That Hope No One Knows about Part 1

I want to start by saying that I’m quite damaged. Just like many I’ve been through some things. Lots of things. Complicated and simple. I have hope. But don’t take that so fully. Don’t eat it, sip it. Lasts longer. It’s early in the morning so I’ll do these in parts as I’m sleepy again. I hope you are able to find a ray of hope in each part.

I’m obviously still alive. Why? I do not know, but a spark is still with me. Whether I admit to it or not. It’s there. In middle school I had this spark when my grades were failing, and I didn’t have but two real friends. I’ll explain a bit.

I was abandoned by my real mother in a hospital. I was fostered out and had been burned on my left hand as an infant. Being fostered out once more and adopted by thus family I’m with now. It was a new beginning. I was clumsy, laughed too much, and boyish. I like power rangers, godzilla and teenage mutant ninja turtles while my peers (females) watched otherwise. In truth I did what I wanted in reason. Pre-school and kindergarten were fun. On the see saw, running around, swinging so high and jumping off. Only troubles I worried about were when my hand wanted to seize up doing certain activities. The left hand has to fingers left. half and thumb and pinky. A claw in function, but on all four it was respectively a dog’s paw shape. Back on track. Since I was younger I had problems with them hand gripping and not letting go. The railing on the slide was the scariest. It hooked the handle and the teachers had to pull me off. But my biggest worries were that and crossing the monkey bars like the other kids. I had to grip with my wrist and the swinging motion only go me to the second bar before I fell off or just froze up because I didn’t know how to proceed.

Kindergarten was the same because it was the same place. It was my safe place. No one teased me there. Not even the teachers and just like everywhere I go there was an old kind woman there who was like the grandmother to all. Story time or just saying hello or getting a hug. She was there.

Somewhere around kindergarten age I was hit by a car and had broken my thigh bone. That resulted in one leg always being a bit shorter than the other making my bad balance a bit worse. But I did without faltering continue on smiling and giggling. I never saw anything as wrong. Not like now.

Middle school. My first day in first grade. It felt like kindergarten but with more kids. The teacher was kind and warm and helped you understand something if you struggled. She liked hugs, but knew a bunch of kids could easily tackle her over with love if she hadn’t let us know. But first grade is different. Math, writing, reading. It got harder somehow. And the social dynamic was obvious. Teasing. Not bullying yet, No. Just teasing. Why does your hand look so ugly, did you fry it in a pan? Don’t touch me its contagious. First grade is when you realize that you are not like everyone else for the first time. People make it painfully obvious something’s wrong with you. But I didn’t care. I just thought they were silly and just giggled.

I was also a kissing casanova. I kissed the pretty girls and tried to be friends with them. As I got older I realize that’s called flirting, but anyway. I did that into second grade. Now that was different. clases were harder and I was being reprimanded for kissing girls as it being unnatural and also a violation of space. The violation I quickly understood, but unnatural? I thought she was being silly. That’s when I started taking those types of feelings to my dreams. They’ve saved my life for sure. Grades were becoming hard to keep up, and since I couldn’t express myself naturally I started to become disruptive and also started making soothing noises. I got in trouble obviously for being disruptive. I had to stand in a corner sometimes. I hated time out. And the soothing noises like humming or teeth groaning made me student “enemies” They always told me to shut up and at the time I couldn’t figure out what noise they kept mentioning. Even the teacher told me to stop. When I turn 19 I realized I was making that noise that I mentioned. Another story. That got me in trouble with the parents and being black that ment being belted for stupid reasons most times. Legit ones, but mostly stupid reasons. Spilling things and falling was frowned upon. Any mistakes I made were punished. Each time though I was always forbidden to cry. Shut up or I’ll hit you more routine. That’ when it started. The hitting myself in the head and wall ramming. I tried to do everything in my power to stop my crying. I was alone. Those were always the times I tried to commit suicide. It was not a nurture thing. I didn’t watch the news and never heard of anyone killing themselves. I thought I was doing something new and unheard of. I tried to strangle my self by rolling the thin bed sheet and wrapping it around my neck pulling as tight as I could. It didn’t work. I wasn’t physically strong enough because my left hand kept losing grip. So I cried to sleep.
I had a stuffed animal named Wishbone that helped eased pain and still does. He was always there for me when things went bad. He held all my emotions and tears and illnesses. If the world ended I’d take him along for the final ride.

