Give it time.
I think I need to tell you what I can before I ask what I'm going to.
But I think I've blocked all the banners on Jow Forums, ended up on this board in the process, and I think it's time.
It probably won't be understood. But it's like the lyrics from that one song: I will spit until I learn how to speak.
Other urls found in this thread:
wrongfuldeathinstitute.com
twitter.com
I'll set a couple of rules first:
*I will reply to my earlier posts to explain something I came to realize afterwords. The gap could be anywhere from years to decades.
*You can ask questions in between my posts, before I get to my own question. But I'll only answer as best I can, and in between what I'm telling you.
I have to start with my parents, before myself.
The shortest end of it is my mother.
German bloodline, her generation was perhaps the 3rd or 4th. Her father was the best thing in her life. Her mother was a teacher that couldn't teach her. She was too ugly about the basic housewife work like sewing or cooking. So she never really learned those things on her own. My father did the cooking for the three of us. Her mother would slap her from time to time because she wanted her hair short. I think she was always treated like the least favorite of her 3 daughters. A cousin had raped her, growing up. She had to let him have "sex" he said he'd tell everyone otherwise. Never told anyone. I think even back then, she just wanted to make everyone happy and be just like her mother. A good housewife. Barefoot, pregnant, that typical 1950's idea of what a woman ought to be. Never really wanted a job, but she took them... Didn't want to work, but she had to. Always blamed feminism for that, like it was some kind of bad thing. Even then... She was still counter-culture. She was freak movement, and it never sat well with the rest of her family. Trying to be some hipster, admiring James Dean, listening to the beatles, that whole thing... But I think she still tried to force her own way on her first husband. Trying to make him accept this housewife thing when he wanted a liberated woman. And this was back in the 60s anyway. It was out of date to stay at home, even if she was with the times in most other ways. He didn't want that. He wanted the whole package. She blamed herself for her father having a stroke in front of her at the hospital. Telling him that she and her husband were getting a divorce. Even if she tried to tell herself otherwise, it was still convincing she killed the man she grew up looking up to. Blamed herself.
Bump for interest
I was getting connection errors and moved my posting to trash... Let me test this
And she had self-harmed, before, burning herself with matches, but... She didn't think she had the courage I think. To have real harm come to her, like she deserved. But she found another man, after her first husband... At some point, far later on in their relationship, he almost said he got raped in a park, growing up in new jersey, by some old man he trusted. But he didn't get all out. He probably would have killed her, if he knew she pieced as much together as she did. I'm saying that, when she never told me as much, because she thinks he killed other women. But she wanted it taken out on her, killing her father, getting divorced, not being the woman he wanted or the one anyone in the family ever appreciated. They married. That was her second husband. Some wife beater taking out child molestation on her. On everything around them. They had a trailer out in the middle of nowhere. She didn't know enough about cars to undo the fact he'd sabotage her only way out of there, to keep her there. My brother is only half brother. The timeline is fuzzy, never got explained to me... But I think sometime before getting pregnant, when she was still barefoot and beaten, her 2nd husband tried to whore her out to a buddy for some meth. It didn't go through though. Then there was the time her cat killed his parrot and... He tied it up with wire by each leg and strung it up inside a filing cabinet left out in the summer. And then there was that time after she had my brother, that she tried to keep him from going after him, and it ended with her being thrown into the fridge's door handle that broke her shoulder. So yeah, however much she wanted to be punished for losing her father, her first husband... She was getting so much of it from a man that got raped as a kid, it started being too much for her to appreciate. Sometime before she fled to someone else with my brother, she had met him at a concert I think. Or they just happened to be there.
Either that, or she knew him through friends, but... That's who she ran to. My father. His own enlisted the day after pearl harbor, but the army didn't figure out he lied about how old he was until after the fact. So he got stuck with office jobs... Not sure how he met his mother, but she was secret service. That was somehow a thing in the 40s. A female secret service agent that hated FDR for partying so long, a soldier fell asleep on the railroad tracks when his train finally passed by. She went on from secret service to working at some detective level for the city police. My father's single action army was the one she bought from a pawnshop to carry in her purse. Well, anyway... My grandfather was english / french and came from a family that had gradually lost all it's wealth on things like horse races or selling off land. They used to own the entire area I grew up. And my grandfather was the kind to gift land to newlyweds, not get the rights to any of the land next to where the highway was being built... But he had a country store. Some other family was better off leasing their land to the post office that eventually popped up. My father never accepted how his own just gave everything away he could. But he looked up to him. He'd beat him like every other father would beat his sun, had him spend a whole summer from 4am to hours after sundown, pulling sunflowers out of a field without any gloves, but... That was character building or something. He worshipped my grandfather like god. Like he was the holy trinity all in one body, and he'd give anything to him... And probably because his mother never once said she loved him. She treated him like the afterbirth that she had to live with to have her perfect, precious, spoiled rotten daughter that tried to kill him when he was just 3. Bashing a brick over his head and leaving him to come back home on his own.
