I’m not sure why I’m sharing this, all of this, everything. It’s all just been eating away at me, these thoughts, feelings, memories, phantasms. So much so, that I’ve been spending every literal moment, drowning in my own mind, in a sea of untamed emotions and abstract thoughts. I hate it. I feel like a prisoner in my own body, unable to express or release any real feelings I may have, I find myself incapable of doing so. The tongue is a weak muscle… incapable of bearing the burden of relaying thoughts of relatively high weight , density and complexity from the internal world to the external one. I think I’m posting this here, because I want to empty my excess of self, lest I implode or self-destruct. I don’t expect advice, or even a reply to this post, I just wish for everything to be out there for the first time, but not among too many people, too many eyes… besides, with the magnitude and multitude of the content in this auto biography, I fear I would seem like a “troll” I think I have three whole “IRL” friends, but alas the culture in which they, and myself, were raised in is not conducive of the level maturity, and open mindedness that I ask of a person before I trust them with much information about myself. Now the real rant… I’ll start from the beginning, I’m sorry it’s so long… 4 pages in times new roman font size 10.
October 28th 1992, I was born to my mother, who had just turned 18 four months prior. My mother didn’t want to hold me. I was sickly, born with Jaundice and a congenital heart defect, a yellow-sclera-blue eyed-baby was uncommon around these parts to say the least. She said that it was because she was squeamish, but I suspect that the real reason had something to due with events that transpired approximately nine months prior. For a few weeks now, my mum had been dating one Michael Cates, curly hair, piercing eyes, smooth, lightly sun kissed skin. He was quite the image. Renowned bad boy, and spoiled brat of one of the wealthiest families in New Providence, or all of the Bahamas for that matter. The kind of boy who had his pick of the women. The kind of boy who was accustomed to getting what he wanted I wager. At some point in the relationship my mother discovered that he was cheating on her, with more than one girl. She attempted to confront him. I’m not sure of details but he didn’t take rejection well. He raped her, and left her, though he did not leave her entirely alone, he left us alone with only each other to mourn over that first nudge in the domino effect. I obtained this information quite bluntly when I was 11 and was assailing her with endless questions as to what papa was like… that sure silenced my questioning, ha ha. Mum always reminds me nowadays, that she was grateful to God for the pregnancy as she was depressed and suicidal pre-pregnancy, and she was grateful for a child, as she felt that now she had someone to love her. I’m inclined to believe her, but after hearing about her not holding me at birth, I have my doubts. I continued to live with her for two, apparently wonderful, years. Despite substandard economic conditions in the household, I was well taken care of. I had many godparents who loved me (who doesn’t love a cute blue-eyed baby?), clothes were no problem, I was so popular I spent few daylight hours at home. Mum never told grand mum that she was raped, grand mum saw her as a disappointment as she did very well in school, and was supposed to be the first in their family to finish college, plus, I was a white man’s baby, my mother’s side of the family wasn’t entirely homogeneous almost everyone (including my mum) was ½ black and ½ Indian, but white men were considered nothing but trouble. In short, my grandma and great grandma ( who dubbed me white devil, God bless her soul) wanted me and my cursed bottom out.
So, reluctantly, my mum decided to give me away, to a close friend, though not legally, this meant that she gave up no rights to me and could see me whenever. At age two I moved in with my godmother and her family. They had a comfortable living, finance-wise. There were four daughters in the house, and as my godmothers parents took charge of my care, I was to be their son. I was a trophy, for a time. Superior grades, the perfect church boy, demure, most of my obvious white heritage had faded away, including the baby blues, so most people believed that I was their biological son, though I maintained a somewhat Korean complexion( they were black). To the outsiders, everything seemed perfect. They had no idea of the rigorous… grooming I was subjected to. Harsh beating, sleep deprivation and isolation for educational purposes as simple as tying my shoes, it was Hell. I thought that this was normal though. No one ever saw the bruises or noticed limps. I was never allowed to leave the house, I kept to myself extremely well at school, I was always too well dressed for anyone at church to notice, and when I did have a limp, they would carry me, like loving parents would. Funny thing is, I never doubted their love for me, or my love for them, except for one sister who downright detested me and made no effort to hide it. Apart from my grooming, they were never very involved with me. To this day, I’ve never had much in the way of conversation with them, they never bothered learning to spell my name right ( which has caused much confusion in documents to date), they know little to nothing about me. Living with them I grew distant, cold, depressed, angry, afraid, suicidal, all at a very young age. Thankfully, they enabled me to read at an advanced level by the age of 3. This dramatically boosted my self-awareness which has served to be both a blessing and a curse. The three Billy goats gruff. Hmm.
