Sam
Posted on 2002-12-15
I received a wonderful e-mail from Sandy, (who I told my deepest darkest secrets), and I feel so much better now. Her words touched me deep down inside and her honesty, understanding and acceptance had me in tears. I needed to tell someone about a few key issues that are affecting my depression before I see my psychologist, and I was worried that she might have got the wrong impression of me. I shouldn't have worried though. I should have known better. Sandy is a truly lovely lady and I am really beginning to feel like I have known her for a long time. Often when she writes I feel like her words and her thoughts are coming from inside my head, not hers and I think that is why I decided to open up to her. I'm glad I did. I feel as though I have gained another true friend, and I have realised from all the kind messages I received in my guest book that you (people reading this) care about me too. You are giving me encouragement and support that I need to get through this nightmare. None of you are laughing at me. None of you are judging me. I'm sorry that I thought some of you would. You are my friends. I know that now.
Because of the kindness that I have received I have decided to write about one of the things that I feel is adding to my depression. Please bear with me. I need to write this. I hope you understand that.
I was 14 when I met Sam. Every night after school had finished I would meet one of my friends and go to the park opposite my house. Often we would just sit there watching other people and chatting, or if it was the weekend we would hang around outside the off licence and ask someone to buy us some alcohol before heading off to 'our spot' on the playing fields.
There was nearly always a group of guys playing football in the park, and after about 2 months me and my friend Sally got the courage to begin talking to them. Sam and his friends were older than we were - they were 16, but despite the age difference we gradually began to hang out as one big group. It was obvious that I had taken a shine to Sam. He was 'one of the lads'; the group leader. Everything that Sam wanted Sam got. Looking back I think I was attracted to the 'bad boy' image. He got drunk every weekend; he smoked like a chimney, he occasionally done drugs and bunked school. I thought I was in love.
At first things were great. People began taking notice of me. I was Sam�s girlfriend, so suddenly overnight I became super cool. I felt like had everything. I was popular and I had a large group of friends. All the guys wanted to know me so that they could get closer to Sam, and some of the girls saw me as the girl that they wanted to be.
Then, one night in May Mum got a phone call - my Grandmother had collapsed and was in hospital. It turned out that she had cancer and needed intensive chemotherapy immediately. Mum was a mess - it was her mother that was sick, and for the first time in ages I was brought back down to earth. Being popular didn't matter. Having lots of friends and going and getting drunk every weekend didn't seem quite as important as it had before. My Grandmother was sick and I wanted to help look after her.
Sam wasn't the most understanding person in the world. In fact it was his best friend David that was there for me when I needed someone to talk to. David came to the hospital with me; he ran errands for my Mum and my Grandmother, he even done the grocery shopping for us when Mum was too exhausted to go herself. I began to go to school for just half a day so that Mum could still work - we kind of took it in turns to be with my Grandmother, to look after her.
Over the next couple of months my Grandmother became weaker because of the chemo, and you could see that she was fighting a losing battle. I was devastated. I was always close to her - ever since my Dad walked out on me when I was 2. My Mum and my Grandmother were the closest family I had.
Anyway, the call came one morning as I was getting ready to go to school. My Grandmother had died in her sleep. I tried to telephone Sam, but he didn't want to know. He was still drunk from the night before, and he had probably taken some speed, and basically told me that he couldn't care less 'about the old bag'. I hung up and called David. He was there for me when I needed someone to talk to. He was there for my Mum when she needed a hug. He even came to arrange the funeral with us. He was doing the job that Sam should have been doing, and finally I saw Sam for what he really was. He didn't give a damn about anyone else but himself. He never had done and he never would. As long as everyone bowed down to Sir Sam they would be put on a pedestal and treated like royalty.
I didn't see Sam for 2 weeks. I didn't invite him to the funeral either - David came instead.
On the day of the funeral I felt like everything around me was a total blur. I can remember sitting in the church when Sam burst in. He grabbed me by my hair and literally dragged me from the church into the cemetery and began yelling at me, slagging me off because I hadn't seen him for a while - calling me a whore because David was invited to the service instead of him. He was drunk. The next thing I remember clearly is waking up in A & E. Sam had stabbed me 3 times in the leg.
After that I distanced myself from 'the gang'. I began to get take-away meals delivered to my house although we had never ordered them. Cabs were turning up at all hours of the day and night. We even had a fire engine arrive one evening. I couldn't walk down the street without seeing one of my 'old' friends - they'd slag me off, spit at me, trip me up - you name it they did it. Eventually it got too much and I went to the police - something that I should have done straight away. I didn't want to at first though - my Mum had just buried her own mother and I didn't want to add to her worries. The police said that there was nothing that they could do. I hadn't received any threatening letters or anything that I could use as proof so it was my word against his. I just went home and sobbed my heart out.
For 3 months I didn't go anywhere unless I was driven there or I got a cab. I didn't want to walk down the street, I was too scared. I refused to answer the phone in case it was Sam or one of his friends. I became the outcast at school. No one believed me - Sam was a God in their eyes, just like he had been in mine at one point. Then I found out that a girl in my year had begun dating him. I tried to warn her what he could be like but she didn't want to listen to me - she just saw me as the jealous ex. Instead I got another beating - this time fracturing my cheekbone. I still couldn't prove that Sam was behind it though.
I began to believe that I was at fault all the time. I began to cut my arm if I got frustrated. The world was hurting me, but it didn't show. I thought that by cutting my arms to shreds I would be giving myself something to be in pain for. Every time I looked at the scabs on my arms I felt better. Each time I re-opened a wound I felt relief. Seeing the blood seep from the cut and trickle down my arm made me feel good. This only went on for a couple of weeks though - one of my cuts got infected which brought me to my senses. By self-harming I wasn't hurting anyone but myself - and my Mum if she'd have ever found out.
I've never really talked to a doctor about this. I think if I had of done that I might have coped better. Instead I bottled it all up and have tried to forget, but now I know I am going to be made to re-live those months as part of my therapy. I'm not proud of anything, yet after everything that has happened I don't exactly regret meeting Sam either. In a way those months that I knew him have added to my character today and strangely for that I am grateful.
Thank you for listening.