She got away with everything, from never once working at the store, to stealing sometimes, to... Running away at age 14 and coming back a few weeks later with a 20 something ( or 30 something ) and demanding a dowry so they could marry and never come back. You know... Which my grandfather gave, because his wife demanded it, because anything for the one child she ever wanted. But my father stuck around, did every last thing ever expected and wasn't asked. From age 6 he was already taking care of all the plumbing, the electrical, woodwork around the house, fixing the cars and tractors, shooting and butchering pigs for his father's store, just... The fucking everything. Every last thing around the house to make his father proud, if his mother was never gonna even say she loved him. And he still got beat, like from that time when he was still little, and threw a bottle rocket into my aunt's head so perfectly it blew a pigtail off ... But at least he did everything he could for his father. His god. The only problem was, he wanted his son to be a banker. Or a lawyer. Something that was honest, back then. But he still allowed my father to try to be a doctor, instead. Went to college for a phd, even if the principal of the highschool his own father funded the building of erased all his valedictorian honored papers off the map, he still went to college... And then he died. My Grandfather, so suddenly from some kind of cancer, it just hit my father all in one go...His whole life was his father that had already sold the store and burned the books with all the debts poor customers had, the lot of it. He just died. And the only suit he could find in time for the funeral was tacky bright polyster print. That was it. His whole life. His father. Everything he looked up to and did everything for just suddenly gone. So he dropped out of college a few weeks before graduation with multiple degrees just gone because he couldn't live with it. So he withdrew. Got depressed.
I'll get back to the rest of him later, but... My mother came to him, and she had to get away from her second husband just to make sure her son didn't end up beaten or killed. And he went with it. Because of course. It's not like she was ever gonna tell the hospital anything besides "I slipped and fell". He had always done every job he could but it was a recession, and the only work was in the oil fields. She ended up at an insurance company and the compound was huge. Bigger than the kennedy space center, pentagon and whitehouse combined. It was secure. It was supposed to be. But her second husband's family had someone that worked there. And she came back to her car one day in the garage with a note he left. So they fled about an hour and a half away for some time. Just to make sure her exhusband had too much distance to cover. It was some time between moving from one apartment to the other that she, or him, lost the one thing my grandfather left him in the will. This 16 gauge shotgun that was all he had. At some point, I don't how this works, but she forced him into getting married. Something like signing the documents without him. But they were fine, for awhile. Even moved back to the city. She loved my brother more than anything and it was all either of them could do, being broke and trying to provide... But he got burned in the bathtub. And that was all it took, for her second husband's family to take him away from her. It doesn't matter what kind of person one of their own was, or if they knew. It was kind of everything my mother wanted to be. Some matriarch that collected children and grandchildren and grandgrandchildren. And it's kind of like her losing her father and second husband, or him losing his father and all the potential he had to be a brain surgeon/chemist/psychologist all at once. She never got over losing my brother to that family. It left a hole and a void I couldn't fill.
She even kind of hinted it when I was a teenager, when she was fucked up, not knowing what she was saying. "You didn't ask to be born. I was selfish." But she had me. My father had a son. His mother let him stay at the ranch about an hour away. My mother ended up working at the insurance company and lived with her. And I can't really explain it, but for all the hate she had for my father, she liked me. I just don't remember or care as much. One of the earliest memories I have was climbing all over this cattle trailer and acting like it was a playground set to swing around in... Up until I fell from the roof and landed my face on the wooden floor of it. I hadn't started speaking yet. He thought his bull had kicked my chin, to have the cut on it he saw. It had horns and it was aggressive anyway. He needed to sell it. Either way, my father was growing... and she was living with my grandmother about an hour away and working at the company. I can remember when he got the call that there was a car accident, with her driving and my grandmother on the passenger side that got t-boned. Not much past the hospital, like her funeral... But here's the thing: My grandmother was a widow that went for every man he could, like the one on my mother's side did. Hers went for someone that made advances on her while her mother was dying in the hospital room, and my grandmother went for men that used her for her money. One of them lived next to the ranch by the city, and the other was part of a family that descended from one of the founding fathers... Well, I remember after the funeral. The whole family followed the three of us with trailers back to her house. It was one of my grandmother's few relationships that actually gave her things to try and keep her off himself. And with my father still grieving, my mother shook up, they rummaged through the entire house and took every gift back their deceased family member gave her.