I was a fine trophy, but a terrible son I suppose. Un athletic, sickly, lacking all the robustness and chauvinism of a “real” man. I never bonded in the slightest with my foster father, or any male for that matter, I kind of hated them. Not that he made an effort.
I would like to apply an appropriate time stamp to this next part, but it started before my self-awareness was it it’s maxim. I believe it started between ages 3 and 4, after I had settled in with my foster family, though memories of how it started are equally vague. It was my first introduction to friendship, all the taint and venom included. I was placed in the care of two much older cousins, one in his twenties, the other in his pre-teens maybe. I had deliberately or subconsciously barricaded these portions of my memory at some point, or at least attempted too. Now the memories play like a movie of someone else’s life, without sound or scent or touch or taste in some parts. My cousins were so nice to me, they showered me with affection and interest that had previously been unknown to me. We played games and sports, like the boys outside my window had done with their friends. Heh heh. We were friends. All I knew of friendship was what they taught me, so I was without suspicion when they told me that keeping secrets was a part of the mandate between friends. The first, inappropriate touch came from the eldest, to both of us, I don’t recall if they mentioned doing things like that with each other before. I say touch but it was really much more than “touching”. It felt…weird?…wrong?…painful? Some mixture of the three. After this however, the eldest ceased. In fact, whenever I came over, he would leave, and every time I caught his gaze I think I detected faint hints of what I now suspect was regret. The other cousin, continued for about four years though, despite my objections and dislike of the “game”. I find it regrettable that the warmest affection I ever got was from those that wanted to use me for sex. By the end of my visits, I had become fully self-aware, and fully aware of my own sins, of my own ugliness. I had learned to fear the mirror before I was quite tall enough to look into it without tip-toeing . It actually all happened quite suddenly. I woke up one morning, headed to the bathroom, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the world reflected in the mirror came crashing down, as though it had been the reflection, fragments of reality everywhere… I broke down, crying, afraid, alone, tainted. I couldn’t go to school, everyone would see me, see my filth, and judge me, like God was judging me. My foster parents would have been furious if I had told them I was missing school because I was having an emotional crisis, so I just half-pretended to be ill. In a devout Christian world, I was an infidel, a sinner, a whore and an abomination, only an eternity of fire and brimstone was before me. I sought forgiveness. I was baptized around age eight. I went into the water, filthy, a sinner, afraid, and an abomination, I came up filthy, a sinner, afraid, and a cold, sick, abomination. Later that same year, someone else attempted to molest me, he got as far as fondling, but I was a pro at this game by now, and wormed my way out when he requested that I perform fellatio. To be honest I suspected that this was his aim as soon as he had returned my interest in playing , he was 16.
I felt as though it was my fault, as though I just attracted this kind of attention. This time however, I would tattle, I felt it was my responsibility to, lest he make a pass at a less savvy 8 year old. My sisters ( they were in their 20’s) were having dinner at the time he left. As soon as the door closed behind him I ran to them and told them of his attempt, and feeling liberated, I also told them in summary, about the others. I remember the distinctive sound of a sister taking a long drawn out slurp of her soup, before she replied in an uninterested tone--” So XX is a sissy…”, the other sister just kept eating, still not sure she heard me. Hours later, my people called his people and we all sat around the table for a civil meeting, he was made to apologize, and I was sent to bed, we would have a church therapist visit later. I saw him in church once, and kicked him, the whole matter caused much more of a fuss than when I was fondled and asked to salivate on his phallus. The church therapist session was a waste of time. She gave me a bible verse which I assumed was supposed to comfort me. Hah, not with my luck. The bible verse was her way of accusing me of attempting to slander his good name because my foster parents asked me to or something.
