Category Archives: Random Thoughts.

I Miss My Friend

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5

 I miss my friend. 

It’s there. It hits me like a ton of bricks in the chest and knocks me over. I don’t know how to get up. I’m struggling. 

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it is a nice morning. I am sitting outside in the garden working, because I know sunshine and fresh air is good for the soul and mental wellbeing. Sitting outside in such a beautiful day and I would normally think this is great. 

It’s just quiet. The dogs are sitting in the shade, the back door to the house is open and I have music playing. 

I feel like a pot that’s been broken and stuck back together. I move around, pieces of me fall away, crumbling to the ground and I kick them under the sofa, into holes, into the dark where no one can see the many ways I’m falling apart. 

I’m silent, but I’m screaming and all I can do is look at the many ways I failed. 

But I didn’t. 

I want to say I told you so. 

I’m not so good with friends. I don’t ever manage to keep them. They don’t stay, not when they know me, when they see me. 

And it’s funny because I always warn them. I always say one day you’ll leave. Everyone does. It’s usually my fault for it. But they go in the end. 

And they always tell me no. That they know themselves, and I don’t. That they’ll never leave. Nothing would ever make them go. “You’re stuck with me.”

I wish I could time travel. Go back each time to that conversation and show them a ball with the images of now. 

I’m always right. 

Always. 

No one sticks around. Sometimes I did something, and sometimes it’s just what it is. In the end, though, it’s always the same. 

I never try to hurt anyone. I’m not malicious or hurtful. I know what pain feels like. I don’t have it in me to inflict it onto anyone else. Even those who deserve it. 

Of course, I do things that hurt others, but I never mean to. It just happens. 

I end up here in some way. 

I don’t know how to pick myself up. I’m trying. I’ve managed to eat. Rice crackers and some fruit. Each mouthful has felt so hard, like a lump going down my throat and settling into my stomach. 

My OCD examines every piece, every mouthful because the food might make me sick, and I have to test the taste. 

OCD is my protector, the guardian who keeps me safe. It’s sensing danger right now, but not sure where the problem is. It knows I’m in pain. 

I deserve it. 

When I did therapy a decade ago for my OCD, she told me that when I am upset, or stressed, or something is bothering me, then my OCD will go a little crazy. It has. It’s out of control in the places it senses danger. My hands are so raw they look like I’ve dragged them down a cheese grater. They bleed and hurt to move when I type. 

My OCD has also declared war on the colour green. I’m not sure why. I have my suspicions. The car that broke my family all those years ago was a green MG and just typing those words sends shudders down my spine and through my body. 

I’ve had a loss, and maybe it’s linking to a previous one. 

So green is the enemy. I can’t write with a green pen because every word I scribble down will be somehow tainted and something terrible will come from it. I can’t wear my favourite green jeans, so they sit in the drawer. I can’t wear a green t-shirt or use a green cup. I can’t even cross the road when there is a green car around. 

I just hope it doesn’t focus on the foods I eat. They’re all naturally green, but maybe that is why food is so hard to swallow right now. 

Something bad happened, and now my OCD is trying to compensate. To ease the tightness in my chest I feel all the time, to calm me down. 

I made two days with no cuts but failed this morning. The weight in my head was too much. So I gave it what it wanted then got up and came outside. I made myself move, because I need to live, I want to live, even when I want to just turn out the lights. It’s a fight inside my head. A war with my spirit and my soul. 

I never ever mean to hurt anyone. My intentions are always right and I tell myself that, every time the trigger pops into my head and takes my breath away leaving me crushed. 

I wish I could pull everything out, dump it on the ground and walk away. 

I wish I could leave me too. 

A Place for a Broken Heart

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7

My Healing Place

It has been some time since I have written on here. So long that as I write this in a word document and think maybe I’ll post this on my blog, I’m not even sure I’ll be able to remember the password. 

Does my blog still exist?

I’ll find out. 

The blog has always been my healing place. The place for me to talk, to share my feelings, to put down things I can’t say to anyone else, and I’d like to say that maybe I’ve done healing, that I’ve been feeling so much better, and I didn’t need to come here, but I think I forgot myself. 

This is my place to come and be my authentic self. A place where I can just talk about what is in my head and not worry about any of the repercussions that may come from that. But, that in itself is strange and odd, because I write under a pen name. I wear a literary mask, yet the times when I am not myself, when I wear the shroud of someone else, I am myself. I am me. 