That's kind of how my family relationship was with everyone around us. Because my grandmother had poisoned all of our neighbors against her own son. Told the families that lived next to us, because my grandfather gave the tracts of land off his ranch to newlyweds, that my father was,,, and garbage and good for nothing not to be trusted. So we were surrounded by wealth, and never helped out. Even by the families that had debts with my grandfather which he never collected on. Either way, my mother still lived at the ranch by the city, and I lived by my father about an hour away. I went to school there.... I had no friends because it was out in the country, on a big 200 acre ranch, with no neighbors that had kids of their own and so... My only real experience with other kids was in school. And this is where I have to explain that this was back in the 90s. School districts had started experimenting. Not exactly knowing what they were doing but... They had this idea of putting a kid on either the slow track or the fast track. It was me and my father and noone else. And no, he never beat me... But he yelled. I think I remember that even back then, he yelled and was prone to anger and having had all his experiences with authority that extended beyond his father, he trusted noone. Questioned everything. Would scream at me about the real world like the LA riots or how Bush was gonna let all the inmates in the country out of prison... It was just me and an angry 40 something babyboomer that had gone through hell with the law. So, maybe it wasn't just head trauma, or being that isolated... Maybe it was something else that had me doing shit like thinking some teacher was bullying this girl in kintergarden I liked, that was wheelchair bound and had a developmental issue... The point is, this first school district had to sit them down and give them the story.... You know the one.
I was told my father cried his fucking eyes out in agony to it, while my mother just sat there livid and fuming and nearly went for the school staff that sat them down and told them "Your son is..." And that's how it started. When the division came. Maybe it was because they weren't teaching phonics, they were trying to teach by image association, or it was the brain injuries I already had, or things like my first dog mauling me, or that time I was riding on the back of my father's tractor, fell, and went under, got dragged under, a large tooth harrow. Maybe it was that wildfire, my dog mauling me, my mother using the needle or everything else. The point is, they made this distinction, and with it, they defined everything about me. Who my classmates were, what little they taught me, how my parents even looked at me from that point on. I was an accident. Like fetal alcohol or downs syndrome. They showed Waco as it happened, and I didn't put it together that people were burning alive. But my mother said when the luby's shooting spree happened, I cried my eyes out to knowing all those people died. Someone did something like that. And maybe that's the dissonance I need to say I never was any of the things they said I was. And if I gotta defend against it, I know pediatric psychology didn't know much about how ptsd or concussions affected development. People are only just now figuring out that falling down a flight of stairs at age 9 could alter brain chemistry enough to turn someone into a potential school shooter. But they didn't know, back then. I was just strange. I didn't get shit. They stuck me with kids with every kind of developmental disorder, then they wondered why I didn't understand other kids. When I didn't fit in with kids with fetal alcohol or downs or what the hell ever else. But my parents knew something was up. And they still hadn't fully accepted it then. So they moved me to another school district. The one my father grew up with.
They thought it'd save what was left of my education. But here's the thing about I came from, and if it didn't apply to the first district, it applied to this one. That again, this was the 90s. Public education didn't know what to do with kids, just knew it was in vogue to seperate them as they saw fit... And that the more kids like that you had, the more funding you got. So you could say a kid was whatever, keep em busy without really trying to teach them anything and wait until they graduated or not so you wouldn't have to worry about them. So I learned whatever I learned on my own, and most of it was history. They didn't teach much handwriting because we were just gonna use computers in the future, but they didn't push typing, either. And whatever they taught me, it wouldn't stick. I couldn't even read and my parents didn't know how. But they eventually found out that how they were teaching me in the first place. And it kind of got left up to them to teach me phonetics. Sounding out words instead of just looking at pictures. Then all of a sudden, it didn't change that the school had me with kids that'd repeat the same sentence all day, or walk out of a bathroom stall with their pants and underwear still down... But I was reading in elementary at about a college level. But it also didn't change that I was still labeled. And again... 90s. So, every school had a shrink and every shrink was given free reign to throw whatever prescription at a kid to see what'd stick. And my parents starting figuring out what was going on there, too. When I'd do stuff like wake them up at 10 or 12 at night to say I wanted to kill myself, without it really connecting like it would if I was depressed. But they kept throwing new pills at me, and my mother would fill them on the way back... And then my father finally looked at a new script, and pulled out his old pillbook. That's when the pills stopped. Because the one that had them both put their foot down was meth.
