Rambling about my childhood.

          I don't remember most of my childhood. The parts I do remember, I'm unsure if they're truth. I trick myself rather often.

           My father was at work all the time. Despite living in the same household, I didn’t know him.

           He was one of those men who believed presence could be substituted with provision. He worked long hours, came home late, never greeted me. When he did speak, it was only to comment on the television or to scold the dog for barking. I don't think he enjoyed hugs, I remember them feeling quite stiff.

           My sister is obnoxious. Fat, loud, incompetent, and oblivious. She made noise simply to remind people she existed. She’d laugh at her own jokes before anyone else could. She took pauses in the middle of words to gasp for breath, making her stories drone on and on.

           When we were young, she would beat me.

           Once, she slammed my head into a microwave and tried to close the door on my throat. Another time, she kicked me across the hallway floor. No one cared. That's just siblings for you, right?

           I have scars from her, which I use for sympathy points. It's the only useful thing she ever gave me.

           She once chased me with a circular pizza cutter. It wasn't much of a real chase, it was mostly hiding. We couldn't run in our home, it was a hazard.

 Our house was a horrible mess ever since I could remember. A full two-story hoarder’s house. Clothes, papers, broken furniture, dishes fossilized in grease. There was a smell that clung to everything, a sweet rot that never quite left. Guests stopped coming over long before I realized people could live differently.

           Sometimes I wonder if the clutter was my mother’s attempt to fill the silence. The mess at least made noise when you walked through it. Or, perhaps it was to fill space my father never occupied.

           Most of my days were spent in my bedroom, which was equally as disgusting. You could never see the carpet, always stepping on stuff and things.

           I loved the Internet. