I actually have a blog (well, 2 of em, but one is defunct now), and it's been useful thus far to keep me more or less grounded.
Http://www.kerio.blog-city.com
Now, (drum roll) my story. Said this umpteenth times, but I never get sick of it. Maybe I'm somehow hoping one day I'll find something inside my memories that'll "wake me up".
I came from an abusive family. Only my father (I refer to him as "Old Man" now) was the abusive person. He was a metal machinery teacher, and had biceps the size of my head. And I had a big head. I have a Christian name, given to me by my mother, who was also christian. The old man was Anti-Christ.
He hated my elder brother and me. But somehow, whenever he was in a bad mood and decided to find fault with us and bleed and bruise us, I would be the one to receive most of his wrath, because I was the most spirited and adamant one. If I did no wrong, I maintained that I was not wrong. And he would try his best to beat me until I told him I was wrong, and I never did. I was not a bad kid. I listened, didn't talk back much (unless he was trying to get me to admit I was wrong) and didn't do drugs or smoke. But then again, I was only 9.
My mother was such a dedicated Christian she'd pray everyday, and told us to do so in secret. When we were caught praying by the old man, he'd beat us. When we closed our eyes during dinner and he saw us, he'd yell at us and beat us. When our grades dropped below par he'd beat us. When we bought toys with our allowance he'd break the toys and beat us. When he wanted to wake us up he'd cane us until we awoke.
It got to a point where I dropped all religion, because all religion told you to respect your father and mother. All religion told you it was wrong to hate, and you'd go to hell. All religion promised salvation. But No religion saved me when the cane bit into my flesh so hard it cut my flesh open and I bled.
My mother took many blows for me. And I love her for that, more than anything. But she was also partly the reason why hell became even more hellish. She'd leave after a heated quarrel, and the old man would come beside us and whisper poison words to us, and try to get us to hate our mother. When we declined to do so, he'd beat us. And without my mother protecting us, we were beaten even more severely. And my mother would return after that, and she'd cry and pray and they'd scream at each other, while I cowered in a corner, or covered my head with a blanket and put my fingers in my ears.
My grades were always pretty good. Many geomancers (Fengshui) masters would read my lines and tell me I had good fortune. They told me I could become a lawyer, a doctor, someone famous and powerful. I remember the cold laugh that came from my throat as I pulled my hand back. I knew from that moment on that if I never made it to greatness, I would at least try for notoriety. I would find enough money to kill the old man in the most inventive way possible. Even today I still bear that same will.
Then, when I was 12, I awoke, and the world was suddenly ...different. I shook my head and concentrated, and it went away. For a while. When I went to school the next day, it snapped into place, and there was nothing I could do to shake it off. I thought I was going crazy. But I no longer cared. I had already prayed for the Gods to let me die. Perhaps this was their answer. Perhaps this was their form of salvation.
My years from 13 to 18 went by in a blur. I lived it...but it was like watching a movie. A bad one. And like all bad movies I watched, I simply forgot it. I can only remember people jeering at me, sneering, laughing at me, and I can remember anguish, and awkwardness. I could never fit in. No friend in that period gave me the affirmation I needed.
Then a friend saved my soul. He taught me what was really right, what was wrong, and he taught me trust and honour. And for once, I felt like a person. Not a misfit. But the feeling of detached reality still stuck with me. Even those golden years fled from me, and as i look back now, my memories are fragmented, unreal. I can no longer tell what is real and what is not.
I'm 25 this year. 13 years of my life has become nothing more than a waking dream. I existed, but I did nothing that proved it. Then when I came across a medical forum and found out that this detachment was Depersonalisation and derealisation, I was happy, because I now knew without a doubt that there was something wrong with my brains. I was not just over-rationalizing because I wanted to - I wasn't being cold - and I sure as hell wasn't over-thinking. It was just the shadow of the past extending it's arms into my present. But unlike any other shadow, this one burned a mark on my mind, and it may be there to stay forever.
I want to find a cure for this. I want to spend what remaining years of youth I have with clarity and I want my memories to remain with me. I want to live.
But I can no longer differentiate between sane and insane. My DP has been with me for all my formative life, and even if it was to go away suddenly, I'm not sure if I would notice. But at least I now know what makes it worse, and that it is a disorder. That, at least, gives me scant solace. Perhaps when I see a good psychiatrist, my mind will awake.