But outside of school... My parents were still giving me the best they could. Besides teaching me what they wouldn't. You could call it out of guilt, but... I was still out in the country. I was growing up closer to civilization, and the attempts were made, but... Everyone was still so far. Kids my own age were still a good drive away, and I had a whole two ranches to keep me occupied. But my parents needed to go on vacations when they could, over something I didn't understand because they never told me. I just went to the city sometimes with my father to go a clinic. My mother was too busy working. But when we went on summer vacations, it was always either Vegas or Orleans. Somewhere with Casinos. It kept them occupied, but I gotta get back to that. Point is... my father was dealing with his own shit. Besides Hepatitus. Besides depression. My father couldn't work the oil fields anymore because of cataracts. All the things he saw or went through didn't help either. Like coming back to a rig where someone couldn't take it anymore and hung himself during the night, when noone was there. Or being told to go inside a sander while it was empty, and having it filled up with him inside of it while the people in charge banged on the tanker yelling run motherfucker run. Because that's the kind of shit they did to roughnecks on the downtime. Playing games that could've killed 'em. Or having them all work in knee deep water during a thunderstorm without really caring if a dozen or more men got electrocuted. And then there was all his shit with cops. It started as far back as when he was a teenager. A sheriff and deputy didn't care whose son he was. They pulled him. And they ordered him into a ditch. On his knees. Then they stuck a shotgun in his mouth and rubbed the barrel around his teeth. It got their jollies off. They had a good laugh. And it was trauma like that, that added on top of everything he experienced in the oil fields on a daily basis.
My father was just a broken man, before I was even born. The oil fields were the only money he could get in the 70s and 80s. He'd work 18 hours, having heat strokes, nearly being killed and watching people around him die, watching metric tons of pipe fly out the ground and swinging like a garden hose... He'd drive several hours back to the ranch he was living at in the middle of nowhere with my mother and brother... And the phone would be ringing, and he'd have to shuffle back out the door and go back to work. But before all this, with the oilfields, even though it changed him when his father died... There was still a man I never got to know, before the oil fields killed him. Left me with someone else instead that I still loved but was so fucking estranged from the world around him. There was this time in the 90s, with Rodney King, with Waco, that besides the white flight from before, there was this newfound appreciation for hardware. It felt like the end of the world, to all these babyboomers that either went to vietnam or got beaten, got the attention of COINTELPRO... I grew up around gunshows. Around his hushed paranoia like the kind that convinced McVeigh he had to do Oklahoma. My father just wasn't on the accepted side of the law. Had to go mental institutions from time to time, because that's what you did with them instead of prison... And the cops, the neighbors, everyone knew this shit about him and my mother because my grandmother told everyone she could that her sorry fucking son was... But that's why we went on vacations. That was why he went to that clinic downtown. Except it didn't really matter, what it was, people just assumed shit. Like the cops. My father had meningitis and he didn't know it. It had been too long since college. But he was suffering something. Howling with it in pain.
I remember the visual of him and her in the bathroom, and my mother desperately trying to tell him to just take these pills and he slapped the bottle out of her hands to the ground. She called 911 at some point. The ambulance came, and so did the cops. And the cops didn't even let the EMTs inside. They separated her from my father and... An uncle, an old man my father knew, had already taken me away when they did it. I think the fact the local police had corruption charges on them around this time was part it. They held him down in the living room on his dead mother's couch and starting stabbing him with the nightsticks. While one of their own was searching the house, not finding anything, while he was dying from meningitus, they thought it was angel dust and that's what they kept yelling at him to cough up. Where is the fucking angel dust? And he'd swear he didn't have any while dying they'd beat him and beat him and beat on him, suffocating him, nightsticking him, the lot of it... Until they realized he had passed out and they were facing police brutality charges, if they didn't hurry up and let the medics do their job. I was with my uncle for a few days and mother picked me up, and never the other half of this shit besides that he was dying in the hospital. The first one I started going to, when my mother visited my father. With some doctor in charge of him that knew his background and didn't really try to save him because hell, one more dope fiend off the streets, out of everyone's lives. Am I right? And somehow, that didn't end her, career, just made it happen that the hospital put someone else in charge of him. Treating him for meningitus. But I'm still not sure if that's what it was. And wasn't something that came back year's later. When my father came back, there was an agreement. He started buying handcuffs. Because if shit like that could never happen again.
