I’m never going to be back here, so let’s not even pretend like it matters to either of us, okay? I’m trying to talk myself forward, and you’re likely a voyeur with a sense of humor as sick as mine. With that out of the way, I’m going to pretend you care and you’re probably going to giggle. Whatever. I’m past the point where it could begin to bother me.
So what’s my problem? Heh. Begin at the beginning, and when you get to the end, god willing, pull the trigger. Steyr M9, incidentally. I could explain at great length why it’s one of my favorites, but I don’t really care right now. I’m a bit of an expert in these matters, and we’ll leave it at that.
I was physically abused from about age 8 to about 16 or so. Pretty much every day. It’s a great way to come to the realization that you don’t matter and are really just wasting oxygen. Public education, you see. It always strikes me as ironic when you see a school shooting in the news, and people sit around being surprised. I shall summarize for you, just to move things along,,,the way school works in the public education system is essentially that students are either a yes or a no. You either make the administration look good, or you don’t. Yes’s can do pretty much anything they want, no’s can be beaten to death in a bathroom and nobody cares. Don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s true and you ,know it.
I was a ‘no’. You guessed that, or else you’re a waste of oxygen and I’ll will you the Steyr and a bullet when I’m done with it. I was physically tortured for years. Spit on. Stabbed with safety pins. Had fingers broken. Beaten. Hit. All for the amusement of the 85s. (See Alien3). Oh, I told the school cop. Don’t think it mattered. He was a drug dealer, incidentally. A lot of them tend to be, as they get quite a bit of free ‘stuff’ from the students. It, for practical purposes, destroyed me. Years of psychotherapy have told me it’s only in my head, but I don’t believe them: I’m a bad person, I’m stupid, despite scoring over 140 on an IQ test while stoned out of my mind on vicodin, I’m ugly, and, the thing that hurts me every day beyond what you could ever imagine, nobody could ever love me.
I’ve a business degree from UT. I put in a year of law school. And I’m a failure. There’s a very few things I’m actually good at: I street race. I build custom hunting rifles. And at the risk of boasting, I’m very, very good at both of them. Wishing I was dead kind of helps with that, honestly. If you’ve ever done 125mph in a residential neighborhood in a tricked out Porsche you’ll know what I’m on about. It’s a rush you can’t get from anything you snort, smoke, or shoot up.
Problem is, it’s all just a distraction. Things to make you forget how miserable you really are. All I really want is someone to love me. I want a permanent relationship. Someone I can bring flowers for no reason, who I can make feel special, who will tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m a hopeless romantic, I admit it.
Besides being ugly and stupid, and never likely to accomplish anything, I’ve another flaw, you see. I’m a submissive, and I’ve a fetish. Infantilism. AB/DL. I want a dominant partner, who will treat me like a child. Cuddle me, be patient but firm, tell me everything will be okay. Love me unconditionally, despite my flaws and insecurities.
That’s not okay. I may race cars, I may be able to take apart and rebuild an engine from memory, I may be able to shoot a running target in the spine at 200 yards with a winchester rifle, but a male is not allowed to be vulnerable. He may not cuddle with a stuffed animal, nor look to a partner for control and guidance. Such is just not done.
But that’s all I really want. A patient and accepting hand.
Oh don’t give me that look. So I’m abnormal. Big deal. Think about this, you neighbor, for all you know, might be a child molester or a rapist, or a serial killer. Statistically likely, you know. What I want from life is between consenting adults, and hurts nobody. I don’t particularly even like to be around actual children. They smell funny and break stuff. I’d much rather have a puppy or such, at least those are trainable. 🙂
So I write. I make up stories and live in fantasy worlds because the one thing that really matters to me is beyond my grasp. (google the ID, I’m not exactly private) I try to numb the loneliness with liquor and drugs. It doesn’t help, at least not any more. A buzz from half a bottle of bacardi can’t possibly even pretend to equal being loved. It allows sleep, nothing more, nothing less.