The mask allows me to be who I am inside. It allows me to not fear rejection, to not fear pain, to not hate myself. It allows me to make connections that I would have otherwise shied away from. But does that mean because I don’t give my real outside self, that I am not giving who I am to another?

It is the only way anyone who ever like me, because no one likes the real me. Not even myself.

It is so hard. 

How does anyone put themselves out there? How do we risk pain?

It’s taken therapy and insights to understand why I feel better when I am not me, and maybe it’ll take a long time to undo what caused it, maybe I’ll never undo it. 

I don’t like myself. I hate myself. 

That is so hard to write and so hard to admit, and when you say it, people don’t want to really listen. They don’t want to hear and they don’t understand.  They want to tell you it isn’t true.

When I look in the mirror, I see something else. I am shocked. I’ve built up this other self so much that when I am reminded of the real me, it hurts. I want to erase him. I want to reach into the glass and pull away his face and deny he exists. 

I want to make him vanish and scream at him. 

My parents did that to me, I think. I mean, maybe. If they couldn’t love me, then how can anyone else, and how can I even love myself in all the parts I had to play in the childhood I had in the life where things have gone wrong?

I struggled when my father was still alive to play the part of the caring child, when I had to look after him, when I had to put away the parts of me that ached. 

I’m not sure which loss affected me the most. When I lost my innocence at five, or when my parents left me. They both haunt me in their own ways. 

Because maybe my father’s pleasure was the only thing, I was good for in his life. 

But I am not really talking to the page for that. They’re just the whisperings in my head of how this happened.

I lost a friend this month. Not to death or sickness, or anything that takes them out of the world, but to a mistake. To an argument. To things that can’t be undone or changed. Yet, I grieve. Loss is loss. I’m sure they grieve too. I’m sorry.

Pain is ugly and hard and I’m struggling with it. I’m wishing it away and in many ways wishing for life to end so I no longer feel. I know I could make that happen, and I have thought about it. 

I have cut my skin and thought about cutting lower, deeper, of reaching in to try to make it all feel better. 

I’ve thought about jumping, about running into the sea and just to keep going until there is no where else to go.

I hate the feeling when it’s all through my body and I can’t move. I feel paralysed by it. I feel like I will never feel happy again. My heart hurts and breaks and I don’t know how to make it go away. 

I have had loss before. Bigger losses, smaller losses, but loss all the same, and they hurt, yet I remind myself I have survived every single bad day in my life. I have made it here. I have wiped away every single tear I’ve shed. 

And sure, I have fallen along the way and been unwell with it and suffered so many mental battles that I still bear the scars for, but I am here, and I am breathing, and I am alive. 

It is sad to think that a year from now, me and the friend will be nothing more than strangers. People who used to know each other, who may occasionally think of the other. We’ll be memories, chapters in each other’s lives.

I will miss her. 

I miss her now and maybe the intensity of that will fade. 

She’s been a big part of my life, and maybe some of the reason I’ve not needed to come here. 

But I’ve also had people. Through my words I have found an army who have helped me in more ways than they’ll ever know. 

I’ve been lucky, but I still feel …

I feel pain, and sadness, and hurt, and anger, and grief, and regret and sorrow. I feel broken. Like the jagged pieces are there, cutting into me and making it that I don’t know what to do with myself. 

If I hold my breath, maybe I can stop breathing, and if I stop breathing, maybe I can stop feeling …

For just a little while at least. 

A misunderstanding.

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14

Wow. I think judging by the responses to yesterday’s blog post, you all got it wrong, well, I put it out there wrong. Because the common thing was that post and how it probably seemed.

I was getting out my anger. I have a lot of that at the moment. I think it gets stirred up sometimes when things occur. It was my father’s birthday just recently and that sure as hell fires up my brain with all the thoughts.

I know some of you mentioned me being down. I’m not. I am a happy person. Ironic, I know. I have depression, but I consider myself a happy person. Or at least, a positive person. I have depression. It’s a little chemical torturous bastard inside my head that tries to lie to me. Tries to steal my happiness, and in those best times when I am achieving things I want, it will whisper at me, “well what’s the point in doing that?” I think that is not the same as being a sad person, or a miserable person, or in some deep dark hole. I refuse that part. Of course, I have down days, and sad days and days where I have to fight to get myself out of bed, but I am not negative.