There would be no 911. One of his friends, my uncles, would come and handcuff him themselves, and drag him off to the hospital.
(I am continuing the rest of this when I get back. This location is closing down for the night.)
This is fucked up.
Back.
Go on...
...But going back to education... As long my parents did what the district wouldn't bother, I still learned. Mostly what interested me, so, again... History. Why things happened like they did. But at the same time, I just wasn't left around other kids, functional kids, to really be anything else but alienated. And you don't even how much this is fucking you up, growing up. They tell you one thing, treat you another, sugarcoat it like they're doing you a favor, but they're really just using you. I just didn't know how. But at some point, my parents finally got it through, and after elementary, they finally gave them what they wanted, I didn't know I needed. Just to be treated like a normal kid. But it came too late. I was used to controlled environments. Used to heavily monitored peers that were about as functional as they were ever gonna be in their lives. Or schoolwork meant for several grades below what they should've been teaching me. And it was intermediate school, anyway. Puberty. That kind of thing. And I just didn't fit in. Because of course I didn't. So it was the real start of my own grief. Being picked on, not knowing how to take what I was never equipped to handle because I never had to on my own... Just wanting not to get in trouble. Not to get in fights. Trying to fit in and not and not really understanding why everyone was just so mean all of a sudden. It's like these kids were actually allowed to be kids instead of accidents that had to be swept under the rug. So, I couldn't deal. I'd be chased around the school and end up not going to classes or wondering why it was so stupid I made whatever I did for art class. And that was it. Intermediate school over, they told my parents I was going be put in a safer environment. That's the thing, though. They didn't really have a safer environment. They just saw that I was problematic and stuck me where they could. They're called behavioral units.
And, really, the reality of that is, my home situation was a million times better than all the kids around me. My parents weren't crackfriends, they weren't drunks, I never watched my father beat my mother, he never beat or raped me, they never got on pcp and started tearing down the house... This school district, it was half rural, half urban. You had these children from poor and fucked up households being raised by grandma or having to pretend to sleep while mom got banged up by another random man, and you had half of them from the east side of the city and the rest that grew up where their great great grand parents got stuck after slavery wasn't a thing anymore. And the district just wanted them out of everyone else's way, that wasn't gonna grow up in and out of juvie and prison. And I was too fucking pussy to even do anything but complain about being the whole mini-cellblock's bitch. It was personal for them from the start, because here I was, just this perfect white kid to take last night and last week and last month and last year on. And this was sometime after Columbine so... Of course the middle school staff would call my mother at work every day about how concerned they were. It's not like my father could even live with what they had done to me after everything else. Let alone face it, or take time off sleeping all day to have some condescending creep remind him how I should've never even been born. It was always my mother that had to hear about some poem I wrote and that they documented a fingerprint I left on it. The only reason it ever stopped for awhile is because they had to call an uncle to pick me up from school. This skinny, wizardly looking, mexican neo nazi biker type that I ran right to, happy as hell to see him. All the while the school district must've looked on in horror and probably thought about evacuating the school over. All that considered... I still haven't explained half of this shit yet, but it's amazing I didn't end up a skinhead.
It didn't end, though. It just progressed from there to junior high. They didn't have a trailer home to stick them all, so they just crammed them into one class. The man in charge was some korean war vet I'll never name, and his orderly was vietnam. I don't think I can really explain this, but, noone knew what to do with these kids, and they were gonna be in and out of juvie before they ended up in prison. Mid 90s, post columbine. The LA riots & detroit, and all this district wanted was more funding for the football team. The calls wouldn't end, again, but... My parents were just at the end of it. Because they didn't really know where the district actually put me. They didn't have time, either... They had someone come back they used to know and he came back forcing them into it like the old days. He was the uncle my father got his prized model 97 Pump shotgun from. This shit just kept happening with everyone around me, from throwing chairs around the classroom to slapping / punching me in front of the Warden's face without anything really being done, fingering my food or stabbing me with a pen, and my parents not believing it and being too occupied with... Because they were depressed. They couldn't take the stress. And these kids had everything to take out on someone else and that was me. And these vets that ran the unit loved this. They even had me get boxed around by another kid. Free entertainment. They had kids they could corner and noone would care or believe them. So, when I finally did snap, just started shouting and wouldn't calm down over being fucked with and it always escalating... All they had to do was just clear everyone out of the room so they could have me all to themselves. Just pin me down to the floor and ask me if I liked it. I didn't know what it was at first. I still didn't get it, but... The Korean vet was telling the vietnam vet afterwards about how he punched this other kid's lights out years ago and how fucking good it felt.
