I want to talk but I can’t move my lips.
I want to talk.
But, I can’t move my lips.
The words are always silent.
They are never, truly, there.
Christmas is always a weird time at the house. It was always when I cut most often, get most depressed or sad, become just a terrible person to be around. I’m scared about this one. I’ve gotten gifts for people. I’ve done okay. It’s just still so bad at home that I really don’t know what to do. Taylor’s parents have come down harder on her this week for problems that shouldn’t get that result. She’s scared that we are gonna fall apart because of all the time we’ve spent apart. It scares me too, but only because she worries about it. She’s scared that we might not get a future and when she says that she makes me feel like I can’t do anything about what might happen in our future because it’s all dependent on her. If she leaves me I spend the rest of my life alone in a tiny apartment because I’ll have no reason to get a bigger house in a nicer area of town. I’ll have no reason to do really crappy odd jobs or look for an even better job to get a nicer house or to buy the things that would make her happy or to give h the life that she should have had in the first place. It’s scary to thinks of a future where I don’t have a reason to live. Even when that was the normal. I’m skipping years in this one. I’m going to talk about the day I died and the three or four months following then. I’ll go back but I want to talk about this now. I’m ready. That’s what this whole thing was for anyway.
Last year in October I hit the lowest I would get. My grades were fine, all As except for a few Bs. But still very good for me. I had lots of masks so I guess you could say I had lots of friends. But in reality I had no one but the other couple me’s inside my head. Them and the music. I had used music as an escape. I always had it on full. The louder it was the better it was. Because I couldn’t hear my thoughts. My music and the sheer will of me wanting to stay clean. Needing to stay clean. To turn my life around. My entire thoughts when I got really bad centered on ‘Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow has to be better.” And for about the last year and a half, that was never true. Every time I bottomed out it was just a ruse. I fell through the floor and tried harder because my life would be terrible if it got worse. What changed really is that I found out what I was doing. I fully realized I’m hurting myself as a way out of my own mind. And I couldn’t run away anymore. So I tried. And I never really said it but it was there. That if I made it to high school and still felt this bad or worse. Then I would have to end it. Because I couldn’t go though the four hardest years of my life like this. It would set up to a failed future. Or more like none. So. When October-Novemberish came around. I figured it was never going to get any better. So I started planning. I knew some people left notes and I wanted to do the same because I knew no one would know why I did this. So I got one of those mini composition books and wrote about a page for each person I wanted to speak too. I had my mother. My father. My step mother. My sister. Caleb. The police. And just a general note. The rest of the pages were drawings. I had songs at the top of everyone’s page. Ones that reminded me the most about them. I thought it was a way they could remember me by. One last big fuck you to my dad and step mother. I was writing all over the margarines to fill the page until the words would rip the paper. It took me three days of constant thought. Tears. Chanting. Rocking. And writing to finish it. The drawings were all mine. They were the nightmares that haunted my sleep and the masks that adorned my infinite walls. I wanted the see-er to realize how demented a child my mother and father brought into this world and I wanted them to be scared. I wanted them to shy away from teenage boys for the rest of their lives. Because you can’t walk into school with bloody arms. You can’t help a helpless person. You can’t bring someone back after they’ve already gone. So I was determined and I was prepared and I was planned. Ever since I started contemplating suicide I had always settled on one way to go. I was going to cut the big vein in my wrist. Crawl into bed with my polo and jeans on. And then try to fall asleep as I bleed out. That was how it would happen. The tiny notebook on my nightstand with the crudely scribbled ‘kyle r clarke’ on the title lines. And I would do whatever happens after I die.