Http://www.kerio.blog-city.com
Now, (drum roll) my story. Said this umpteenth times, but I never get sick of it. Maybe I'm somehow hoping one day I'll find something inside my memories that'll "wake me up".
I came from an abusive family. Only my father (I refer to him as "Old Man" now) was the abusive person. He was a metal machinery teacher, and had biceps the size of my head. And I had a big head. I have a Christian name, given to me by my mother, who was also christian. The old man was Anti-Christ.
He hated my elder brother and me. But somehow, whenever he was in a bad mood and decided to find fault with us and bleed and bruise us, I would be the one to receive most of his wrath, because I was the most spirited and adamant one. If I did no wrong, I maintained that I was not wrong. And he would try his best to beat me until I told him I was wrong, and I never did. I was not a bad kid. I listened, didn't talk back much (unless he was trying to get me to admit I was wrong) and didn't do drugs or smoke. But then again, I was only 9.
My mother was such a dedicated Christian she'd pray everyday, and told us to do so in secret. When we were caught praying by the old man, he'd beat us. When we closed our eyes during dinner and he saw us, he'd yell at us and beat us. When our grades dropped below par he'd beat us. When we bought toys with our allowance he'd break the toys and beat us. When he wanted to wake us up he'd cane us until we awoke.
It got to a point where I dropped all religion, because all religion told you to respect your father and mother. All religion told you it was wrong to hate, and you'd go to hell. All religion promised salvation. But No religion saved me when the cane bit into my flesh so hard it cut my flesh open and I bled.
My mother took many blows for me. And I love her for that, more than anything. But she was also partly the reason why hell became even more hellish. She'd leave after a heated quarrel, and the old man would come beside us and whisper poison words to us, and try to get us to hate our mother. When we declined to do so, he'd beat us. And without my mother protecting us, we were beaten even more severely. And my mother would return after that, and she'd cry and pray and they'd scream at each other, while I cowered in a corner, or covered my head with a blanket and put my fingers in my ears.
My grades were always pretty good. Many geomancers (Fengshui) masters would read my lines and tell me I had good fortune. They told me I could become a lawyer, a doctor, someone famous and powerful. I remember the cold laugh that came from my throat as I pulled my hand back. I knew from that moment on that if I never made it to greatness, I would at least try for notoriety. I would find enough money to kill the old man in the most inventive way possible. Even today I still bear that same will.
Then, when I was 12, I awoke, and the world was suddenly ...different. I shook my head and concentrated, and it went away. For a while. When I went to school the next day, it snapped into place, and there was nothing I could do to shake it off. I thought I was going crazy. But I no longer cared. I had already prayed for the Gods to let me die. Perhaps this was their answer. Perhaps this was their form of salvation.
My years from 13 to 18 went by in a blur. I lived it...but it was like watching a movie. A bad one. And like all bad movies I watched, I simply forgot it. I can only remember people jeering at me, sneering, laughing at me, and I can remember anguish, and awkwardness. I could never fit in. No friend in that period gave me the affirmation I needed.
Then a friend saved my soul. He taught me what was really right, what was wrong, and he taught me trust and honour. And for once, I felt like a person. Not a misfit. But the feeling of detached reality still stuck with me. Even those golden years fled from me, and as i look back now, my memories are fragmented, unreal. I can no longer tell what is real and what is not.
I'm 25 this year. 13 years of my life has become nothing more than a waking dream. I existed, but I did nothing that proved it. Then when I came across a medical forum and found out that this detachment was Depersonalisation and derealisation, I was happy, because I now knew without a doubt that there was something wrong with my brains. I was not just over-rationalizing because I wanted to - I wasn't being cold - and I sure as hell wasn't over-thinking. It was just the shadow of the past extending it's arms into my present. But unlike any other shadow, this one burned a mark on my mind, and it may be there to stay forever.
I want to find a cure for this. I want to spend what remaining years of youth I have with clarity and I want my memories to remain with me. I want to live.
But I can no longer differentiate between sane and insane. My DP has been with me for all my formative life, and even if it was to go away suddenly, I'm not sure if I would notice. But at least I now know what makes it worse, and that it is a disorder. That, at least, gives me scant solace. Perhaps when I see a good psychiatrist, my mind will awake.