And of course, after I raised that much of a scene, I was suspended for the rest of the semester. I could come back next semester. It was my fault. I was just some fucking retard acting up and my parents didn't want to hear shit. I didn't even try to tell them. I just took this lawnmower because I never did shit around the house and just slammed it against a tree until I was tired. I started getting really hateful after that. Growing up on a cattle ranch, you have a cow that dies, and you watch the corpse slowly rot away over a period of months, or you force your parents to let you be there when your favorite calf is shot in the head, because the infection from the snakebite gonna kill it anyway. I think sometime before this, I had shot at a heron or egret without really expecting the shot to land... And that fucked me up, then. Crying because it was still moving in the water and no amount of bullets would make it stop. I felt like the biggest piece of shit, over that. I hated even seeing poisonous snakes getting killed. I fucking hated people, for awhile, but I still loved nature. But I'm gonna come back to what I did. At some point, I had to go to a shrink before they would even allow me to go back to school, and back in with the kids that would beat me in front of the men that raped me. I couldn't even call it rape, then, but whatever I could've called it, I didn't say shit. They just ran me through tests, profiling, etc.... And it was sometime after that my parents told me the truth. They said that after all that testing, I wasn't this, or that, or the other. I was just a normal kid. My mother told me, driving me back from summer school, that the therapist said there was nothing actually wrong with me. And that's when I started getting furious, because up until that point, you could have justified all the shit that happened up to this point because I was a retard. I was a mistake. This is just how it is and that's that.
wrongfuldeathinstitute.com
I am posting this for reference, because I need to come back to it, and why it's important.
Holy shit shut the fuck up
Your long ass posts are clogging up this board
And it's around this time, I learned what was going on with my parents. It was on the ride back home with my mother, after she visited one of my uncles / their friends. They'd always have me wait outside and I didn't get it. I didn't have anyone my own age to talk to and I had all these uncles they always distanced me from and I never got it, up to this point, when I finally asked why she was tore up about it all. How she probably met her second husband. What my father did instead of finishing his degrees. Why they were always afraid of the cops, why the cops beat my father, why my grandmother disowned the son she already hated, all of it. Heroin. That was a methadone clinic. The uncle she got through visiting while I waited outside had let her have some without letting my father know. She even shot it up while pregnant with me and my father never knew. She snuck it past her, he'd find out half the time, but... It was on and off. The withdrawals. And all those times they fought, and I took her side without knowing what was going on... She was getting high without him and he was trying to quit. And for the longest time, they had finally quit. Probably about 5 or 6 years, until one of their friends came back and begged them back into it because he needed a buddy. He wouldn't stop calling. Life was hell. This was also around the time my father got his anuerysm. If it wasn't what he had before. It went misdiagnosed for several months with his doctor swearing that he was just making up that something was wrong, and he made sure to let the hospital know that he checked into. He got to the point that he couldn't pull himself back off the floor and a nurse just watched him piss himself like he should've been ashamed with how far he was taking it. Then they released him. And he wasn't any better.
>this thread
So he just went to an eye doctor instead, knowing what was wrong with himself but just begging this optomitrist to do something about the blood in his eye. He only needed one look. Then the other doctor's phone number. Then he excused himself to another room and fucking screamed at this quack. When he was admitted to another hospital, by staff that actually knew what was happening, he had about a 95% chance of dying before the operation. And I'd come there with her before and after and I'd wonder why the hell he would scream at us to leave him alone. But I think this was still before I learned they were both Junkies. A part of it was that he wanted us to hate him, so it wouldn't hurt as much when he died. But the other half was, she'd come to him, fucking high as hell and he'd know how she'd act when high and it would drive him a damned wall. Because you can't stay away from heroin, if you're around anyone that's still doing it. And he had the willpower to quit it and stay away from it, but my mother just didn't. And she'd bring it back to him. So he ended up back on heroin after getting out of the hospital with a metal plate in his head. Meanwhile, I was at the point with junior high that I started carrying sunglasses to look around the corners of hallways with. I couldn't take being in the class and I'd bail out, I'd run to one end of the school or the other and I'd stay away for as long as I could. I had just wigged the fuck out. I started gaining weight. I started wearing my hair longer. I had started changing cloths because I blamed myself for looking like a cleancut pussy bitch white boy and I wanted to look less easy. So I grew my hair out and I ended up fighting with my father about it all the time. The sheriff and deputy had their finger on the shotgun trigger that whole time he was in that ditch, with the barrel in his mouth. And he would've never had all the run ins with the law he had, if he hadn't worn his hair long. Thats why cops targeted him.