Yesterday’s post was just an expression of some things—an outlet for me. It was about a few things really. About anger, about when my brain tries to make me fall apart. About friendship … mostly about friendship.

I struggle to have friends. Not because of them, but because of me. I think it can be even worse if you know my story, because there’s this sort of pity there, and that’s fine. You’d not be human if you didn’t feel some pity to the things in my books. People who know my story think the things that are wrong with me, can be fixed, but they can’t. No. I am me.

As I have got older, I have reached a place where it is more, this is me, accept me or don’t. I have problems. I have mental health issues. Aside from Depression, I also have OCD and borderline personality disorder. I was also diagnosed with a touch of DIDNOS. If you don’t know what that is, it stands for dissociative identity disorder not otherwise specified. Basically, it is like having an identify disorder, but not quite. I am sure you’ve seen split … not that it is like that for me, but that is full blown DID. It’s like having different personalities for different tasks. It makes for an interesting thing with me, and quite scary to share here because the movie world has made that illness into something of a scary aspect of mental health.

I do also suffer from derealisation, which is as it sounds, I quite often don’t feel realty. Literally, I don’t feel like I exist. It is one heck of a weird feeling when it happens, and probably the one thing I hate the most. I was about nine when that developed. I guess it was a coping mechanism at the time.

You can imagine, being in my head is not always fun. Being my friend is even harder. And I’m not being all low self-esteem like when I say it is hard to be friends with me. It is. I have meltdowns. I go from calm to manic in a few seconds. Especially if my abandonment issues get triggered.

I say the wrong things.

I jump in and out of versions of myself. People who talk to me, may or may not notice the DIDNOS part of me and how I can switch into different (I’d say personalities, but it isn’t quit that.) more like versions of myself.

The problem I was having is that sometimes people get mad with me. I frustrate them, because what seems normal to someone else, isn’t for me. I remember upsetting a friend because her son was sick, and I didn’t ask if she was okay. I didn’t ask, because her son was sick, I knew she wasn’t okay. To my head, it was a pointless question, but my lack of question meant she thought I didn’t care. I did. I just didn’t know what to do or say.

If someone cancels plans on me, it’s like they’ve told me they’re going to die. It is that serious to me. That little child version of myself hops on out and throws out the emotions of the kid who was left on the side of the road by his parents at age 7. I can’t help it. It’s like a cancellation touches that wound, and out he comes, fears and tears and everything else. And there is nothing you can do to calm me down. Let me ride it out, let me shout, accuse, whatever it is. That issue for me is like a chain reaction.

Cancelled plans = child meltdown = other person not understanding and trying to reason like an adult … it isn’t an adult they’re really dealing with = self-harm, panic attacks and suicidal thoughts because right then, that little boy inside is seeing how hated he must be and wanting to end the pain.

I am a quiet person, but I am also a chatter box. Depends which part of me you get. Sometimes I will talk your ear off, laugh, joke and all other things. Other times, I won’t speak to you for days. I can imagine how hard that is for someone else … someone who doesn’t understand and thinks it’s personal. It isn’t. I promise you.

I very rarely start conversations, in my personal life or on Facebook. Not because I don’t want to, but because I get afraid the other person won’t reply. It’s easier for me to say nothing, than to risk even the slightest bit of rejection.

The more you get to know me, the more I start to think you won’t like me. If I talk about something, I can guarantee the next day, I am thinking to myself, god, you must hate me and wish I’d shut up. And this comes from the child part too. If my own parents couldn’t like me, how will anyone else?

This leads to my self-harm tendencies too. Usually I get mad at myself for saying something dumb. Out comes the little blade and the swearing at myself.

It’s fucking nuts living in my head. I tell you.

It’s very misleading being my friend too. Because you’ll know me first as a normal person. That part of me comes out, and chats to you like the next person and the next, but the more I get to know you, the comfier I get, and the more the other parts of me will come out. And this person trying to be my friend, comes down the road with me.

I don’t know if I explain it well enough.

Imagine there is version #1. That’s the version everyone sees first. He’s friendly, happy, no problems. Strong, whatever. Just a normal guy.

Under that is version #2. He’s got a little problem, but not much. It’s manageable. Sometimes he just can’t get out of bed. And that’s okay.