I had given up the fight. I had made the plans. I had fought off all the bad as long as I could. I just couldn’t do it any longer. I was entirely alone. But I was still a teenage boy so I liked girls. There was one girl in my sign language class. Her name was Taylor Woods. I never forgot it. And as I was going home that Monday she asked to sit with me. Her boyfriend wasn’t there and she was late and she saw me as the not-weird kid in her sign language class. So I was apparently the best option. Then she decides she has to actually talk but I can’t hear her so I had to take out a headphone (you don’t turn the music down, it diminishes the point of drowning things out). So she actually talks to me. She tries to learn more about me but I don’t like that so I steer her away. For being so introverted and entirely the wrong person to hold a conversation with I can steer things very well with lies or with the correct question. It’s easier to talk to myself so I had to argue with myself a lot. Mainly just yell and berate. But I did argue while I’m taking tests. I always argue with myself. I hate myself. Even now. It’s just. It’s hard. But she needed to vent. So I let her vent. And the next day she sat next to me again. Apparently her boyfriend wasn’t on the bus because of some thing. To be honest I didn’t listen. I’m still trying to kill myself. Everyone is just always home. And I know it takes a while to bleed out. So I just got worse and worse and worse. And the sad part was that now, of all times, this girl wants to talk to me. And I have to give her a mask. So she is surprised by my death. No one can know that these were my intentions so everyone will inevitably be surprised. Or at the least say,”shame.” I hoped anyway. But everyone was always fucking home. I just. I didn’t cut because that was the point of staying clean. I had to choose suicide. Because there wasn’t another option. There are no words to describe how I felt. But I can try. This is about Saturday, middle-November. I remember this day most because it’s when I attempted. It was about 10:30 at night. My parents went to bed a while ago and were already asleep. And my sister went to bed before them. I was alone. Both of my doors were open. All of the lights but mine were off. My headphones were in and I was listening to my newly collected metal songs. Ones where they actually sing instead of yell. I was entirely alone. Nobody to talk to or contact. Nobody to care wether I was alive the next day. Absolutely no one to care about me. An immense pain in my stomach. Like everything inside is twisted into knots and crushed under a huge amount of pressure. I was in a corner looking out at my doors because monsters come thought them if you look away. The music wasn’t loud enough so I was talking to myself. I was telling myself very calmly that nobody loves me. Nobody could honestly answer that I hold a part in their life and my absence will be just that. An absence. But it’s not. Because I am nothing there is no absence. There was never even an appearance. And I’m crying and yelling back that it’s not true and that I’m a liar. I’m here. I’m right here. So then why don’t they see us? Because of me. And because of us. Nobody can see us, so how are they supposed to get near us when they can’t even understand us.
I won though. For the first time in a fair amount of time I won. And I realized I was right. So. I got the knife with the heart on it that my great grandpa gave me. And as I was walking back my sister walked in with tears. She told me she had a nightmare, that a monster took away Sweat Pea (our cat) and tried to eat her. She asked if she could sleep with me and I told her no. I was going to kill myself. She can’t be here. That. My sister can’t know how terrible a big brother I am. She can’t see how terrible a person I am. But she saw I was crying and went and sat down. She asked me what was wrong and I said nothing. You don’t hand your problems to someone younger no matter how badly you want to. As long as possible they need a childhood. My mom never gave that to me. But I wasn’t going to do the same to Kayla. She asked if she could watch tv so I let her and I crawled into bed without changing. I was holding my knife in both hands and I knew I wouldn’t do it while she was there. She watched some show and sat under the covers next to me until about 11:30. She slept with me that night. I just. That made it so much worse and yet forced me into school where, again, everyone is always fucking home. Waiting to yell. To scream and berate. But Taylor had decided to still talk to me and then we baca me friends I guess. I never really knew when that happened. But we did and she started texting me. Me her actually. I was too alone. And she was starting to make me actually happy. But Friday she came clean to me. She told me everything about how she cut that Thursday night and how she struggled with depression and how she had all these problems. And. She didn’t know why she was telling me. She had absolutely no clue how I would take it or how I would make it worse. I don’t think she really saw me helping enough. Because what am I supposed to know? I’m some random guy from class. But she told me. And I was pretty surprised. But. She was me. Someone was actually out there who knew how being trapped with yourself is such a terrible thing. How scared a person can get when confronting emotions and problems you can’t figure out. How much stress it’s outs on me because the circle shape won’t fit through the circle hole. No matter how hard you push it or how closely the shapes are matched. But. She knew.
I helped her as much as I could. I wasn’t thinking anymore. I was with her. I was trying to make her better so she would have the life she deserved because I came to the conclusion I would rather carry these. Things. Alone. Rather than have another person go through them. I don’t think I completely stopped thinking about suicide until late December. It was always an option up until then. But. I just. It’s her. She saved me from myself by letting me catch her. Every time she cut she would tell me and that was one of the few things I couldn’t handle. I knew she had cut. Because she would stop texting me for about 20-30 minutes. As I’m trying to help her. It just goes black. Nothing. And that really made me worse. But it makes what we have now stronger I think. I just can’t go through that again. Seeing another person at their lowest. Seeing how pitiful and helpless they are. Realizing how completely terrible of a person I am. Realizing how she needed a better life. How she needed her smile and how I needed to give it to her because she told me. She told specifically me and I wasn’t going to lose her.