My mother understood what was happening, eventually. Not the whole thing, but, I still basically got myself out of there. Into regular classrooms again, with normal kids, being taught stuff that wasn't marked for several grades below where they had me. It was still too late, though. I just sort of coped better, for awhile. I was still this awkward kid none of the others knew what to do with. And I know this isn't gonna make sense, but... What actually helped me resolve my anger about having been raped and put through that whole situation was It was so important. I was still a mess, but I could at what was happening to other people, and I still couldn't compare it to myself but... As angry and afraid of the people that raped me, I had grown up watching horror movies my father rented for himself. I think it helped me visualize these things happening in prison, in real life, and being able to tell myself I wouldn't wish it on them. It was too close to what I experienced. I don't really know this one article could do it, but I think it kept me in check, in the long run. As much as I could hate people, how minor or major my own experience was, I could read this and tell myself noone deserved that. And a lot of it came how little I did or didn't suffer in comparison. But I'm comparing rape, here. I don't know if that's right but, it left me knowing that there was just no excuse for it, and I couldn't wish it on the people that did it to me. It's a lot of why I'm never going to name the people that did it to me. It happened over 15 years ago. They've probably died of natural causes by now. I didn't even want this shit to happen to them like it'd solve anything. But I didn't know what I wanted back then, either. It took until I was in my 20s to figure out.
I'll have to leave it there, for awhile.
It gets worse. But I don't have an open space until a roommate leaves.
It's actually worse right now, even. I can't stop rocking back and forth and I've been on the verge of giving myself another concussion or stabbing myself again.
The past couple of days I've been hoping to have another motorcycle accident just so I'd have a sprained ankle or broken arm or fucking anything just to take my mind off this shit I can't tell anyone.
I can't just tell anyone this shit. There's something that means so much more than me just dying right now.
Too long; didn't read.
can you do a tl;dr? most of Jow Forums don't have time to read a full on novel
Give this man a Pulitzer prize
I don't think it would be achieved. This took years. There's multiple reasons behind everything. It didn't all happen in a day.
I'm skipping some things. But I was trying to be something. I think even before high school, I was already sexually dysfunctional. All this helped before. Like how my father just grew more distant from my mother and how rare it was for them to even sleep together in the same room. He took his father's bedroom and she took his mother's. There were many times before that my parents trusted me to stay at home while they spent several weeks at Vegas or somewhere else. And this time was when it happened. Two simultaneous strokes on both sides of her brain. One of Vegas's hospitals had been shut down by insurance and the rest were over capacity. He had to rush her all the way to Arizona. Flagstaff I think. Forcing her to drink all the gatorade she could from Vegas and across the hoover dam to stay alive. But it was two simultaneous strokes. It was gonna be a given that she'd be changed. She still seemed the same and at this point, I still loved them without any judgement over heroin. I wasn't really making the connection yet of how it'd bring the worst of themselves out. It was sometime after they got back that it happened. One of my uncles was in jail and his wife, her friend that got introduced her to xanax and everything else besides Stuff had them score and convinced her to shoot it up on a country road the cops knew for having junkies up and down it. He had walked up to the driver's side window and watched my mother the whole time. Then took her in. Her friend's husband got out of jail with charges dropped, never knowing why and just being thankful. But this was when shit finally started to connect. How I had been my mother's son before my father's, he was right to be always be angry and depressed more times than not and how she wasn't perfect. I rubberbanded hard. It was still too late for me to really be that son that could worship him and still have it appreciated. There was too much in the way of it. He was never really happy.
