Author has written 7 stories for General, Sci-Fi, Young Adult, General, and Fantasy.\I suppose since I'm sixteen now, I should update this.
God, I hate writing these things.
Okay. I'm sixteen, female, live in Israel. I like girls. I like guys, as long as they're not anywhere near me. This is probably due to being raped. The first time I was raped was age fifteen, December 4th, by a guy who was probably about fifty. I had never previously even been kissed, so... suddenly blowing a guy was rather traumatic. The second rape was only four days later, by another man about the same age as the first. Him I reported to the police... so far they've done nothing. Third rape was by a twenty-year-old, the youngest man to ever fuck me. I managed to get away from him, eventually... AFTER he'd already done the deed. And I didn't get the nerve to stab him, either. Bleh. Fourth incident was, for a change, molestation instead of rape, also in March.
My only pleasant experience was kissing a girl. No tongue, just a light kiss on the lips. It was lovely. Mmm. Yeah. I'm such a horny hormonal dyke. Must get a girlfriend. Or several. I'm polyamorous. That means that I am able to romantically love many people, instead of one. It's not actually that pleasant. As I'm writing this, I'm in love with two people - and trust me, I don't define something as love very easily - and have serious infatuations with about another half-dozen girls.
I've had a rather... unpleasant childhood. I became depressed at the age of nine. No idea why. Possibly because I was sexually abused at the time, but I have only dim memories of that, which might not even be real. Anyway, got depressed. Doesn't matter why. I started cutting myself at aged twelve. Cutting my breasts and hips - classic sign of childhood abuse. No one knew, though. I was extremely good at hiding my depression.
I 'came out' at age fourteen. My parents were wonderful. I went to a psychiatrist and a psychologist for two weeks, then I had a breakdown and was sent to the loony bin. I was there for four months. To put it mildly, it was hell. I attempted suicide there. Hung myself. I nearly died before some poor girl walked in on me. Unpleasant experience. One week later, my parents found a shrink who was willing to take me on. They took me out of the hospital (as pretty much every psychiatrist and psychologist in the country screamed at them to put me back in).
Sometime during the hospital, I'd begun to develop an eating disorder. Anorexia and then bulimia and now a pleasant state called ED-nos. Meaning, I'm too fat to be anorexic, but I don't eat enough to be bulimic.
So. I'm sixteen. I have a lovely family. Two loving parents, five little siblings. I have very few friends, due to social phobia. I dissociate. I am clinically chronically depressed. I self-injure, both mentally (by deliberately triggering myself, or taking extreme risks), and physically (cutting and burning). I have PTSD. I'm extremely phobic of men. Most days I can't get out of bed.
Yet I still find time for random ramblings online. Wheeee.
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