It was ridiculous,
what traumatized me for the first time. She probably sacrificed my soul, that
mean girl from the fourth grade who made me her target the moment she laid eyes
on me. At my new school on the first day.
"I am prettier
than you." She would remind me repeatedly in the same day before ditching me,
to proceed to verbally bully me to the worst extent I had experienced in my
life. For weeks. It was her prerogative to destroy me. And that she did.
It didn't take long
for the after effects of being mentally bullied by a classroom of paperbag
fuckwads and verbally torn up by a sociopath to come to be. I couldn't fucking
talk. I couldn't reach out to anyone; I could read them easily. They wanted
nothing to do with me. I managed to befriend a kind outcast. But what was taken
from me, I never got back. My charisma, gone. My confidence, no longer known to
a single soul. My personality, flattened and retarded by overbearing anxiety
and social phobia.
What a rush, it
must have been, reducing me to into a hermit as though performing a magic
trick. Let me tell you the God honest truth. Things don't get better. You
remain a freak.
I tried to heal
myself through many things but nothing undid the social phobia. Not even
medication. People are a fucking threat to me, no matter who. You know what is
the worst thing to admit? I miss being in those moments of deep pain. Being
provoked into feeling. Being shocked. Dying inside. All at the same time.
I take such
moments of self-awareness to furthermore ask myself what in God is wrong with
me.
Years later, I
would find myself a hardcore pain addict. A masochist of some sort. I grew up estranged
from my own emotions. Yet when I learned to self harm, it came of use in
moments I did in fact feel. Negatively, of course.
The first time I
cut myself, I used scissors. I stood in the hallway during lunch sawing at my
wrist until I saw a hint of blood. It burned. I thought of the moment the class
laughed at me for someone threw a water bottle at my head and fake apologized,
grinning. Worst yet I had crushed on that individual for three whole years. I
was such a loser.
And I amounted to
never changing that. Things didn't improve, really. I continued to let people
hurt me. Better cutting methods took forever to realize they existed. But it
was the nearly successful suicide attempt at eighteen that made me most proud
of myself. The dose makes the poison, and it was nice to know I could die
whenever I wanted from simply ingesting too much of what was said to be
essential for survival. I am nothing but passionate enough in my cause to be a
danger to myself.
Such talent for
daring to dream.
It was ridiculous,
what traumatized me for the first time. She probably sacrificed my soul, that
mean girl from the fourth grade who made me her target the moment she laid eyes
on me. At my new school on the first day.
"I am prettier
than you." She would remind me repeatedly in the same day before ditching me,
to proceed to verbally bully me to the worst extent I had experienced in my
life. For weeks. It was her prerogative to destroy me. And that she did.
It didn't take long
for the after effects of being mentally bullied by a classroom of paperbag
fuckwads and verbally torn up by a sociopath to come to be. I couldn't fucking
talk. I couldn't reach out to anyone; I could read them easily. They wanted
nothing to do with me. I managed to befriend a kind outcast. But what was taken
from me, I never got back. My charisma, gone. My confidence, no longer known to
a single soul. My personality, flattened and retarded by overbearing anxiety
and social phobia.
What a rush, it
must have been, reducing me to into a hermit as though performing a magic
trick. Let me tell you the God honest truth. Things don't get better. You
remain a freak.
I tried to heal
myself through many things but nothing undid the social phobia. Not even
medication. People are a fucking threat to me, no matter who. You know what is
the worst thing to admit? I miss being in those moments of deep pain. Being
provoked into feeling. Being shocked. Dying inside. All at the same time.
I take such
moments of self-awareness to furthermore ask myself what in God is wrong with
me.
Years later, I
would find myself a hardcore pain addict. A masochist of some sort. I grew up estranged
from my own emotions. Yet when I learned to self harm, it came of use in
moments I did in fact feel. Negatively, of course.
The first time I
cut myself, I used scissors. I stood in the hallway during lunch sawing at my
wrist until I saw a hint of blood. It burned. I thought of the moment the class
laughed at me for someone threw a water bottle at my head and fake apologized,
grinning. Worst yet I had crushed on that individual for three whole years. I
was such a loser.
And I amounted to
never changing that. Things didn't improve, really. I continued to let people
hurt me. Better cutting methods took forever to realize they existed. But it
was the nearly successful suicide attempt at eighteen that made me most proud
of myself. The dose makes the poison, and it was nice to know I could die
whenever I wanted from simply ingesting too much of what was said to be
essential for survival. I am nothing but passionate enough in my cause to be a
danger to myself.
Such talent for
daring to dream.