Posted by Anonymous on 2019/08/06 under Family I was always… different.
The looks people gave me, the things I felt, I imagined, I saw, I craved… I assumed it was normal. When I realized I was different, rather than deal with the fact something was wrong with me, I decided it simply meant I was destined for greatness and that I could do no wrong. I was always so confused when people told me what I did was wrong. I could’ve ignored these things I saw and felt, or stopped at any time, but I didn’t. I clearly showed everyone all of me , and I was ostracized for it. I was always extremely sensitive, taking everything in a serious, literal manner, and while I tried to ignore the bullying, I lost. After being belittled so many times, I just… snapped. All my dreams left me, I stopped trying at things, and I quit whenever I was faced with an obstacle. I was raised by a Catholic family, and there was a lot of pressure to be what the Bible defined as good. I never really understood it, but I blindly tried follow it, desperate to have someone love me, even as my views grew more warped. My mother was fascinated with angels, so I tried to become one, even though to them I was clearly no angel and never would be. My family had an unstable relationship, to say the least, one day I wanted to kill them, the next I loved them very much. Me, being a brat, and them, being unrelenting and strict, only spoke disaster. Our extended family was filled with divorce, abuse, murder, addiction, betrayal, riches, and of course genius. I think there were times both my parents and I forgot I was still a little kid. I was punished a lot, hours locked in my room, sometimes being allowed to use the restroom, sometimes not, my creativity shone as I played with whatever I could get my hands on until my mother let me out. Either that or she’d spank me or grip my arm with her nails or take away TV privileges. My father… was quiet most of the time, too quiet. When he wasn’t busy with work, he was out golfing, whether it was a birthday or a holiday or whatever. When he yelled, it scared me more than anything my mother ever did. He called my sister and I terrible names like b**** multiple times whenever she complained too much, which had always scared me because it made me feel like I had to be perfect or they’d belittle me too. Anyway, otherwise my sister was the golden child, everyone had always loved her, she was the special one, the pretty one, the popular one, talented in sports and school, while I was just a shadow to her. Days we would fight like cats and dogs, other times we would fight to kill, other times we just snuggled with each other and actually got along. With the distance between us now, I almost wish it was like it was back then. My stepfather… I never knew him, but I wanted to, even though he supposedly abused my mom. Same with my halfbrother, who had left to work at a car dealership after a fight with my dad. My cousin Sophia I loved dearly, along with a few other people, mainly adults, we drifted apart. My grandparents were the only one who cared… hours spent in front of the TV, eating ice cream and apples and oatmeal cookies, playing restaurant with my sister while tackling my grandpa and snuggling into his back, racing around in the yard, tugging on the plants and jumping on the rocks. Egg hunting at Easter, trick or treating on Halloween, fancy meals and cool decorations on Christmas, viewing his model train stations and towns and toy vehicles and wooden planes. We only had one bad moment- when my grandfather shoved my sister into me and I fell onto a Christmas decoration, and we were the ones who got in trouble. I had a dream of his grave, and shortly later he was diagnosed with cancer. Dream in mind, I still didn’t approach him when he was alive… I was scared. Nancy, who had fed me cookies and bought me toys, also died of cancer. Watching her fight it for years, as I played with her cat and took care of her horses, feeding them and changing their hay, and not even feeling sad when she died… I felt sad when he died all right, but it was mixed with guilt. I knew he would die, and yet I didn’t reach out to him, I caused him to die. It should’ve been me. Out of guilt, when my grandmother was put in a nursing home, I visited her regularly, smiling at all the other people living there, even celebrating her birthday with her. There were good memories sprinkled through this, yes, relaxing on a hammock, being chased by a dog, getting caught in the Cape Cod Current, playing in the bamboo infested yard, kicking off our shoes as we swung on the swings, tilting our heads down and laughing as we looked at the sky, finding a dark patch of grass that was star shaped and me being convinced it could teleport me somewhere else, crazy vanilla ice cream, Awfuls Awfuls, Allies Doughnuts, homemade cupcakes, Wright's Farm restaurant and bakery, Sundae’s ice cream parlor, butterflies, getting my hair dyed, fancy weddings, restaurants, all sorts of toys and movies, apple picking, fall leaves, snow, playing in it and creating so many worlds down a slide, bonfires, tree swings, Spongebob, a rose by the window and cats. Despite the ants, despite the lack of friends, I loved the fairytale forest and jungle I lived in, and was sad to move, but covered it with a smile like everything else in life, even if it was an obviously bitter one. No matter what I did, however degrading, I still wasn’t accepted. More taunts were thrown my way, more rumours thrown at me that I had to play the part of or else reveal my sister to be a liar as things at home got worse. More fights over silly things, more pressure to do well in school , more teasing about my weight and my phobias, even how I used a spoon instead of a fork for rice. But if I hadn’t said one immature sentence I’ve would’ve stayed, and probably died, an angel. I was convinced I was possessed by a demon, and bit at and punched and clawed my skin, and if it wasn’t for some great people and a spark of hope, I would’ve killed myself. But now I was still in my s***ty life, left with an empty hole where my emotions were, feeling nothing but love for the people who loved me and hate towards anyone else. I wanted to kill my parents for what they did to me, and I probably would’ve if I hadn’t stopped myself. I verbally abused them, lashing out and picking fights, stabbing and cutting stuffed animals to hold my anger, feeling my mind slowly chip away into insanity. I managed to stop such toxic behaviours, but I was still miserable, and suffered greatly.Anorexia. Autism. Depression. Anger Issues. Social Anxiety. Gender Dysphoria. Things with my parents patched up, even though as they started fighting with each other, sometimes about me, as my sister became what I had become before- a depressed monster. Lashing out, pushing us back, I tried reaching out, but nothing has worked. I have no self identity, while I cry over terrible things that happen to people I don’t feel any strong connection to them, my emotions are either too strong or just not there, and so I eventually just snapped. I crave the sweet taste of blood and pain, and I have urges to destroy everything, I want to hurt and get hurt. I fight against them of course, but just like my sanity, who knows how much longer it will hold. I only ever wanted to be loved and to help people, but that failed worse than my hopes and dreams. On the bright side, I don’t want to die anymore, and without all those people who helped me along the way, I never would’ve made it this far. The gift of foresight I had went away, but who knows what might develop now. At least I still get to view pretty things- drugs, fireflies, early morning sunrise, airplanes leaving clouds, a campfire crackling, dark nights with pumping music, dark sunsets, meteor showers.
2 thoughts on “The Truth”
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Just wow!
is this a book?
I understand. I think and feel this way you think and feel. I want to be your friend and please accept me.