I know I’m not a good writer. I cannot convey the true need to end my own life. And my thought patterns aren’t really clear enough to put the seriousness into these words. I’m sorry. I just. I don’t want to go back anymore. I don’t want to feel that way again. I’m sorry if none of this really made sense to you. It’s my fault. Not yours. I’m sorry. I’ll try and write better later.
Part the Four(th)
I don’t really remember what I last talked about because it was a long time ago and I’m sorry. I think I left off with the preludes to all my problems today. I’ll get to there in this one today I promise. I just need to put some things down on paper first. I’m bad again. It’s gotten so terrible recently that I just don’t know what to do. A combination of not feeling well, a very sudden drop in grades, a drop in health from my girlfriend, a long Thanksgiving holiday with step-family that isolates me because I don’t care about corn crops, a very mean step-mother, feeling sorry my real mother, and just an overall feel of pressure and stress and everything collapsing in on me where I can’t do anything to save the people I love or myself from bad things, and being grounded as soon as we get home from the trip. I have started having night terrors again. Everything from horrible monsters to needles to failing as an adult or having to come back to the parents that did all of this to me. I say that because I blame a lot of my psychiatric problems on their constant emotional and mental abuse and sporadic physical abuse. Stop. I need to go through them individually. Put order in everything (Ha). Not feeling well. Ever since about last Tuesday I haven’t been able to breathe right. It’s like this huge amount of pressure is on my chest so that I can’t even yawn correctly. I struggle just to try and breathe right around Taylor because it helps her breathe right, and with her asthma that is a good thing for me to know. But I haven’t told her yet. I hope she’ll see this when I can find a way to post it. I’m writing it in TextEdit. Very sudden drop in grades. Math, Physics, and a Design 3 class are all below a 65. I’m only grounded for the Math one though because the other ones just need to input their grades(Design 3) or I need to make up a test(Physics). So their blanks apparently count as zeroes on this online grade viewing thing. So I just have to wait. But Math was because I got a 40% on a 19 question quiz. I. This is a major influence on my current state because it brings a lot of the other stuff into play. And the big ting about it was that it was the test that was going to decide my interim grade, so I studies and did the review and the homework and tried to memorize the trigonomic functions because it was a test on them and they weren’t given to us. SO yep. Felt really good about it and was ready to prove my parents wrong, but nope. None of that happened. They proved me right and then some. So now I have to stay after with the second worst teacher I have. She did give me a good deal on making it up though which was very nice. So. I just need to do it. Bad week planned really. Bad and some good. Drop in health from my girlfriend. Not going to specify because it’s her business, but it scares me a lot. I’m worried sick about her. It’s because I need her though. I don’t say it enough or show it enough, but she keeps me grounded to Earth and clean and sane and happy. She is the rock I cling to for stability in my life and I trust her with everything, yet do a terrible job of doing just that. Step-family holiday. Up in Kentucky we go for either Thanksgiving or Christmas because it’s my step-mother’s family and we like them apparently more than Florida. So we go up and endure the 14 hour drive(stops included) and arrive at a double-wide that, while very nicely renovated and maintained, has 7 fucking people and 5 god damned dogs. It is terrible. Just. Ugh. So all the while we’re there I get berated by my step mother and father and just end up hiding in the back room until they leave the front so I can watch Day of the Doctor ( I recently let the Doctor into my life and he is good :)), but Oh no! Someone decided that they didn’t like the fact that I told every person there I was going to record it and my grandmother seconded it since it was her TV so I recorded it and two Doctor Who episodes from the marathon, but they were all deleted. I knew they recorded because I double checked it was scheduled and while it was supposed to record I went and checked that it was. So. Very large let-down. I can’t ask who deleted it because then I would be accusing the ‘very hospitable’ step-family who let us stay here and my family which would end up being just a complete shit-storm from more than one mouth aimed square at me. So I just had to go in the back room and occupy myself. I won’t go into the tellings or almost beating because there’s other topics, but it wasn’t good. Oh! One very nice thing did happen. Thanksgiving Day. At a different step-family members house this year because old great-grandmother who usually did it wasn’t feeling good from all the knee pain(She’s very nice. Likes to give me cookies when no one else is around.) So we walk in with our dishes, set those down. Take off our coats and hang them. Then we go in and meet the new faces who don’t normally come because of the drive. So some nice lady of around 57-64 comes to my step-mother and they greet one another, then my step-mom walks past so now I’m up. She is still within earshot of our greeting as this lady comes and says, “Oh you must be her son!?”