Story #36

Where really to start is the question....most of the time people tell stories when it's raining or when there is a general depression in the air. Though I might be wrong about that, since I'm telling this stupid tale right during a happy summer day. Oh well I always go against the odds. I am 14 years old though I must admit I forget. I wasn't sexually abused and I might of been neglected as a child but I have no idea mostly because I refuse to tell anyone that I have a problem. In fact I'm always the good girl, really. Always the one no one suspects or believes when I get in trouble.


My mother was 18 years old when she had me and my father was the same age. They were happy until my mother started treating him badly and my father left me and my mother. He had to get away from her and I don't blame him and I know he probably didn't take me with him because it would be hard to take me from a family that he thought might love me or appeared to care. My mother partied and I sat at home with various family members who took care of me. In essence my family reminds me of what people view animals to be like. They care on some primitive level that they will take care of their young but nothing else. I was a quiet fat little baby who was smart but little did they know or care to try to try to teach me at an advanced level. I possibly could of been smarter than what I am now but a dream is a stupid reason to be upset with your family but I still am angry with them for that. After my mother finally settled down into life she began trying to knock some sense into my head. I was a very bad child and I have a feeling I would of grown up a horror if she hadn't done the things she did. She used to hit me when I brought home bad grades from my pre-school, first grade, second, third, fourth, fifth and before that when I was bad. I still remember that time I sat there singing to myself trying to stop crying in front of her because she beat me so hard that I couldn't stop crying and because I had done something what I can't remember. Oh, by the way if you're wondering she never left bruises or anything that would show up. Oh no, she knew better than that. I at one point wanted to tell someone what she was doing when I was younger but she kept telling me "Do you want me to loose you?!" and then it was followed by a slap or being hit. She always hated how I cried afterwards and usually would hit me just because she felt she had to give me something to cry about.


My school life was no better. My friends all suffered from depression because of the stress of school life and at home. I never wanted to go to the school my mother sent me to. It was called Corpus Christi it meant something like body and blood of Christ. I still wonder if that was fate or doom that it felt that the name of my horror would have to do with God...I never let anything go and I was never happy at school with those people. When my friends invited me to their houses I couldn't go because of the fact that they lived so far out and they eventually stopped inviting me which hurt. My grades were horrible because I was so depressed and oddly enough no one challenged my brain. I understood everything they taught me on some level and somehow I knew they were all horrible teachers who didn't teach anyone anything. 


They told my mother I seemed depressed and that I should see somebody. My mother didn't have the money and thought it was stupid and I was just lazy. I suppose I was and she also got on me because of my weight. I always was fat and my mother tried to apply theories she saw on TV to try to 'fix' me. They never worked. At that point I became so faithful to her because of fear, I started hearing her call me when she wasn't. My mother encouraged this 'new' me and I stooped to lying and hiding my grades. Now I've become such a good liar to her that she probably can't tell when I do lie or when I don't say anything to her. I tell her the truth a lot because she hates liars and I am a liar.


Finally I got out of Corpus Christi because my grades were so low that my mother wanted me to try a public school. It was Timberlane and they told me to see the school counselor. My mother finally noticed I was depressed but I couldn't tell them what was going on because if I did I would of been caught at home. So I told them little things and finally the year was over and I was free. 


I went to Luther Jackson where I met the people who are the closest things I have to friends and I finally met my second side who was always a part of me and we were just so one that it was hard to tell us apart. It's name was Doom and it has been the nearest thing to a friend I've ever had. It's always there and it needs me and I love that feeling of being loved by something even if it was the existence of that little bit everyone that know their going to die or the fact that the world is going to eventually go up and well we could go on forever. I found out that I was a sadist and that I, well, always hated people. Everyone asks why I say that because I'm people, but I'm not. I'm one of the few people who isn't a person, I'm just me. I don't like the human race because I know that all my pain comes from them but I also know that somehow I don't want them destroyed or at least so dead they can ignore my pain. I want them to feel my pain. I asked them to listen to me but no one ever does they always assume I'm just a mean person and that nothing is wrong with me. 


Doom has been the only thing stopping me from probably doing more damage to myself. It was Doom that finally made me take a test on myself to see what mental disorder I had. I did take a test on-line and out of three times I always came back Schizo and BPD. No other disorder just those and I'm not going to a professional because that would mean being drugged and Doom doesn't like drugs, they scare it and I know they are addictive. Doom probably could be considered that little voice in my head but I also know that I talk to myself a lot never out loud because that would mean I have a problem. Doom is currently sleeping in my pain and writhing in it's own. I introduced it to my friends and they didn't see the point to it and they wanted nothing to do with it. Doom is a wreck because of that and I want it to feel better. It's the only thing that takes care of me when I feel bad and I have to tell someone, it forces me to. It had never hurt me and it laughs at the examples of it being a figure of my imagination. It's not going anywhere and I know that but I can't stand the pain it brings but it also brings love and some hope. My friends hate it and I've been told I have BPD and I'm a Schizo, there is nothing either of us can do to help each other and the pain bottled up through the ages of trying to keep myself happy enough not to be caught are going to eventually catch up with us but hopefully I can stab them off until I'm dead and if there is an afterlife I'll have plenty of time to think about my actions, heaven or hell.


Just recently I have noticed that my friends aren't my friends and I don't know why I even bother but I want to help them. My friend Lauren yells at me for being so self absorbed and saying bad stuff about myself. I don't know why but I've thought about suicide several times but I always am rational enough to not continue with it. I have many ways of doing it as well because no one knows what I am, how much pain I'm in or about how Doom feels and how they've treated me. There are so many knives in my house and I'm pretty good with a blade....I already have scars on my hand. They're from my favorite knife and so small they look like paper cuts but they're not and I'm pleased by them and I wish they were bleeding and I'm not done yet. I have decided to make them into a design. Which also might make me a masochist. Either way whether I have BPD and Schizo or not, I had to tell someone and since I have all the symptoms of BPD and Schizo I thought I'd write my story down.