After my baptism, I began to hallucinate, at least I’d like to hope they’re all hallucinations. Grandiose mental fabrication indeed. The first of note, I recall as I lay on the floor in the dark, a vortex of spirits, miserable daemons encircled me, stealing my breath, shackling my limbs, violating my most sacred of places with their ghastly fingers, it seemed sinful to even look upon them with their iridescent glow. My eyes shut tight in fear. There were less frightening encounters subsequently. Faces with names, free-willed reflections, memories that weren’t mine, deja’ vu. My favorites though, were the ones where I was wide awake, and the world would begin to end around me. Fiery explosions burning away at everything and everyone, Natural disasters-- wind and water blowing, and washing away the very landscape, reshaping it into nothing but vacant land, everything, reality itself crumbling away into black sand, and blowing away into a grand void, leaving nothing but nothing.
I was demure, but this belied a terribly truculent temper. On the rare day that I ventured outside my house, neighborhood boys would throw rocks at me, and call me names, I’ve never been able to fathom why. I got into lots of fights, I didn’t want to, but I always lost control. I never felt pain during a fight, only a faint spark of life, as though violence were the only shred of humanity left within me, and in time I learned to savor that taste of being a real boy. Violence itself however was not bound in my heart. I was a lover, not a fighter. Every night, EVERY NIGHT, I would find something to cry myself to sleep over, the absence of my dad, the absence of my humanity, my imminent damnation to the lake of fire, I also cried because I could, till I could cry no more.
I must confess, that I may have offended the memory of my only true friend by not mentioning him sooner. Pooh Bear was his name. An animatronic Winnie the Pooh Bear model. He wore a blue, patchy jumpsuit, as opposed to the traditional red shirt. He had a button in his big black nose, when pressed, his nose would wiggle and he would say 1 of 3 things. He would giggle, or say “ I love you” or say ‘ You’re my best friend”. He always knew what I wanted to hear. I had him since…hmmm maybe 5. I held him at all times, even the worst of times, meaning that on occasion my blood would stain his fur, I thought this added something to our relationship, like a blood vow. I held him in my sleep, I would sneak him into school( till a kindergarten teacher, God rest her soul, saw him once and tossed him across the room, ripping a hole in his pit, and I deemed it as unsafe.), I even held him during my less than wholesome encounters with my cousin. He was a shoulder to cry on. An excellent therapist, despite his limited vocabulary. He saw me at my worst and I used him as a, for lack of a better term, emotional bucket. However one day, out of shame, or fear that he would have to leave me as I grew older, I decided to part from him.
I killed him. I rested my fuzzy friend on a bed of tinder in our backyard. It had been an especially rough day, and he knew too much, I had shared too much with him, and being close to someone never ended well. I’m not sure where I got the idea, but this would be a ritualistic sacrifice. I lit the tinder beneath him, and I said “Dear Pooh, do do me this favor” I whispered as I dropped the lighter onto the bed of tinder. “ Take it with you, my love, my anger, and all of my sorrow… take it all with you to Hell”. I stood there for a bit as the fire spread. I watched, as it engulfed my only friend. I watched as fluff and stuff burst into flames, confirming my fears that he was just a stuffed animal. Then it happened. He spoke, his voice distorted and eerie due to the flames, it sounded like he was suffering. “You’re my…best…friend” he said. “I love you” he said. I fell to my knees and cried out. All of the emotions that I had poured into him, I felt all at once. When I got up however, the world seemed a lot more pallid, colours weren’t quite as vivid, food had taste, but taste had no meaning. I think that in my mind, I had just murdered my best friend. Funny how we tend to romanticize things when we’re young and naive.
