Endlessly
Corrupted Innocent
- Joined
- Dec 26, 1999
- Posts
- 1,267
Hmmmm, I've been avoiding this thread for a reason. But.. I don't know. You don't have to read if you don't want to-- a part of me would prefer you didn't-- but thanks to the quasi-anonymity this forum provides, I think it's time I spill my guts.
I skipped sixth grade and went straight to junior high, not because my grades were so excellent, but because they were the only things more miserable than me. I'd get low marks because I'd sit in the back of the room and read, and the teacher actually said in one of the parent-teacher-principal conferences that there was nothing more she could teach me. In the meantime I was mocked, beaten up, ridiculed, hated.. But at least I had my friends, this group of girls who kept me around to tease and who used to break into my house and ransack my room after locking my door so I couldn't get in.
Skipping a grade was supposed to get me away from all that, but it didn't. I don't know who was worse; them, or the class I was put into.
In 7th grade my brother died, and the father I knew died with him. My father became cold, standoffish, angry and abusive-- not physically, mind you, unless you count the time he took my dead brother's straight-razor and held it to my neck. As a joke, he said, and sent me to my room for ruining our 'fun'. I thought he was going to kill me, honest to god, and to this day I'm surprised he didn't. I was in the throes of puberty-- overweight, awkward, and alone-- and it was then my manic-depression (as of then undiagnosed) began to surface.
Eighth grade really took the cake though. I started flashing back to sexual abuse when I was six, and my schoolmates were even worse to me. A kid spit chewed-up carrot in my hair; another started a petition to try to get me to kill myself, and got over 100 signatures. Everyone knew I was suicidal, except for the people who should have-- my parents suspected nothing, and neither did my councellor, even after a rough draft of a suicide note was confiscated from me and he talked to me about it. As long as it wasn't with my peers, I was a charmer.
What people DIDN'T know, however, is probably one of my best-kept secrets. It's been called borderline skitzophrenia, dissociative identity disorder.. but the thing that 'feels' the most correct that I've heard it called was demonic possession. At the time I was heavily involved in the darker side of the occult, trying to gain some control over my life, and I had a talent for it.
(Not to mention an altar, a ceremonial dagger, verything I needed for my ceremonies, and my parents still didn't get it. My father was bitter and my mother was gambling and I was getting driven insane by three nephews who wouldn't leave me be and a sister who thought she was my mother.)
I felt this presence in my brain, this entity. It had a name, it controlled my faculties.. I'd be thinking about something so obsessively that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.. And I'd not know what it was I was thinking about.
I eventually tried to kill myself to silence the voices in my head. Two and a half bottles of my dad's diabetes medicine. Three days in the hospital. My father was incensed-- first thing he demanded of me was "What will the people at my work think?" and the second thing was that he ordered me to tell everyone it was food poisoning.
One day in the hospital, I felt whatever was inside me leave.. But it felt like everything good and pure and right inside me was burned away clean. No ash, just smooth walls of scar tissue where my soul was. I was 'saved' for two and a half years before I began to suspect I had a soul at all any more.. I served God out of regret for destroying the one good thing he gives people like me. I serve him now out of joy for his love.
I still have nightmares, problems with my father, and occasionally hear an echo of a voice trying to get inside my brain. I don't know what any of that made me in middle school, besides one fucked up little kid.
I skipped sixth grade and went straight to junior high, not because my grades were so excellent, but because they were the only things more miserable than me. I'd get low marks because I'd sit in the back of the room and read, and the teacher actually said in one of the parent-teacher-principal conferences that there was nothing more she could teach me. In the meantime I was mocked, beaten up, ridiculed, hated.. But at least I had my friends, this group of girls who kept me around to tease and who used to break into my house and ransack my room after locking my door so I couldn't get in.
Skipping a grade was supposed to get me away from all that, but it didn't. I don't know who was worse; them, or the class I was put into.
In 7th grade my brother died, and the father I knew died with him. My father became cold, standoffish, angry and abusive-- not physically, mind you, unless you count the time he took my dead brother's straight-razor and held it to my neck. As a joke, he said, and sent me to my room for ruining our 'fun'. I thought he was going to kill me, honest to god, and to this day I'm surprised he didn't. I was in the throes of puberty-- overweight, awkward, and alone-- and it was then my manic-depression (as of then undiagnosed) began to surface.
Eighth grade really took the cake though. I started flashing back to sexual abuse when I was six, and my schoolmates were even worse to me. A kid spit chewed-up carrot in my hair; another started a petition to try to get me to kill myself, and got over 100 signatures. Everyone knew I was suicidal, except for the people who should have-- my parents suspected nothing, and neither did my councellor, even after a rough draft of a suicide note was confiscated from me and he talked to me about it. As long as it wasn't with my peers, I was a charmer.
What people DIDN'T know, however, is probably one of my best-kept secrets. It's been called borderline skitzophrenia, dissociative identity disorder.. but the thing that 'feels' the most correct that I've heard it called was demonic possession. At the time I was heavily involved in the darker side of the occult, trying to gain some control over my life, and I had a talent for it.
(Not to mention an altar, a ceremonial dagger, verything I needed for my ceremonies, and my parents still didn't get it. My father was bitter and my mother was gambling and I was getting driven insane by three nephews who wouldn't leave me be and a sister who thought she was my mother.)
I felt this presence in my brain, this entity. It had a name, it controlled my faculties.. I'd be thinking about something so obsessively that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.. And I'd not know what it was I was thinking about.
I eventually tried to kill myself to silence the voices in my head. Two and a half bottles of my dad's diabetes medicine. Three days in the hospital. My father was incensed-- first thing he demanded of me was "What will the people at my work think?" and the second thing was that he ordered me to tell everyone it was food poisoning.
One day in the hospital, I felt whatever was inside me leave.. But it felt like everything good and pure and right inside me was burned away clean. No ash, just smooth walls of scar tissue where my soul was. I was 'saved' for two and a half years before I began to suspect I had a soul at all any more.. I served God out of regret for destroying the one good thing he gives people like me. I serve him now out of joy for his love.
I still have nightmares, problems with my father, and occasionally hear an echo of a voice trying to get inside my brain. I don't know what any of that made me in middle school, besides one fucked up little kid.