I had a brother (still do) but he was barely around because my parents were abusing him as well. He was stronger though. He left the house and survived the streets. My parents tried to down talk him and treat him like a dog. They did their damage on him mentally. Sadly he did drugs and drank and it took it’s toll on him. He cared for me when my parents weren’t around. He treated me like his blood. I walked with him to the store when he let me, and he cooked and we play fighted. Thankfully my brother is like a father to me. I wanted to be like my brother in respects to his strength. Like my dad too. Though he teased me alot I saw him as a idol. We lifted weights together, taught me to play golf, went cool places. Me and dad always had fun. Me and mother rarely got a long. They gave me hope in that if I could survive I could be physically and mentally strong and capable.

I took that with me through 4-8 grade. Those were the beginnings of hell . Teasing became something rancid. The girls pulled my long ponytail, the guys called me twisted finger freak, god don’t like ugly, stupid, your mother is such and such. The girls were physical too. Most of them. One always attacked me for no reason at all. I had to defend myself but once my glasses are off my face the fight is one sided. People kept pointing out differences. And grades. I could barely get C’s. That rose hell at home and they refused to understand that I was having trouble with bullies until I got called into the office for suspension with counseling by one of the nuns. Thankfull this catholic school was not like the horrors I’ve heard. Everyone here was open minded and non judgemental and always did mediation to understand what’s going on from each person’s point of view. They kept the hope going because they listened and to a degree they understood. When i told a nun that maybe it was because i was adopted that everyone felt the need to tease me (students didn’t know but physical features are way different from my family) my parents were infuriated. I went to her for help and advice but that too was frowned upon unless it was “paid” counseling. I was reprimanded for that at home too and that’s when my mother discovered I hit myself in the skull with my fists to stop myself from crying. My mother encouraged it, my father was silent.

Eventually I became deeply depressed. I was suppressed from expression in public and even at home. I tried hard to pretend I was straight and fawn over boys when they disgust me in that way. And since I hit puberty I was really going down hill. I could no longer walk around topless. I had to wear bloomers and trainers instead of a comfortable muscle tank and sleep pajama shorts. I gained weight quickly and was confused as to why this had to happen. My reality was hell. My eyes were becoming more open.

But I kept going. When school was out I always tried to play to take my mind of things. I played maladaptive daydream snowball fights with myself. I know the people I was throwing snowballs at didnt exist but I had fun. I threw snowballs at myself too. I did this when I tried to roller blade. Solo imaginary roller hockey. “HE SCORES!” I always had a roaring crowd even though no one was there. It’s how I kept hanging on. Being by myself. I talkj to myself. I don’t answer myself. I change my voice to someone else and they answer. I pretty much played toddler, teen and adult versions of imaginary pretend. A great cook, I wrestler, a dog running home to a family who loved me. An opera singer like Luciano Pavarotti, a friendly nieghbor like Mr. Rogers helping people cope with differences and learning how things work. Or a great scientist like Bill Nye. My imagination is all I’ve ever had along with my sleeping dreams. Without them I would be dead. There are times even in my dreams I am dead but my better dreams quickly overpower them. I can be a great wizard, or Draco from dragonheart exposing my the beating heart behind my breast to show people I am trully human like you but bigger and different looking. I was a great builder. I was a great lover. The crushes I had were only to be more in my dreams. My dreams are my reality when true reality offered me nothing but pain. I had good days and I’ll mention more in part two. But the bad come back. I’ll leave the quote. Another thing I enjoy doing.

If you have hope do not cling to it, do not grab it and shelter it. Cradle it in your hands or heart so it has room to grow. If it shatters then try your best to pick up the pieces. If a few are missing give it time to find it’s way back. Repeat” – me