Version #3 is a little worse than #2

Then there are, #4, and 5 and 6 and so on, until you get to #9. This is the one that is broken in so many ways. The child I guess.

The more of my friend you get, the closer you get to peeling it all back and finding #9.

You know the song, Unwell by Matchbox Twenty. The part

 

But I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell
I know right now you can’t tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you’ll see
A different side of me.

 

That’s it. That’s exactly what it is like. And what happens is the person wanting to be my friend can’t cope. They can’t understand and they ask me to stop. Ask me to change or be better, and I can’t.

And if you’ve read Teddy, and then ask me to be well … this was where yesterday’s post came from. I can’t switch myself off and be what people want. I can only be me … the raw, hard to live with, hard to be friends with, version of me.

If you had a friend who ran marathons, and then suddenly got hit by a car, ended up disabled and in a wheelchair, which meant you now had to push them around in the chair all the time and it was damn tiring, would you ask them to try to walk?

I think not. This is the same for me.

People keep expecting me to walk, and I can’t.

 

Sorry it’s such a long post, and if you’ve read it all. Thank you all so much for replying, for listening. I hope you understand some things above. They’re bloody scary to share. You know, because my head wants to tell me the admittance of things is likely to send you running.

 

How do you fight your brain with your brain?

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How do you fight your brain with your brain?

I sit here today, feeling somewhat a mess, and I don’t even know why. All I want to do is slip from my chair, get under my desk and hide. If I thought it would help, I’d consider it. All I can do instead, is sit at my desk with my head in my hands, and try to think myself into feeling better, but the thing I need to use to feel better is the same part of me that doesn’t feel well, and all my thoughts seem to do is crash.

I write this, and I don’t feel real. I make my fingers go across the keys and words are coming out on the screen, but none of it makes any sense to me because I just feel like an echo in my own head and I don’t know how to make it stop.

Part of me whispers that I could make everything stop if I wanted to. I could fix it, end it. Maybe. I feel like I could stand somewhere really high and just fall back and it wouldn’t matter anyway, because I’m not really real.

I hate when I feel this way and as I write, my head asks me why I am writing. Why would anyone care what I feel? I may or may not post this on my blog, if you’re reading this, then I posted it …obviously.

Do you know what is the real kicker with my mental health? I have OCD as well and so when I sit here thinking, please let me die, my OCD whispers, well what if you wish that and get cancer? Maybe I can make myself sick by wishing it and so I get afraid to wish I could die and then afraid to be here and it all becomes a mess, and do you see the problem I have.

My skin is tingling with all of this and my thoughts won’t stay still and at the moment, I can’t sleep. Sometimes I rock myself to sleep. That’s been a habit of self-soothing since I was a child, but when I get off to sleep, then I can’t stay asleep and I am checking for something. I don’t even know what it is.

I wish I could die from myself, does that even make sense? Like if I could get rid of the part of me that is switched onto this brain … if I could just cut that part out. I feel like a bunch of different people trapt inside one body and they’re all fighting to take control.

This is all just part of my dissociation condition, and I know that, but it doesn’t make it any better knowing.

I learnt to dissociate at such a young age. I was reading that this actually makes it harder to recover, the younger you are. But I don’t know. It helped me get through things when I was little. I wish I could go back some days and just kill that child I used to be. At least then I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t feel everything in my head.

If there was an easy way to make everything over without hurting those who mean something to me, I would do it. Time travel seems about the only option and that’s not something real either.

I’d go to the doctors if I thought it would help, but they don’t know what to do. Not really. How can they? They could put me on some unit somewhere and let me sit in these feelings with no means of doing anything to myself, but that wouldn’t fix what I feel. If I am just going to sit and wait it out, I can do that here.

Or they’d give me more medication. I already take something.

They say if you feel suicidal to tell someone. So, I’m telling you, whoever you are reading this. I’m sure it’s a trick my mind wants to play on me. I’m sure I won’t do anything. But it’s how I feel. It’s what my head whispers.

I’m sorry.

I’m just going to go and lie in the middle of my floor where I can feel safe from myself.

I’m so OCD

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7

I was talking to my mate today, and he asked me a question and used that phrase that makes me want to punch people in the head … is it because they’re OCD?

