A few years after my mom and I moved in with my step dad, a girl moved in across the street and I brought her a Popsicle. She was the only kid my age in the neighbor. We hung out and had fun, But a couple weeks later, I found out she was a very manipulative person. She was a year older than me and if we didn’t do what she wanted, she would threaten to go home. I would always cave because I needed and wanted a friend. Soon after, she starting doing things to me, bad things, very bad things. As I look back at this being a teen, I know it was wrong. But back when I was seven, I felt like it wasn’t.

Eventually I would learn to speak for myself. But I was afraid so I didn’t. I would let her do what she wanted to me, listening to her until I was eleven, exactly four years. It was torture, and sometimes it hurt both physically and mentally. I thought it was what all the kids did.

Everyday she would lead me out to the club house about two hundred feet behind my house. She would drag me in by my arm. Often times she would tie me up which allowed her to do things like, cut my wrists, slap me, hit me, touch me, and make me do things I didn’t like.

I remember when I found out what being “Emo” was. I remember it like it was yesterday. The girl from across the street, (We’ll call her, Jan), and I where walking across the street to her house. It was a warm day in the summer. I heard birds chirping and wind in my face. “Did you know I’m emo?” she asked me. Naively I responded, “Isn’t that an animal?” “No. It’s when you cut yourself and always wear black.” she told me, eagerly. Although I didn’t say anything, inside I was thinking: “Who would cut themselves?”

A couple weeks later, we where at my house and Jan ordered me to go get a butter knife and a razor. Clueless, I obeyed. I brought it back and she took out two of the razor blades with the knife. She handed one to me. She took hers and put it gently on her wrist. “Do as I do.” She told me. I had no idea what was coming. She pushed down and drug the razor blade down her arm. I looked at her dumbfounded, as she watched the blood drip. “Do it.” She told me. “No!” I said. She slapped me and told me I had to. I didn’t want to, because I knew it would hurt, but I did it.

It stung, a lot, and for some reason I liked it. But I would never tell Jan that. She told me to take her razor blade and cut her wrist. I did as I was told and she did the same to me. I’m not sure why she did these things to me. But she did and it was bad

My second step dad was mentally abusive to my mom and I, and physically abusive to me. My mom thought she was in love with him. I was spanked, kicked, hit, called names, yelled at, and never let out of the house. My mom never laid a finger on me except to spank me. She worked eight am to ten pm, or eight am to five pm. I rarely got to see her. Except after five, which she was tired and didn’t want much to do with me. I think things may have been different if my mom had been there. I was also protecting her because I loved her. I knew she was tired and couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything about it.

When I turned ten, I talked to the school counselor about Jan. She was getting progressively worse and cutting herself deeper, more often, and in different places. I told the counselor I was worried about Jan unfortunately, though she didn’t do anything about it. I’m not sure why I cared even though she did those horrible things to me, and, she was still doing them. Eventually, Jan finally stopped, but unfortunately, I didn’t.

I got tired of everything, the world and people’s abuse. I started cutting myself. I cried out for help, and no one listened. I was in sixth grade. I went around the playground, holding out my left arm, cutting it. Little tiny cuts, enough to bleed, but I could cover it with my black jacket. I did it with a small razor blade out of a pencil sharpener. It was for attention. I felt lonely, I did these things for attention, and they didn’t work.

One day, I got called to the counselor. Excuse my language but I had been acting like a jackass, being rude, cruel, and insensitive. I became the girl who literally shut down. I didn’t listen to anyone. Cutting little, but who cares? I was doing it and that is bad enough. She asked me to see my arms, and I told her no. She asked me why and I explained that it was my business. I crossed my arms and slumped in my chair, glaring at the counselor. She said, “Honey, I need you to show me. If you don’t, I’ll send you home for a week.” “Fine.” I whispered and I pulled up my sleeves.

She let out a small gasp. I guess she wasn’t expecting what she saw. I quickly replied that I had been playing with my Aunt Lauren’s Cat. The counselor asked to take a picture of it for the nurse. Hesitantly I told her she could, if she wouldn’t tell anyone else. She took a picture with her fancy smart phone and sent it to the nurse. I was told that the nurse would determine whether the red marks on my arm where cat scratches or not. This did not improve my trust with school counselors.

I get in the car, after school. My mom tells me to take off my jacket. Quickly, I told her no. The response was to do it immediately or I would be grounded. Angrily, I got out of the car, threw my jacket on the ground, and ran into my bedroom. At this time my mom was crying. She ran into my room and grabbed my arm, stared at it, and walked out. I felt her hot tears on my arm and started crying also.

Later on that day, my stepsister, grandma, and aunt came to talk to me. In talking with them, I discovered that my mom tried it when she was younger, and my Aunt used it as a release for frustration. It made me feel better. But sadly, it never stopped me from cutting. I cut myself every so often. Not very often but I did throughout about three years.