. And I shoot back, “Step-son,” shake her hand and walk to the seat on a bench next to my sister so no one sits next to her and makes it awkward. You have no idea how great that felt to say. She had been so mean that day, and to say that to a family member as she is only one and a half step away. That made the whole trip. I hope that ate her up. I know not many people think like I think, but for the next five minutes or so I was hoping she had torn herself in half by thinking of every mean thing she had ever done, looking from my eyes, and I was hoping she would cry and run out the door without a coat so she would freeze too. But. She didn’t. She was perfectly fine. But it was a tiny victory on the smoking battlefield. Okay. Next one.Step-Mother. Evil, cold, cruel, conniving, sharp, old, monster of a woman. Right. Feeling sorry for my mother. I don’t talk to her enough at all. I barely remembered to say ‘Happy Thanksgiving’, and I’m a terrible son. Especially since she never really bounced back from Charlie yet. (Whole fucking other rant on him, don’t worry.) Stress has rise so high that my hair is starting to fall out more again, can barely breathe at times when I think about things really badly, brought back the night terrors, and made me wet the bed in Kentucky. After about 8 months you feel you’ve outgrown that, or at least found out ways to control it. But no. I read stress can do that if it’s a pre-developed problem. And it did. So. That’s a large let-down right now. Night Terrors. You know nightmares you have where you wake-up right before the worst part and just go back to sleep in five minutes? These aren’t them. You don’t wake up before you hit the ground. you wake up when it feels you’ve seen enough of your dead body. You don’t wake up before the monster grabs you, but after he tortures you or rips your skin with claws and lets you run free so he can catch you again. You don’t wake up before the needles touch you. You wake up after about five have pierced your body. One always in the left wrist though. Always. It’s. It gets to the point where you just read on your phone until about 12, then pass out and hope for a dreamless sleep. Which normally happens. Or you wake up drenched in sweat with the covers only on your shoulders. I always have them over my head. that always scares me the most. Okay. I’m gonna go back to the story. I’m sorry I lied Krista. I’m sorry I keep things from you Taylor. I’m sorry.
So I fasted and I made little scratches with the thorns. Now because of a work thingy I go with my Dad for about a week. I don’t remember it at all. But I do remember that because my Mom felt so relieved f pressure and stress from not having me around, she gave custody to him about a month and a half later. So he now gets me and my sister. Sarah is already with him (I think for about 9 months? I’m not sure at all.) But I move into the town home in Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. Enter the neighborhood area (I could never remember the name of our area. But it had about 75 town home groups and about 80 houses. It was very nicely kept and maintained and was filled with kids and just a good family place.)8144 Moffat Run, Chesapeake Beach, MD 20732, USA. The only house I would ever move back into. I still remember my way to school vividly. I would come out of my house with a parent or have them watch me walk out the front door (wooden then glass) and down the four steps, down the small walkway, take a right past Mr.Bill’s house, cross the street to the lamppost in front of my best friend Quinn’s house. That was the bust stop. In the summer there was always a breeze and in the winter the snow from the majority of that intersect would get push onto the corner for easy snowball making. At the bus stop I met Quinn and Grayson ( my only friends who I was very awkward too because I didn’t know how to be a friend or what to do with friends)and my bully Randall. I think that was his name. But either way we got on the bus an I sat in the way back always the third seat from the back or the last seat. It had the best access to the wheel bump. But the bus took a right then a left then another right to get out of the neighborhood. then we went down this little half-circle road onto the main road and too a right and passed the water park that was almost never open because of temperature reasons. Then across the bridge that had a Subway sandwich shop on it. Then past the hilled library with an ice creme store underneath. Then past houses and stuffs until we got to school. Not the best school, but it was a great school. It was my school. I liked it a lot because it wasn’t built like normal schools and it just. I liked it okay. I liked my life in Maryland. Even if it meant I would end up killing myself there, I would go back. Oh yeah. Don’t jus think all the problems went away. School was only better than home by —><— much.But it was still an escape from my step mother.