Now, I forgive my friend for this because I know he doesn’t understand the disorder. He doesn’t understand it because society is so damn stupid with it that they make it impossible for it to be understood.

I get annoyed at memes over OCD. They show things out of place, and then there are all these comments about it setting their OCD off. Or people make comments about something, I’m so OCD about …… 

I was at Uni a couple of years back and a woman there said, she had slight OCD because she hates coffee tables being messy and has to tidy them. I said, oh yes. I have slight paraplegia. My legs go numb when I sit too long. The looks I got … but to me, that is how stupid her comment sounded.

I have OCD, and I feel I have to clarify, that I have REAL OCD. I am not a neat freak. I don’t like things tidy or in line or whatever because of this condition. I don’t give a shit if I have all of my orange M&Ms mixed with the yellow ones.

OCD has three words. Obsessive … compulsive … disorder.

People need to understand that when something is a disorder, it is not a quirk. It is not cute. It is not this thing that comes and goes. No. It is a disorder because it brings disorder to your life. It causes problems. It can, and does, ruin many lives with it.

I wish people would stop using it so flippantly, so people like me could get better understanding from others.

Have you ever gone out and then thought, did I lock the door? You get that feeling inside yourself, like you’ve forgotten something. It’s a niggle, but its manageable. That is part of OCD, but …

Have you ever got a song stuck in your head and by stuck, I mean, it is driving you bonkers and you keep humming it to yourself? I am sure you have.

Put those two components together, and you have the start of an OCD thought. But increase it. That, did I lock the door becomes a stuck record. It becomes so stuck that it goes over and over in your head. And you try to remember, but when you try to picture locking the door, your mind is so confused with thoughts of, well what if you didn’t. What if you only thought you did?

So what happens?

You go back and check the door.

No, worrying if you locked the door and going back to check it, is something people without OCD do. It’s fine. But … remember for someone with OCD, it is at song stuck phase.

Someone with OCD will check, and check, and check. And you know, maybe they just can’t get that thought to go away. So they get the idea of, well if I unlock it and then relock it, then I know for sure I locked it. So they do that.

Guess what?

Doesn’t work. Your OCD sufferer then does it again, and again … familiar, right? You see people say they turn light switches on and off, or plug sockets. Even Neil Hilborn in his poem talks about doing just that. This is why.

OCD is a freight train of repetitive thoughts that are so loud and so insistent that they make us do things to try and calm them.

I iron clothes to perfection. I iron them within an inch of their lives. My son thinks this is because I am a neat freak, and I want everything flat and neat. Nope. Not at all. This comes from being a parent and having OCD. Somewhere in my muddled brain, to be a better parent, I had to be perfect. I had to get everything right. That meant my kids had nice clothes. Nice clothes have to look neat. If I don’t make them neat, then I am showing I don’t care about my children, and if I don’t care about my children, the universe, God, fate, whatever, will take them away because I don’t deserve them. So … basically, if I do not iron my children’s clothes perfectly, my children will die, and it will be my fault.

Tell me how this compares to someone who sees some dust and their OCD comes out?

To someone reading this, badly ironed clothes causing the death of children, seems nuts, bonkers. Hell, even I know it is stupid, but OCD whispers to me. He leans in and says, yeah, maybe it is crazy, but what if?

And this is just an example. This isn’t a one off occurrence that only happens when I iron. OCD makes sure it is in every corner of my life.

What if I don’t fill the kettle right? Maybe it’ll blow up? Maybe it will splash a germ in and I’ll get sick and then I can’t look after my kids, and then they leave.

What if I wear my blue jeans on Friday’s instead of the green ones? And I’m not even kidding, that is one of the things I have to do or not do.

OCD comes in many shapes and forms. Usually it is always, a thought, followed by a way to fix it, followed by more thoughts, followed by more fixes and it gets to the point of taking over your life. Then it is a disorder.

Could you imagine saying, oh, my diabetes is coming out? Or, I have slight cancer. My back hurts every time I see a ladder …

It’s so stupid.

I live with OCD. Every minute of my day. Not just when it doesn’t like something.

I know my little rant won’t change how the world sees it, but it sure as hell makes me feel better getting it out. And I hope, someone understands.

Obsessive compulsive disorder is an illness. A very debilitating illness.

 

Why Watching Child Pornography is a crime.

