This story is just that, a story, but should none the less be taken VERY seriously. It’s Copyright 2002, by ME (JulieChristine) and was inspired by events in my own, and the lives of others I know. All charecters in this story are completely fictional, as are the events described herein.

 

Sanctuary

by JulieChristine

 

Everything began several years ago.

When I first started doing it, I was feeling really down after having watched an episode of Jerry Springer where they were really down on transsexuals, and having lived most my life feeling like I was trapped in the wrong body, it really hurt me.

I was feeling like a freak. I was feeling like no one in the world would ever be able to understand the true me and that all I would be able to amount to was nothing more than a glorified circus freak.

After the Jerry Springer episode, I had turned the channel to Oprah. I don’t know why I watched these shows. I have long since come to realize that they are not real, and they don’t show the true issues behind many of the "subjects" that they tend to highlight. But today, on Oprah, they were talking about web sites that promoted anorexia, and how it was a place where these girls would go and trade stories on how to "starve" themselves.

One of the girls that was pro the web sites made a statement that stuck with me "When talking to others at the site, we all feel accepted. No one there is going to ridicule us, no one is going to be down on us. We don’t enter your church and talk down of GOD, So PLEASE leave our sanctuary alone."

Why did this stick with me? Because I wanted a place like this for myself. I wanted a place where I could go to talk about my problems. Where no one would look down on me. I wanted a "sanctuary" of my own.

After having a long cry, in my room, unnoticed by my parents who were too involved in their own "happenings" to notice, I walked downstairs to the main bath, turned on the hot water in the sink, put the stopper in the bathtub drain, then turned on the water in the bathtub. While it was a bit warmer than usual, I didn’t want to scald myself, I undressed leaving my clothes folded neatly folded on top of the radiator cover, and stepped gently into the now half-full bathtub.

I felt the warmth surround my body as I laid down, grabbing my father’s old straight razor from the accessory shelf that was part of the wall. I opened up the razor, so the blade was exposed from it’s leather sheath and began to contemplate my actions.

I was raised Catholic, and new that doing this was a sin and I definitely wouldn’t be going to heaven for it, but at the same time, I was living in sin with my own feelings, and thoughts that the lord may have actually messed up, and that I had been born in the wrong body.

I began to cry again, the soft wet tears caressing my face to combine with the water in the now full bathtub. I turned off the water, cold spout first (so that there would be an extra jet of warmth) and then laid my head back and started to draw the blade across my arm.

I didn’t start at the writs, I started cutting on the upper forearm, drawing across, instead of lengthwise.

I knew that wasn’t the correct place, or the correct way to get the job down, but I figured if I started there, it would help me build up the strength I needed to make the final blow.

The incisions started light, and got deeper as I got further down the arm. The only complication was that once I was nearer the area where I was to make the final incision, I wasn’t in the same mood as I was before.

I had a physical pain, to match the hurt within me. There was something more than the hurt inside. Something masking the true hurt, but I was bleeding.

I stained 2 towels trying to stop the bleeding, and was VERY careful when going back to my room to hide the towels and not run into anyone on my way. I made it to my room, locked my door using the make-shift lock I managed to create using a hook and eye type configuration, and went over to my bed to examine my wounds.

When my eyes cleared, I noticed that the wounds weren’t as bad as I thought they had been and I went into my closet, opened the top drawer of my old dresser where I kept my baseball card binders, and took the 2 on the right, and stacked them on the left revealing my secret stash. I didn’t have much, but what I did I cherished deeply.

There was my white satin bra, the white satin panties, my lace baby-doll nightie, and a pair of pink slippers.

It had taken me a long time to get the courage to go into the local Target and buy those things. Of course I didn’t do it all at once. First I bought the bra and panty set, then the nightie, and then the pink slippers. It seemed to put me at ease from time to time when I would take them out and go to bed wearing them, and I figured that tonight would probably be a good night to feel at ease.

After getting ready for bed, I decided that night to go searching on the net and check out some of those sites that they were talking about on Oprah.

It took me a bit of searching, but after a while, I found a few sites on Yahoo, and created a new personality. With my new personality, I was able to blend in with all the other "girls" there. The problem was, I didn’t have the same problems as them, and I found myself trying to fit in with a bunch of girls that had totally different problems than I did.

Every time I logged in and started chatting with them, I found myself inventing all kinds of new situations, and things I had done to try to fit in. And while I was accepted, I knew I really didn’t belong.

I continued to chat there and a few other "ana" sites for a while, but found I needed something else.

I continued to cut myself. Usually with the pocket knife my dad had given me for my Birthday. It was a Buck Knife, lock-knife, with a REALLY sharp non serrated edge, and I always took time to clean it off. When my dad gave it to me, I was afraid that he was going to make me go camping with him.

While I didn’t mind camping, and I really would have loved to spend more time with my dad, he was big on hunting and I just couldn’t stomach that. But that wasn’t something that I need worry about this time. He didn’t pay me anymore attention than he normally did, and I later found out that someone had given him the knife as a present, but he already had a better one and decided to give it to me.

II always kept the knife sharp, I always made sure to keep it clean and I even polished it whenever I felt it was necessary. But most important of all, I ALWAYS kept my knife under my pillow.

I wasn’t scared that someone would come into my room and I would have to protect myself, I just needed it to be there so that I could cover that hollow void inside, I needed the pain.

After doing some more searches, I found another site. This place was devoted to stories about boys that wanted to be girls, or boys that were forcibly changed into girls, or girls that wanted to be boys and things like that. But beyond that, there was a community there. People chatted and contributed and it seemed like a genuinely caring place.

At first I started peeking in from time to time. I was playing very shy as I didn’t want to give anyone any ammunition to fire against me if I was wrong about this place.

As time went on, I started to feel as if I REALLY fit in, but I still found myself trying harder and harder to make friends. First it started with me writing a story, and then I started to write more stories, but instead of posting them as stories, I incorporated them into my life.

The harder and harder I tried, the deeper and deeper I buried myself. I tried continuously to dig myself out, but always seemed to dig myself deeper.

I began coming into chats under other assumed identities, and I started to see that everyone had seen through my stories, but no one had seen the real me. The hurt inside.

 

As time passed by, I began to cope with this, but I continued to create more elaborate stories, and more and more cuts on my arms.

I didn’t know what to do. I ran out of thing to say.

As I sit here, I am beginning to feel sleepy and I can feel the pills taking effect.

As you red this mom, It’ll be to late for me, but with luck my story will help save others, and my death will not be in vain.

I don’t blame you, or dad, and I don’t blame anyone other than myself. If you want to honor my life, then please share the story of my death.

Love eternally,

your daughter.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by JulieChristine. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.