My Dad left about 4 in the morning for his job in DC so I only got yelled at by him when he came home. I found out about cutting because I got my first computer there and somehow got to examples of it. So I tried it. Got my little pocketknife and cut my wrist. Fucking shit damn did that hurt. But it made me stop thinking about anything else. So I ran to the bathroom because stupid motherfucker here had to cut pretty damn deep and bleed for about 30 minutes. (Perk 1 of having a Dad coming home at 8 and a step-mother who works in the basement until 7: you get home at 3 when in the third grade and all you have to do is check in and you can fuck off till 7)So I sat there and bled and when it was over I decided I liked it. So I put a band-aid on my cut and walked out. Parents asked me how I hurt myself and I fucking panicked and said playground accident I think because then I suddenly got smart and thought them knowing I cut myself would get me hit. So I have since dodged that bullet. So I hid it from then on. After that healed I said I can’t do that anymore and went back to hitting myself and barely eating dinner. The dinner thing though didn’t fly with them. I ate so little and wasted so much they yelled at me every time I went to get up and throw it away and made me stay and eat. This happened for about a week or two and I noticed I wasn’t getting as much food at dinner. Much more recently they said I’m starting to eat much more, calling me fat and other things for a later part. So this will start up again. I’m not going to eat as much. But in the weeks my parents got mad at it, I don’t think I could sit down. My father spanked me so hard for lying and not eating enough and getting bad grades and acting out because I’m dealing with things in my child head that people of his age don’t even know how to deal with I learn. He even knows it was too fucking hard because he would come in about once a month after a really really bad one and apologize for how hard he spanked me and how long he made me cry (I was still crying long after). But he came in and always ended with either ‘Okay?’or ‘It’s all water under the bridge now right?’ as me recognizing he’s not going to do it again. But the way he worded things. It was always my fault. I always pushed him too far. Me, a 7-year-old fattie, pushed my father too far and made him beat me. It was my fault. Is. I’m sorry. Is. He just. He’s not wrong. But. There’s. I feel there’s other ways to deal with a child lying about school or things or ways to stop a child from throwing tantrums other than making them fear the one that they should love.
I don’t love my father. I don’t love my mother. I don’t respect my father. I help my mother. I fear my father. I hide from my mother. My child will not think any of these things. He will love me. I will love him/her. My father did not end the chain of abuse from father to son. But, I will. I love you Taylor. I won’t write anymore tonight. I’m done for now. Just. Too stressed. I’m sorry. I need to just go away apparently to make everyone happy. I know it wouldn’t make you happy aylor. Don’t even send that in a message. It’s the only reason I’’m here. I just. I want out.
In Which I Write the Third Part
'In Which' is from one of my favorite books, My Side of the Mountain. Every chapter starts with ‘In Which’ followed by the big objective Sam tackles in that chapter or just the big idea of the chapter. It was difficult for me to grasp as a kid. I was only used to numbers followed by words, not just straight words all slanted funny. Obviously I understand now they were italicized and the start of a chapter. Sorry. Just. Something I was thinking of recently.
After I was about five my parents divorced and my sister and I went with my mother. I blamed her. For everything. I never appreciated anything she did for us. A single mother with two kids living in a single wide trailer which I later learned wasn’t even ours. Some very good friends of ours gave it to us so we could live somewhere. I was a terrible child. Don’t remember school but I know I was always getting in trouble with near perfect grades. Home life was terrible and I was a demon child from Hell. I threw remotes against the wall and shattered them. I put holes in walls and lost my voice many times. I didn’t really want either of my parents then. I mean I don’t now, but then I didn’t really know what was going on. My father leaves and then my mother gets all sad and I never see her and I’m left with all these different friends of my mother as baby-sitters. I just. I was so confused and angry. And then the outlets formed.
I was sneaking off from my guardians and my mother at least once a month and just.. roaming the woods. I punched trees and screamed and left bruises over my body. I didn’t know what to do with all of these pent up emotions. I was only six for God’s sake and I had to deal with too many things. Then one day i went out and I accidentally punched a thorny vine that just so happened to be on the tree. The thorns went and dug about half an inch into my the pointer, middle, and ring fingers on my right hand going diagonally across all three. I just remember watching the blood go down my hand. I don’t remember how long I sat there just watching it. Yes. It was painful. I remember crying. But. It was just. Surreal. Yes. I was actually calm for a few minutes. I was just staring at it wondering why I’m not doing anything. I wasn’t happy. But it was something other than these confusing feelings waging war on my mind.