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I recently had a debate with someone about child pornography. I left the discussion because it was triggering me and not because I agreed with them.

Basically, I had commented about a celebrity who had ended their life and they were facing punishment for owning and viewing child pornography. I had commented that I wasn’t sorry about his death, which, I wasn’t. Not that I wished him dead. I never wish anyone dead, but as far as I am concerned, he had committed a crime.

The person who debated this with me, did not agree. He said that it was a victimless crime because the man wasn’t actually hurting those children. I disagree with that too. Maybe he wasn’t actually touching the children or abusing them, but he was funding the system. And that doesn’t have to be financially. He could have funded it by creating a demand for it.

Imagine if everyone in the world stopped smoking, companies would stop making cigarettes because it would be pointless. If the entire world became vegetarian, people wouldn’t raise animals for slaughter for their meat. Mime films are no longer watched, and therefore no longer really made.

It is supply and demand.

I also get that removing one uses of child porn will not stop it, but it is one less and that is never a bad thing.

By watching child pornography, a person is supporting the production of it, and in doing that, they are supporting child abuse, rape and whatever else happens. By watching it, owning it, downloading it, or whatever, a person is participating in the activity of abusing children.

But also, those children .. they are real. They exist. Someone somewhen has them. If your mate took photographs of your partner, and then got off on it, sat and downloaded it, you would be mad. You would feel that they violated your partner.

Another argument that people say, is that it manages the urges. I don’t think so. Most crimes start small. Drug users start with cannabis, rapists start with exposing themselves, thieves start with shoplifting. How long before it goes from watching, to doing?

It is no different than if you buy stolen goods … you become part of the crime.

A Few Questions

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3

I was asked some general wonderings, too, when I asked what people wanted to know. I guess that these are things I can’t quite cover in the book, so I’ll answer them here. Anything else I might not cover, just ask on my page or here, or message me. 🙂 I try to answer as best as I can.

These come from Kimberly:

 

“What happened to Nathan? “

 

We were friends until I was around 27. I still see him on Facebook, but we don’t talk that much really. He doesn’t live far away. As far as I can see, he is happy. We drifted apart because as my mental health got worse, I started to cancel things and eventually, he stopped asking. I miss him a lot, though.

“Are you still friends with anyone from college? “

 

No, aside from Facebook, I don’t see them anymore.

“Do you still live in the same area? “
I don’t live that far away from where I grew up. Probably just a 15-minute drive.
“How are you doing without being in therapy?”
I found therapy useless to be honest. I do better alone. My last one, last year, was pretty bad. He wouldn’t let me talk about anything. He’d say, What does it matter? It’s in the past. And had me down as having low self-esteem issues, which I don’t.

I did have CBT for my OCD at one point, but it didn’t cure it, just helped me to calm it a little. I needed that back then. I was living in a bubble.

I went to one therapist about my PTSD and the badman. He pretty much accused me of having an overactive imagination and said we’re all afraid of the dark when we’re on our own.

So, without therapy, I cope as best as I can.
“Do your children know anything about your abuse?”

 

They don’t have a clue. They know little things, like me not having a bed until I was 9, but no, they have no idea really, and I am glad about that.

 

“I’m also curious why your brother hates your dad so much. Was he aware of the things going on maybe, and just didn’t say? Was he abused in some way? Do you have a relationship with either of your brothers?”

 

I don’t exactly know why my brother hates my dad so much. I think it’s just a bad relationship and that our father is selfish, and he sees that. They fell out really when my brother asked me lots of questions, like whether my Nan used to beat me, like our parents had claimed. He realised it had all been lies and that made him angry. I don’t think he was abused, but he has issues from living in that house. Maybe he saw things. He was in the same bed as my father and I. He doesn’t live too far away. He comes and goes, but we talk. My older brother lives abroad now; we talk on Facebook. I have other siblings from later in life. My youngest sister is 12. I don’t really have contact with them, though.

 

 

Favourite Things

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6

When I asked what people wanted to hear, there are a few posts that asked about me now. So here are the questions. Melina asked: “I may have missed it somewhere, but would love to know about your life now. “

Favorite_Things
Zelda: “Your favourite authors and books. What are your favourite hobbies and things to do?”

