Did you know that I can't remember over half of my life?
I've got about two years of it if you put all of my colorful memories together, all the rest are just monochrome flashes.
Like important stuff, things I know that I should remember, Aunt Kathy's laughter, the smiles of friends.
They're just gone.
For some reason I've been treated strangely, something went wrong.
When I was about nine I stopped going outside as often. I would just kinda find some place to sit inside somewhere and stay there for as long as I could without hearing anything, then when mom or somebody knocked on the door, or called for me from the kitchen I would get up and move. I would sit still, mind roaring for hours on end.
Sometimes I still do it, and I know it's a problem. I'll stand in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour without even realizing it, sometimes really thinking about things, sometimes not.
I used to have times at night where I'd be thinking and suddenly all my thoughts would turn into newsprint images of things that I had never seen. Monochrome frames of people mangled and bruised. Things that I couldn't even describe though I can still see them in the back of me head. my brain would go all monochrome or, on other nights, my mind would occupy a plane of only peach-pin and white. The images then were usually naked human figures, bloated past recognition. I still have no idea why my mind would get stuck in this kind of space.
I can remember all the times I was spanked for stupid things very clearly.
The times I did something like fail a test and dad yelled then sent me to my room.
I would lay there in bed, curled up like a baby for as long as I had to wait. I never closed the door, he always seemed to hit harder if he had to open the door.
He said that I was allowed to cry, though I was not, under any circumstances, to scream. He would blister me so bad if I yelled that I really wouldn't be able to sit down for about a week without twisting up my face in pain.
The last time that he did it I was about 13 and I just laid there and took it.
I think that the humiliation of when he used his hand made it hurt more than when he used his belt. I used to think about how if I ever hit someone or something that hard my palms would really hurt. I used to lay in my bed face down thinking things like that until he would call me out. I would go out, eat dinner, or do whatever it was that he had called me out for, then I would go get on my pajamas and get ready for bed.
My parents have tucked me in before bed since before I can remember, and if anything bad ever happens during the day then I always prepare myself for a lecture before I go to sleep.
They'll just stand there and talk. Dad keeps it brief, usually ending with a threat of some sort that he never delivers. Mom tends to just repeat the same thing over and over, I see red the whole time and take it.
Every time that my dad catches me cutting, by which I mean that he sees the self inflicted cuts on my arms, he threatens to spank me. He hasn't done it yet, but I'm just waiting for the day. He always ends the conversation by slapping my wrist pretty hard. The hit isn't what hurts, it's the humiliation that I feel. He makes it seem like this is just another school assignment that I've failed, another mistake that he will not stand for.
My brother used to have a speech impediment, I was the only person who could ever really understand what he said. I was like his translator. Sometimes I wouldn't translate his words, keep them to myself just because I could.
We used to bring out all of our favorite toys, me with my little plastic animals, and him with his trucks and cars. We would make up stories and run around the house, take them on adventures with heroes and all that sort of thing. There were never any superpowers, there was never any real love story types, they were all just kind of there, having fun together, or fighting each other with kung-fu moves.
I really miss times like that. We would talk about real stuff in there too, we would pause for a second and talk about how our day went, or how much of a jerk some kid was, or something like that.
I guess that at my core I'm still just a little kid running through the woods behind my old house. I'm standing still right near that deep ravine, wondering if the old tree that goes across it will hold my weight. I'm sitting in dad's lap, thinking that I'm driving the truck while he keeps his hands steady on the wheel just below mine. I'm talking to the shadows in my room because they're always moving. I'm running down the road so fast that I trip over my own feet and skin both my knees and the palms of my hands.
Every therapist that I've ever had had called me brave at some point or another. I've never much cared for compliments, but this one I know that I truthfully haven't done enough to deserve. I don't save damsels, I don't cure people of their ails in any way. I'm not brave, I'm just living. I try my hardest to be polite, and I don't hold on to things that I don't want. I've put up with shit, I don't want to be called brave.
Whenever I try to talk to my mom about dysphoria she puts it off as me just wanting to get a binder. Why would I want a binder if I didn't feel uncomfortable mum? Why would I bring the conversation up at least once a week or so for over two years if I wasn't serious mom?
Last week she said something that hit me like a bolt of lightning. "This all started when you hit puberty."