The next time I went out, I looked for the vines. I found a big bush and I started to prick myself on the thorns until the pain was there and then gone so I could just watch the blood. But I just felt pain still. And then I realized that the pain was what I needed. I needed the pain. So I hurt myself a lot. I scraped myself and hit my arms. There weren’t any visible signs I was hurting myself on purpose. Just when I got really angry and in tantrums it would always seem to leave me with cuts or a bruise.
I remember one time I got very mad at my mother for something. I had thrown the remote at the tv and missed but broke the remote. I was running across the house screaming with no concern for hearing loss. I was throwing things and knocking down pictures. I didn’t know that my father was in Virginia though. He was working in Florida after the divorce. My mom and my sister and me in Maryland at the time. So my mom called my dad and he drove the three hours over to knock on the front door and walk in. I stopped in my tracks and stared because I didn’t like him. He hits and screams too much. So he gets me and pulls me by my left arm off of the floor (the first of the only two times he has ever been mad enough to lift me) and walked the five or six steps (for him) to my and my sister’s room where he proceeded to beat me on the ass until I wasn’t seeing so right. He didn’t know that, but he should’ve figured when I couldn’t even make words anymore in the scream. No ahhh or ehhh. Just a primal scream of absolute fear and terror and the bad kind of pain. I never came out of my room for the rest of that week. My mother dragged me to dinner that I never ate and yelled when I didn’t touch my plate. Same routine for breakfast. So I only ate lunch at school for about three days. I didn’t get hungry and this wasn’t what lead onto my eating disorders. I just didn’t eat or speak. I isolated myself. It was the beginning of my hate for my dad.
I still hate him and all the abuse he’s bestowed upon me. But. I’m gonna leave it there. Next, my mom switches custody to my Dad because I got too much, but there’s more too that too. So. Next time. I really miss you Taylor.
Part the Second
It’s the thirteenth of November. I want to take a moment and apologize for how I’m going to stop with my story for this first part. I was bad today. I should tell you I struggle with depression, self-harm, binging and purging eating disorders, and voices inside my head that like to make me feel like my insides are ripping apart over indecision. Back to today though. I am seven months are 12 days clean. Today started with me having to dress up in fancy-ish clothes for a certain club we have at school. Inside my head the day goes by so much worse than normal. I pick out random people in the hallways and ask myself why their staring and I go from there and generate their thoughts in my head about how I shouldn’t wear these kinds of clothes and then they go to their friends and tell them how I looked like an oaf in my clothes and then they all laugh and then he grows up and goes to college and meets someone (I mean he or she but I use he) and then as he’s sharing stories on his first date with her about high school experiences he tells her about this medium height idiot walking around in this dark blue shirt with hair too long and messy and khakis that came up to the ankle when he had to step over something and just how funny he looked and then they both laugh. I do this to many people all between classes and simulate their lives and how terrible they think of me and how the laugh at me. Never with me. Always at me. Or my actions that I said another person did because you don’t just tell stories about the dumb things other people do. That’s rude. But. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I do that a lot because I get overwhelmed and I start thinking about all these different things I need to say so I don’t explode tomorrow because it’s going to be just like today. I’m sorry. Today.