Drugs. What are they? Most people would say “Bad things.” There are those few that would say “stuff that messes with you?” Other than marijuana, I’ve also smoked cigarettes for a long time. Also, I drank alcohol and popped pills whenever I could get my hands on it, and whatever I could get my hands on. Although I don’t do these things anymore, it seemed to help keep me from cutting myself. But why would I destroy my body at all?

In October, at the age of fourteen, I went into a placement in Topeka for eight days for cutting and it was the craziest joke ever. We had showers in our rooms, and towels and two people in a room. You could watch TV and play games and say whatever you wanted. It was easy and fun. It didn’t help even the littlest bit.

One day I was at school and I had gotten tired of being bullied by this guy so I decided to do something about it. I had already told multiple teachers and adults and it had just been ignored. I went into the study hall and wrote in pencil on one of the desks something about “JT” was going to bomb the school. I told a teacher I found it and thought he would get in trouble and that would be the end.

A few days later, I was in honor band practice and the principal told me to come to the office. The only thing I saw was my mom and two police officers. It was very scary. I truthfully had no idea what was going on until they told me.

They asked me who did it and I swore I didn’t know. I lied as hard as I could and said that it wasn’t me, but they didn’t believe me. I eventually came out with the truth after about five minutes of lying. They told me they did a hand writing analysis and where for sure it was me. After that, I listened and only responded with “Yes sirs’” and “I understands.”

I could have gotten a class nine felony. (I Googled that a lot and couldn’t exactly figure out what it was.) But it isn’t the worst you can get. They just charged me with disorderly conduct and that was it. Of course, I did get diversion but then this happened:

At the end of April, my step dad was diagnosed with liver cancer. I thought I hated him. But my heart softened. He fought through his last few months of life. I had never seen him cry until then. He was a very big man, he had a ton of tattoos and he was a biker. He died five days after Christmas of 2011.


I will never forget that night. I was at my friend’s, (now sisters and brother’s) house about a couple streets behind my house. When my mom called I heard “Hannah. Come home now. I think…he’s gone.” I threw my phone in my bag. I started balling and ran to my house. Falling every 10 or 20 feet. I couldn’t see anything. It was all a blur. Once I got home, I held his hand and cried. Everyone who loved or cared or even just knew him was there. It was sad and there was about fifty or more people there. Again, no matter how bad he treated me, I still cared

Then came his funeral. It was very sad and there where at lest 200 people there. Everybody who had a motorcycle rode instead of drove. I rode on the back of my Uncle John’s bike. It was very scary, because throughout my whole life I had only ridden with my step dad. We buried him at Penwell and Gable, and then went home. It was pretty easy because people brought us food and helped us clean, which we could’ve done ourselves, but it’s courteous.

After that I tried to overdose. I was in the shower. I took some high strength cough syrup and mixed it with water. Then I drank it. I also took half a bottle of ibuprofen and drank mouthwash. My mom took me to the emergency room. Then I was sent me to a placement in Hays and I was there for nine days. It wasn’t a joke. You had groups the whole day. It was strict and very boring.

I was home for almost a week, when I cut myself. So they sent me again to the same place. I was sent there 6 times in the period of about three months and I guess I just never learned. I always ponder my past decisions and wonder WHY!?!!

I was home for a month when I attacked my mom, my aunt, and my uncle. They all tried to calm me down. Then my new dad picked me up under his arm and took me into my room. Even for a million dollars, I couldn’t get myself to hurt him. I just couldn’t. I broke my aunts nose and destroyed my room.

I went into my mom’s bedroom and we started fighting again, in the same night. I punched her in the face and she punched me in the stomach. I ran outside behind my clubhouse and watched everyone look for me. I realized they cared. But I was in too deep. Way too deep.

When they got close enough, I ran down the alley, turned right and went down that street, then turned left and went down to my friends. They are older but understood me. I asked for a glass of water and a phone. I called my mom and told her I was fine. I didn’t tell her where I was, but she was crying. She told me it was already too late. That the cops where there and I was probably going to jail.

Crap! What had I just done? I had practically ruined everything! I told them to talk to my older friend. They did and I was led down the street. At that point in time, I know they shined a spotlight on me. I am not for sure weather they had their guns out or not. But they put me in handcuffs and led me home. They sat me on the couch and took of my handcuffs. My dad got me some food and water. My mom and grandmother talked outside with the cops. I was crying, my dad was crying.

They took me to Bob Johnson’s. They told me I could either have my grandmother and mom come and we could talk about things, or I could go to jail for as long as the judge said. I chose the obvious one, because I didn’t want to go to jail. We talked it out and I went to my grandmothers.

Then I attacked her and my case manager a few days later. They put me in a restraint in my closet. Then she let go of one arm, then the other. I grabbed a hanger and went to attack. I was put in another restraint. Once I was out, I went into the bathroom and locked myself in there. I drank about three bottles of high strength cough syrup. Also, being dumb, I drank peroxide.

They took me to Bj’s and then made me go to the emergency room. But before I got there, I puked it all up. But they still made me go. I was sent to KVC in Hays again. But only for eight days. Then I came home.