Sleep, unfortunately, is a double edged sword as well. Dreams, with very little trouble, can be even worse than waking life. The only consolation being that waking with the dawn usually banishes them from memory. Some condolence, no?
So why do I keep going? Cowardice, certainly. I won’t even pretend like that doesn’t stay my hand. Better than I have feared much less than dying. Hope, maybe? If I didn’t have some little light to follow in the darkness, I don’t think I would be able to write, to imagine places that make me happy deep in whatever soul I might possess. A fool’s errand, even the most dumb out there must know, but it’s still something to hold on to, at least an excuse why I can’t, shan’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t, haven’t, and, gods help me, won’t (and I almost cry at the failure), end it all.
I wish for something to happen. I would pray for a DWI, off an overpass or into a pole, except I believe that I’ve not the right to affect other lives but my own. That’s why I can’t pull a gun on a cop. Killing someone would haunt anyone sane for the rest of their life, and I will not, can not, shall not, bring another pain to end my own.
No matter how badly I want to.
Please, if you have any decency in your soul, pray to whatever god you may believe in that something happens to me, and me alone. It’s the only chance for peace I can hope for now.
6 comments
You have your own Wiki page….that’s something, right? Plus you helped someone learn about AB/DL today. I’d seen depictions of it in comedy movies before, but had no idea this scene had it’s own conventions, cribs for adults, etc.
As far as seeing yourself as a “no” vs. a “yes”: Without the no’s we’d still think the earth is flat, the sun revolves around the earth, and using leeches for the practice of blood-letting would still be practiced as a legitimate form of medicine. Misfits have done a lot more towards enlightening the masses than conformists. Getting an occasional beat down from the System is part of the game.
What if you finished law school, got your JD,and passed the bar exam? You could fight the system as an insider.
Btw, do you think a .22 caliber pistol with LR Hi-Speed Rimfire cartridges could penetrate the sternum and pierce the heart? I know a .22 is considered a rodent killer, but still wonder if the above mentioned round has enough force to actually push through the chest plate.
Wow you should write a book. It would be a shame for you to leave earth without a more detailed version of what I just read. In many ways you’ve overcome you’re abuse not without noticeable scars. I’m not hypocritical enough to tell you not to do it (especially when like lucy4…I just got the name…. anyways I also have a gun related question.) You should tell your story before you go. My question is about a shotgun and decreasing the likelihood of survival. I am an absolute gun noob but I read up enough to know that I should probably go with triple ought ammo from a 12 gauge. My questions are how do I do it for “best”results and could the bullets then travel through the thin walls in my apartment and harm my neighbors. I don’t want to cause anyone else pain as I seek to end mine.
A 12 gauge shotgun has the potential to divorce your head from your neck. In thousands of microscopic pieces. There are accounts of brain matter traveling underneath closed doors. This is an extremely messy way to go. Somebody will have to clean this mess up. Do you really want to leave behind a mess of this magnitude? There won’t be dental records. If you have no criminal background your fingerprints won’t be in the database, either. You’ll need to leave some form of ID next to the corpse so they can figure out who you were. If done indoors the clean up will be very expensive.
I’m not trying to preach. Just saying you’re going to have a closed coffin funeral, and ground zero will look like something straight out of a horror movie. Do it outside with your ID in your pocket if you’re hell bent on this route. Plus it could be a potential mystery if you don’t leave behind a note…suicide or murder?
a male can and should be able to be as vulnerable as he needs or wants to be. fuck what anybody else says! (meaning the ones who would disparage you, as i realize the previous sentence could be interpreted as “fuck everyone else’s opinion, save for mine” and i’m just not that narcissistic. brain just no is workin good too much right now, so i can’t think of another way to phrase anything. nor can i spell, but you can sound it out, right? 🙂 ).
but i digress…. everyone needs and deserves to have a place where they can be safe and vulnerable and be comforted in whatever form works for them. a man with the “balls” to be vulnerable, is actually kinda hot. just sayin…
and anything between consenting adults, is between those adults and it’s all good.