Dressed up and had everyone else’s degrading thoughts in the hallways aimed at me (even if I didn’t go through college with them I still just can’t have a person come off thinking something nice about me). School is always such a hard thing to do anyways because of how stressful it is. I’m always just so stressed because even when things are at it its best its still going to fall. It will fall. Always. And the academic sense of school can be very stressful because that is all home life depends on. But. I’m sorry. I rambled. I’m sorry. I am. Clothes to school then I get to second period where Mr.Adams sucks at teaching me for some reason. That makes those 45 minutes really hard especially when other people already know me from certain viewpoints or masks. They’re masks. Specific masks for each specific person. So no one can know how I really am. Then I go to third period where Ryan makes jokes about my mom. I know he’s just making fun and teasing, but I love my mother and I really want to hurt him and cry she he says these things. He doesn’t know her. He just. You don’t do that either. Then fourth period with lunch that I don’t eat because fasting is better than purging or binging. I just volunteer at the library because there’s less people there. I don’t like people. Fifth period is the only time I can ever have any relief because of one person who doesn’t berate me on the things I do or say, look down at me, or even just be mean to anyone really. Her name is Krista and she doesn’t really know how much she has done. I should clarify that Taylor is the only person I fully trust with all the details of my life’s past, present, and future. And the only one I truly love with every fiber of my being. Krista still has a mad and still must put up with my stuttering and mood swings which are really just me switching masks because I’m still trying to make some people’s. But. She was very sad today even though it’s something most people do thousands of times a day, to her it’s a rarity. But she said mean things. You could count the mean statements on one hand I bet. I know they were mean, and maybe even evil like how she described them. But only because she takes so much abuse. She doesn’t show it. She’s very good at that. But you learn to see things over 10 years of doing the exact same thing on such a large scale. She keeps everything they say and push it far far down into a dark ball of hate that does get too big. It always does without outlets and I know this because I have had outlets, and times where I tried to stop using them, followed by times where I’ve had no choice but to overuse them. So she yelled at someone. You all read this and think big deal, but you don’t know her. You don’t see her everyday and slowly ask the right questions to figure out how similar we had it and how differently we have it at the same time. It’s just the right questions and then realizing when you need to stop because they are still another person that has no idea about me and that you can make the person being..,researched I guess you could call it, sad or uncomfortable when asking questions. I want to say thank you though. To Krista. You don’t know what you do every school day for me. And when I asked if you needed a hug. I was really the one that needed it. I am really sorry you were bad today, but you need to keep mantras for those days. Tomorrow will be better. Taylor told me that one. She said it stops you from thinking about ending today and just pushing through because tomorrow will be better. And if it isn’t. Then tomorrow will be better. Just. Thank you. I’ve been getting worse and worse by the day and Taylor is helping me, but we barely have any time together anymore. I just. It’s been very hard and I just recently decided I can’t cut because Taylor had to leave school early with some somewhat serious medical problems. If you do read this. Don’t treat me any differently please. Just know that I do appreciate you and you shouldn’t be so down. You are aloud to talk about things. I hope you know you can trust me. Taylor, I love you. You just went to bed. I feel better now that I’ve written. I won’t cut. I will keep my promise. I love you so very much Taylor. We will get our lives. Forever. Sorry I didn’t write anymore about my story, but I needed to write about today.
So I feel like I should post something even though I know it will get lost in the hundreds of posts that flood each and every one of your dashboards. And I’ve decided I want to tell my story. It isn’t long as I’m only 16 years old as of the eighth this month, but I think it will help me and maybe give insight to other people and the small insignificant details they give to one person that turn into piles of problems for the passerby.
My name is Kyle R. Clarke. The r is for Robert, my dead uncle. He drowned in a pool in front of the babysitter. I feel no grief from this. I don’t know why. People might be surprised when I tell them or proud at me for carrying on his name. But. He could’ve been anyone. Why should I have to hold his name and bring accomplishments to him? He could’ve have gone into the mob like my grandfather, joined the government like my father and uncle and aunt( I think ). But no. He died. And now he’s with me. So. Not the best introduction, but I feel I’ve stated my point that I have issues. Serious is not a label I would put in front but certain professionals have told me otherwise. Now. That’s my name and I suppose I should start from the beginning. That way you can learn all about how I learned all about the voices in my head and all the other stuff that makes life worth living. Excuse me now for ranting, grammar, spelling, and rambling.
Being born two weeks early is normally a bad thing, yes? Well. Not for me. I was actually overweight when I was expelled from the birth canal of my mother on the eighth of November at 4:13 in the afternoon. It started out with my mother at home. Her water breaks and decides to go bat shit crazy. But for good reason. You see, my dad was at a ‘work meeting’ shooting pool and drinking at a local bar. So my mom blows up his pager and phone, but my dad was shooting so he couldn’t respond. Then my mom calls the bar and he answers, drunk, and learns that I’m on the way. So. He rushes home on his motorcycle. Drunk. Do drive my mother to the hospital. Just starting to sober up. Then the usual screaming and pushing follows and then I come around ready to go home healthy and fat. I was colicky and screamed only at night. Had a blanket I wouldn’t let go of. Watched Blues Clues and Teletubbies. And was pretty much a kid. I think I’ll stop here because this is the nicest it gets for about 10 years. We end this section with me at 5 years of age. Blonde hair. Living in Chesapeake Beach, Maryland with a father and a mother. I’ll write some more later I think. I liked this. Goodnight.
A remix of Royals that I find so much better than the original. Just my opinion though.