Dear lord woman. I was perfectly happy with my life, and my gender, that is until I became this horrid thing that I don't seem to recognize as myself every single time I look in the mirror.
These hormones aren't mine.
I wanted your help then, and I would love to have it now if there's any way that I can get it.
I don't talk very much about myself because I really don't see the need to. I feel like people know what they want to know, and if they truly want to know more I feel like they should really think about the question that they're going to ask. Pick something that will get my mind going. Don't just go "How are you doing?" say something like. "Hey, I was wondering, how do you feel right now? I care about your emotions enough to format a question non-casually and think that you deserve to have my thoughts be kind of about you for a few minutes or so."
I don't correct old friends who misgender me, they don't know me very well, and I don't know them very well. I don't see the need for them to know who I really am if I talk to them less then once a week.
I think too much, but I don't seem to eat enough. I'm gonna go get breakfast/lunch (since it's 2:20). I'll be back.
okay, got some foodstuffs (don't question. I'm eating two plain hotdogs, three hotdog buns, a bowl of fiesta shredded cheese and a cheese string. Is this what it feels like to be a freshman in college?)
Mom never used to keep soda in the house, and if she did I wasn't allowed to touch it. The first time I ever had a carbonated drink was when I was ten or so, and it was in my older cousin's basement. Coke-Cola's still one of my favorite drinks, and I have a strong dislike for Pepsi.
I don't think that I've ever had a real friend before. People either lie to me, manipulate me, and/or, though I know it sounds pathetic, use me to get whatever it is that they want, then they drop me like a hot rock.
I own a Juul (ooh illegal). It cost me like thirty bucks, and I use it whenever I feel like it I guess. The buzz helps me think sometimes, and when I'm upset it usually just makes me tired and puts me into a nap easier. The mint flavor is easily the best.
I'm not addicted to anything except maybe porn. Terrible thing, I know. I discovered that side of the internet when I was about eleven and saw some weird hentai.
I like to sing, and it seems to be helping me to lower my voice. I think that I really enjoy it because it's one of the only things that I feel like I can really control.
I can't really even remember when I started writing poetry. I was about eight when I first started thinking of writing as more than just words though.
When I was little I used to go over to my aunt and uncle's a lot. My Aunt Karey has this big pool in her backyard. It's kind of built into the deck (maybe one of these days I'll be able to take pictures of it. The porch and deck of that house are amazing to look at.), and my family and I used to go swimming there a lot. The bottom of the pool is lumpy as can be, I truthfully have no idea why, but when I was a kid one of my family members (I'm thinking it may've been my cousin Victoria) told me a story of how it happened when I asked them. They told me that before the pool was filled my aunt threw a big party in it, like a formal dance/ball type. They told me that all of the ladies tall heels made indents in the bottom of the pool because of how hard they danced. Whenever I ask anyone about that story they look at me like I'm crazy, but I swear that someone told me that.
I've wanted to play the string bass since I was a little kid (maybe 8 years old or so). It's one of those instruments that I feel has a life force all it's own.
Some guitars have a life force too I think. If mine has one (i don't think it does the stupid thing), he's a grumpy old man who grouches at me every time that I try to play him.
I've liked music for as long as I can remember. My mom has a couple of videos of me singing as a little kid, but I've sung daily to myself since I was about 10. I just sing while I do stuff, I don't really know why.
I like indie music a lot. I don't like all songs of the genre, but I love the songs that sound like free-verse poetry and are really nice when they're played in the car while it rains.
My Aunt Stephanie plays the violin, and when I tried it then it didn't squeak all that much. I'm thinking about trying to learn how to play it since it doesn't seem like on of those instruments that I could have lots of trouble with.
My Aunt also speaks fluent Spanish, runs what seems to be a mile every day, likes to have all of her pets to be black and white, and seems to be able to cook just about any vegetable known to man in any way imaginable. Plus she listens to all of my favorite bands.
I have a very extensive rock collection that I've built up over the years. I think that it's probably one of the heaviest boxes in the storage unit right now. It weighs something like fifty pounds.
None of the rocks are labeled, though my mom has suggested that I label them. I keep them because I like how they look. Sometimes I'll set the best looking ones out on my shelf so that the world can see them. If I grow tired of a rock I put it outside so that it can sink into the ground over time, melt, and become a cooler rock for the future.
Okay, that's about all I've got for this random page of facts about myself. I hope you have a nice day <3