>this thread
Wtf r u high on op
They managed to keep it hidden from her job, though. It ultimately somehow ended on a deferred adjudication. But there was still that fact she was so much more prone to getting high than her, and how much worse she'd be when she was than him. She'd shoot up or pop down and it would just click how so much needed to be done, that she had to ask permission to do everything. Move some things, clean others, she was always kind of lonely, before. She kind of just had the one friend that set her up and she wouldn't accept it. She'd become this needy, desperately trying to be housewife like she always wanted to be and she'd knock on doors and knock on doors and knock and knock and ask and ask this or that and it'd repeat over and over. It'd drive us both up the walls, no amount of me or my father trying to tell her to do something or not or that we didn't care would stop her from asking about it again or saying that she did or didn't do it before coming up with something else. She was suffering. Didn't really stop me from gravitating that much farther from her and closer to him. There was this time I woke up to her screaming because he had that model 97 in his hands and was shouting he was gonna do it. There were times my father would snap and drive off that'd leave us worried and we'd chase him down to make him come back home and I saw that now for what it was. Because him trying to keep from shooting up needed to be a team effort. Needed her to be on board with it and she just made how she'd always say how much she loved him or me something too hurtful to deal with. And I didn't understand, then, why when I tried to talk him down, he just took the 97 into his mouth and I had to grab a knife. After all this shit, he still loved me more than anything else he had left and I used that against him. Something like "If you kill yourself than I will too." that just had him point at me to tell her "Look, he's doing it too!" That was the first time I had to blackmail my father.
Shit was happening so fast these days it's kind of a blur. How the sequence of events go. The insurance company had a new CEO and he was that typical, aggressive "Burn everyone out, increase his own profits, run the company to the ground and make money off it" kind. She'd have nightmares about getting lost in the company compound. The workload and the threats got worse. It convinced her that much more to keep doing what she was to cope but it'd have to come to a head. They said they were gonna run background checks on everyone and there was the chance that dope bust would come up. She asked me what she should do and I don't really know if I told her one thing or the other. I'd like to think I told her not to come clean before they looked her up. But she did and that was pretty much it. So we lost our only source of income besides my father's cattle and however lonely she was before, it was worse now. She had more freetime, nothing else to do, my father was always screaming and it'd just drive her to the needle and the xanax and asking her pill doctor about ____. My half brother had gotten engaged to someone bipolar that did sex work and self medication and she had become my mother's new other friend. She was pregnant and had a child and it ended up enabling all that jealousy and envy she had for her second husband's family taking her first born son. She competed with them over this kid my father knew wasn't my brother's. She wanted to get closer to his fiance and that meant whatever her other friend hadn't already gotten her on. She'd become so much worse, trying to be some housewife. She'd slave and nitpick and ask about doing everything that much more and ask and ask and say I love you and what she was gonna do. If me or my father just tried to ignore it, she'd write notes and try to get them through our doors. I remember this time she passed out and collapsed on the kitchen floor by the sink.
Everything about her that I used to feel had been repainted and I don't think I ever got over how when I touched her, it felt sickening. She was caked with sweat. Covered in slime with it. I went from having loved her to hating her and blaming everything on her. And I'd try to replace that with wanting acceptance from my father but it was still too late. I was willing to do everything but cut my hair. It made me feel secure, not to look cleancut. But it just made my father afraid for how I was gonna be treated when it was already too late. I just wanted to look like something better than I was or wasn't. But it was a matter of whether or not I'd blend in well enough to be accepted. Not fucked with by authority figures, not treated like some junkie or whatever else was wrong and not part of society. The area was just too conservative. People were gonna look at me like they looked at him knowing he used to be some hippie dope fiend and... I just kind of forgot how big of a deal this was to both of us. Him not wanting me targeted any more than I already was, me still having never told him I was raped or that it was why I needed my hair long. It was a matter of agency to me and carving myself out of a mold to be something else. But it was the one of the main things we'd fight about. Besides me wanting to do more than he felt I could handle. If he couldn't consciously accept it, I think it was still in his head that I wasn't as capable as him. It'd look like I didn't show interest in something like fixing cars when it was just him screaming the whole time about how difficult everyone made it for him. Me not being able to handle it. Everything was life or death, and however depressed or lethargic he was, he still had the willpower to get something done because it had to be done or we weren't gonna make it. I wanted to be taught things or do them but it always kind of came back to his youth. How he basically did everything around his father on his own.
Start lifting and find a couple new hobbies and friends. Just be yourself OP.
I don't know what I am beyond what made me.
I don't got the energy right now to explain them all, right now.
Hey OP. I didn't read a single word of all that shit you wrote. But know that I'm glad you wrote it and I bet someone out there read it and appreciated it. Good luck on finding the meaning of life or what ever you are looking for.
You either are or you aren't. No one on this planet can give you an answer except yourself.
have sex