Kimberly: “What kind of movies do you like?”
These are all pretty easy ones. 🙂
Favourite authors – there are so many. Stephen King is probably my most favourite. I have everything he ever wrote. You can blame my Nan for that, as she bought me Carrie when I was little. Then, Dean Koontz, Joe Hill, Kelley Armstrong, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Laurell K Hamilton, Rachel Vincent, Charlaine Harris, James Herbert, George R. R. Martin, J. R. R. Tolkein, Graham Matheson, Clive Barker, Kathy Reichs, Jeff Lindsay, Linwood Barclay, Robert Zimbardo and so many more.
Hobbies… again, I have so many. I love to write fiction as well as the Teddy series. I love to read. Movies. I am a huge gamer – when I have time. I play World of Warcraft, Skyrim, my Xbox, etc. I used to once own a gaming site that had over 30k members on it. 🙂
I love to go to the gym and eat healthily. I believe this is partly how I remain sane. I love to draw as well. When I was 16, I actually got into a higher diploma for my art, but turned it down to do my high school certificates instead. I like to garden and do general DIY in my house.
I love model painting. I have many game workshop models and models of motorbikes around my house. I love to bike, both motor and cycle. I love to run; I toy with the idea of entering a marathon sometimes and raising money for OCD awareness. I love to cook – I am a qualified baker. I love music as well. The louder the better. I love rock music and attend many concerts. I have met many singers and bands. 🙂 I love psychology and philosophy and have a great interest in those. Psychology is actually the topic I study now at university. I hope to do my PhD and become a doctor within the topic. 🙂
Movies – I love anything really. Con air has to be my most watched movie. I love anything by Tim Burton; he is my favourite. Of course, Stephen King films – I can watch the Green Mile and Shawshank Redemption over and over. I love vampires and werewolves too, especially Underworld, but none of the Twishite stuff. 😉 I also like all the Marvel and DC movies. 🙂 I love TV shows too. I watch Dexter, True Blood, Person of Interest, Walking Dead, Forever, Gotham and many more.
I know no one asked this, but music is a big one. It helps me a lot. I love Korn. If you don’t know them or about them, the lead singer went through something similar when he was little. Listen to the song Daddy, but be warned it is very hard to listen to. The rest of his songs just speak to me. They say how I feel. There is always a song for my mood. I love Nickelback, Lifehouse, Theory of a Deadman, Slipknot, Seether, Shinedown, Billy Talent, Heaven’s Basement, Disturbed, Godsmack, Evanescence, Skillet, Halestorm, and lots more.
My life now – it’s kind of simple. I live with my partner. I have my two children and my two grandchildren. I am at university studying neuropsychology and hoping to go into research for mental health, but the brain side, as I don’t believe that antidepressants work. I spend my time with my family and my one friend. I write and read when I have time and game too. I try to go to the gym and look after myself as much as I can physically, because this helps me maintain myself mentally. When one thing falls down, the whole lot seems to.
Anything else, just comment and I’ll add it. 🙂

Stolen Everything

by

16

I think as I go more and more through this journey in my life, I discover more and more has been stolen. Of course, I lost my innocence a long time ago, and maybe that was the worst thing to lose. Or maybe it was that I lost myself and who I was meant to be, but there are moments, things, that I never realised I had lost.
Sympathy.
Not mine. It’s a weird thing to lose. I sit here with my chest tight and my shoulders weighted down, but there is no one to really turn to. People’s dislike for my dad is stronger and they can’t see. They can’t see what is being taken from me.
When normal people’s fathers are sick, suffering with something like cancer, and the normal person sees their parent slipping away. When the adult who raised them suddenly needs help to fasten shoelaces, make meals or simply fill out a form. They talk to their friends, they get hugs and care and sympathy.
I find myself in this place I never imagined, where that has been stolen from me. I tell people my father is sick, and they say good. Inside, the child who is there, who loves his father, wraps his arms around himself for comfort. 231b6640ef7d79030ade6674b2b0185d
When I say that I am helping my dad, fixing his car, cooking his meal, I am told that I am doing more than he deserves. I end up finding myself torn between what feels right to do and what people think I should do.
When people ask me why I would help him, my answer is because he is my dad. I find myself envious of that normal person who wouldn’t be asked why, but would be asked, what help do you need.
I wish I was a normal person. Instead, he is my abuser and I am his victim. But I wish the world would see that he is my dad, and I am his son.
I never knew that this part had been stolen.