A few days later:


I told my therapist I was going to kill myself because my mom wanted me to transfer schools. How dumb of a reason is that? She said, “Well, I can’t let you go home if you say that.” We talked and I “promised” I wouldn’t try to kill myself. My mom took me home. Within five minutes of her leaving me in my room, I had cut myself everywhere.

On my left leg it said my best friend/ Girlfriend’s name “Savannah.” On my right leg it said, “F*** life.” I had hundreds of deep cuts on each arm. On my arms, I had written “Dad.” But then cut over the top of it. By the time my mom came into the room, I was dizzy and felt distant. I watched her walk in to the room. The horror-struck look on her face will forever be in my head. She screamed and ran to get a towel. She took the towel and put it on my arms

I squirmed and tried to bite. I just wanted those towels off my cuts so I could die. I just wanted to be dead more than anything. I punched and kicked my mom then she threatened to take me to the ER. ALL I wanted was my new dad. I wanted him to come and help me.

Now that I think about it…it was so that he knew what I did to myself. For more attention, I screamed for him. I broke down crying. I crumpled in a ball and just watched myself bleed. It was bad, more blood than I had ever seen. I started to feel sick. I saw spots and then black. I was only out for a second. I awoke and looked into my moms crying eyes and I started to cry. I let her wrap up my arm and legs.

The night after, I felt so miserable. I was in the shower. My cuts stung and I talked to myself and told myself how worthless and dumb I was. I found a razor in the trashcan. I took out a blade and started cutting my right arm. My mom walked in and pulled the curtain. She gasped and ran out. I threw the blade on the ground and screamed.

My mom ran in about two or three minutes later and screamed “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT RAZOR BLADE?” I lied: “I’ve had it.” My mom dug in the trash and found no razor. “HANNAH! THAT WAS FRED’S RAZOR!” I fell to the floor of the bathtub crying and screaming

You are probably wondering why it was such a big deal. Fred, had hepatitis c. My mom and Fred where crying. It was bad. I am probably the luckiest girl in the world. Thirty days later, I found out, I didn’t get it.

That had sealed it for my mom and grandmother. They talked late into the night. That morning they took me to crisis management. They told me I was going to a long-term stay. I Cried and I begged and begged and begged and begged literally till I had cried so much I couldn’t breath. “Please don’t make me stay for long term. Please no. Please no…please no.”

They made me anyways. I remember that first dark night. I fell to my knees in the parking lot while we where unloading my stuff, and started crying. I looked up at my mom "You're not going to do this to me, are you? You're not going to leave me here are you?" I begged. She nodded, tears in her eyes. I signed in and for the first couple of days, I cried the whole time.

A few days later they set my up on the Onsite School. I was amazed at how few classes their where. All of the classes where on the computer! I was in Dodge City Kansas and it was great. Except that I didn’t get to see my family. They had horses, goats, cats, dogs, chickens and ponies. I had fallen in love with a horse and his name was Rio. He was a tan and white paint horse. I also enjoyed this dog, whose name was smiley.

Rio loved me just as much as I loved him. I didn’t even need to lead him because he just followed me. I would ride him and he listened to my every command. He never tired. Most horses when they where let free in the pasture, ran off. But Rio would watch me the entire way to our cabin.

Once, another client was riding that horse and brought out a lead stick, and scared the crap out of Rio. He wouldn’t calm down for anyone. He was running around in circles in the arena and neighing out of control. They took me out of school, and made me calm him down. When he saw me, he trotted to me and I felt like he just was saying “I’m scared. Help me!” So I calmed him by petting him. He lay down and I lay with him for about twenty minutes and I just talked to him.

Rio knows everything about me. He is a very intelligent horse. I miss him more than I have ever missed anyone, other than family. I hope someday I get to go see him again. I hope he has a new client that is as loving as I was.

I never got in trouble at Youth Ville. I wanted to cut but I didn’t. After a few weeks they started letting me shave. To shave, you must be off all observation and you must give them one thing that means the most to you. If you use the razor against yourself or others, you never got that item back. So, I always gave them my most important possession. Which happened to be my dads gold cross necklace. I never got into a restraint or seclusion. It wasn’t the greatest place.

It helped more than anything and I am a changed person. I have not cut myself in about seven months. I guess it just clicked. “Why don’t I change?” is what I thought. Every time I went on a day pass (out into town for a day with my parents,) I always cried when they made me go back.

I completed my treatment and was discharged May 18th. A couple weeks later we decided which house we wanted to move into. It happened to be the house in (Name Deleted for safety) and boy am I glad! This school doesn’t know my story or anything. They do not bully me and I don’t feel judged. I love this town.

Now you know how much of a changed person I am. I’m sure that if you looked at the person I am now, and then read this text; you wouldn’t guess it was true. But nothing was exaggerated or made up. So now that you know me, I hope you don’t see me through a bad perspective. I tried my hardest and fixed my life.
Thank you