people are scared of what they don’t understand, or what seems different. they feel threatened by it for some reason. honestly sometimes i think it’s cuz it reminds them of something in themselves that they don’t like or are afraid of. or they’re hating cuz they’re jealous! jealous cuz you’re smarter, or hotter, or cuz your sex life is more interesting, who knows? but fuck ’em all (which is not to say, BUTT-fuck ’em all. unless that’s your thing, then, GO FOR IT… :p ). and by that i mean, if they don’t accept you, they aren’t worth your time (not that that makes the loneliness any easier to navigate). it is the outliers and the “nos” that make the world interesting and that contribute most significantly to ground-breaking ideas and inventions etc. they are the flavor and the spice.
as a fellow cynic who recently discovered she had a romantic side (not because of someone in my life now, unfortunately, but because of someone i once knew), i like to believe we will all find the love we seek. fantasy though it may be. gotta hold onto something. may you find the love you seek! 🙂 don’t judge me for the cheeziness….. okay, fine, judge away……
ps i concur about the book thing. you are clearly extremely intelligent, have overcome a lot, and have a unique and compelling literary style.
Damn it. I wasn’t coming back here, but somehow it got bookmarked and now…something. I don’t know. Providing the information that has been requested strikes me as morally wrong. Doing so would be heaping another burden on my soul. Suicide is not embracing death, but rather having more pain than one’s coping mechanisms can handle.
I have written several books, just not exactly what I think you mean. They aren’t nonfiction tell-alls, but rather extremely personal fantasies of what I wish could be. I don’t write about the day in PE when a group of guys held my hand flat on the floor so that another could kick the ends of my fingers, trying to break the knuckles. I don’t write about ‘nerd bashing’. I don’t write about being stabbed by pencils, even though I only recently lanced the bump in my side and discovered a broken off piece of graphite. I don’t write about being pushed down and having my MTG cards stolen and ripped up in front of me, nor students casually snapping all my pencils and pens in half during games of “pencil break”. I don’t write about going home every day during the school year with a new bruise or laceration. I don’t write about asking everyone I could think of to make it stop: the school cops, the teachers, the principles. Guess how effective that was and win a prize. I couldn’t write a book about how when people, no matter how violent and sadistic, tell you every day for years that you are ugly, stupid, nerdy, undesirable, never going to get married, and will die alone, you will over time begin to believe it. I deeply suppress all that. I don’t WANT to remember it.
I write about what I wish. What I would trade everything and anything to have. My perfect solace. That which I would trade years of life for minutes of. It’s fantasy. For a reason. People want Rambo and Bruce Willis, and Arnold for a partner. Nobody wants a shy little boy. Nobody wants to feed a bottle or change a diaper. Nobody wants to reassure a fearful adult. Nobody wants to be a caretaker. Make rules for my own good, because I truly don’t know any better, and enforce them with a loving firmness.
I mean, I don’t even know what exactly to say. That’s the joke, right there. The one thing that I can’t beg buy borrow or steal is the only thing that would make my life worth living as a life, rather than flashes of angry moments.
My last chance at talking my way back in to school is tomorrow, incidentally. If it goes badly, I can do it on my apartment’s portch and only take a minimal hit on the security deposit. Kind of feel bad about having the super out there scrubbing brains off the deck, she’s okay.
Stories. Hopeless romance, personal wishes, and a look in to my soul laid completely bare. http://www.littlefoxy.org/html/if_only.html There’s a caveat. Mock as you like, but give me an honest answer: could someone love one such as this? No answer, then damn you for reading it.
Little foxy? God, I hope and pray you’re still alive. If you’re still around: I need to talk to you, for your good.
Despite what other people may have said: you matter to me. You managed to keep what I lost: the ability to express your feelings in a convincing way. You are important, foxy.
I’ve been where you are… I understand your inner feelings, your and my history have much in common. I, too, have had thoughts of suicide, but I’m over it and I believe life is a choice.
Please, if you are alive, talk to me…