Err, there's more...word limit exceeded
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Re: Sorry this is so long..
I continued to live in my foster home, until I was 15, after which I returned to my birth mother, who has been nothing but wonderful. The home is less financially stable, which kind of pressures me as the oldest of three brothers to do something, despite the fact the second brother is terrible and the youngest lives with his dad. I’ve never been enchanted by money anyway, and never asked for a toy ever growing up. I don’t ever find myself ever really wanting anything anyway, I don’t place value in very many things anymore… I made friends in my last three years of high school, 3 of em. My temper has mellowed to that of a hippy and I’ve above average appreciation for the beauty of nature and life, though I still cut and contemplate suicide ( not just to die, but to see the here after, maybe find answers). It’s still better than when I was little and would burn myself and wanted to die, just because I saw no point in continuing in futility when I was Hell-bound anyway. The hallucinations have become very rare too. I’ve never had homicidal impulses, even the thought of killing insects and eating meat disturbs me greatly, it’s like falsely asserting my importance over the other living organism though I understand that killing for sustenance is entirely different from killing for sport.
My biggest problems now… The conflict between my nihilistic impulses, and my respect for the value and grandness of all existence. I have BDD, body dismorphic disorder, in short, I always feel extremely hideous, the slightest flaw seems exaggerated. No one, apart from my horrid foster sister, has ever called me ugly, in fact, most people I encounter tell me quite the opposite, but flattery always makes me feel self-conscious and ugly. I’ve met some of my , and I use this word reluctantly, father’s other children… and they’re beautiful, two of them are models, and I feel inferior in looks, and personality. It’s strange that looks even matters to someone like me. I’m Asexual, though I see this as a blessing, I seem to lack the drive for sex, and fascination with other bodies and gender differences that most people have. This is fine, but my total discomfort with displays of affection (other than kissing) can be somewhat troublesome. Also I’m afraid that if I were to compromise with someone I loved, and engaged in sexual intercourse with them, I’d lose all interest in them afterwards, I don’t know why. Also, I’ve forgiven everyone that I feel ever hurt me (excluding my dad), but I find myself unable to obtain that… “like” feeling with people, not just the ones I had to forgive, but with most people I meet. No matter how kind they are to me, all I ever feel for most people is indifference, though I find everyone so beautiful. I don’t seem to have this problem with e-people though. I’m still somewhat antisocial, though everyone at school and work actually seemed to grow to like me after a while, I say things like “Fuck off” or “leave me the hell alone” if people approached me, but I’m actually very generous and if anyone friend or not ever needs help with anything, or lunch money or something I’m happy to give it, I just ask that they don’t attempt conversation, no need for thanks either. I’m very big-brother-like with younger kids and relatives, some have even called me “mom-ish” with them. When I’m not being nihilistic, and I’m alone, I’m a big softy that still cries at movies and wishes that everybody could be friends, though I feel undeserving of other people. When I’m with friends, I smile when I don’t want to, and I find it impossible to be honest with them and myself, I dance like a loon, to give them something to laugh at, cause we’ve all had it tough though inside, I really wish I was as happy as I look. Even when I’m with people I can’t help feeling alone.


Ha! That felt soooooooo awesome. Thank you teen hut for giving me a place to vent <3. That whine has been fermenting for 18 years. Lol. Again, don’t bother with advice, you’re only teens yourself right? I didn’t want to give all this personal info to someone close to me, because then I would feel they knew too much about me and grow distant from them. Like I said before, I don’t have this problem with people who I don’t actually have interaction with, and I have psychological issues with eye contact and close personal situations so shrinks are out of the question, plus those cost money I could spend on maintaining my family. I’ll just look at the views to know somebody somewhere read this.