatened him to never come near me again.. and he never wavered. My night in shining armor.
Not a month later, I quit my miserable job, left my mothers nest, and moved my things into his apartment. He had moved from his comfortable little bachelor pad into a tiny two bedroom and squeezed me, his two daughters (who he had gotten full custody of days before) and all of our things into his personal space.
It was hard at first. Anthony and I are night and day, and argue over everything. My insecurities convinced me that I was no good for him and would drive him away. They also convinced me that I was a bad caretaker to the girls that I stayed home with. The house never seemed clean enough. Dinner never tasted good enough. The love was never loving enough. And I broke. I cried for hours, vomited constantly, and stressed over every detail. Every fight with Anthony, every time the kids told me they didn't like me or wouldn't listen to me. I was falling apart. Anthony stood by my side, helped hold me up, and helped me through. And then things got easier. And easier. Until they seemed natural.
I no longer saw the girls as his children I was raising, they where my children. I could be myself at my absolute worse, and Anthony still loved me. I started painting again. I started singing again. I started LIVING again. It was as if all of my horrible past had been washed clean, and I could finally start over. I could be the wife and mother I always wanted to be. I could have the life I always wanted to have. I could be happy, for once in my god forsaken life... and I was. And I still am.
My story is no longer just a story about a girl. It's about a mother and a father, two little princesses, in an apartment, going to college, planning a wedding, and dreaming of a house with a fence, a dog, and another little prince or princess to complete our happy little family. I am no longer writing my story alone. We are writing it together. And we plan to make it a happy ending.
About My Girls:
Molly is 4 years old, blonde, and prissy as can be. She believes she is a princess, lies to get out of trouble, cries when she doesn't get her way, and gives some of the best hugs. She is very affectionate, very emotional, and easily satisfied with a piece of candy or a strawberry pop tart. She's a good "cooker" and bakes some of the best cake you will ever put in your mouth (with help of course).
Audrey is 3 years old, brunette with a Buddha belly, and is sometimes tomboy, sometimes girly girl. We believe she has Asperger's (a high functioning form of Autism that her mother has), and because of it, can be very hard to handle. She is confusing and easily upset, and doesn't give a lot of affection, but when she does, you know you are a very special person. She and her imaginary friend Bobby eat monsters for breakfast.
About My Blog:
I write about whatever I feel like writing about. My life, the weather, fashion, a book I read, a movie I watched, a recipe I like, etc. Sometimes I post pictures and no words, sometimes too many words to be interested in. I can be a bit random and hard to follow, I have terrible grammar and worse spelling skills, and I cuss, A LOT, but if you decide to be patient with me, and follow me in this journey called life, you just might get to see that happy ending.
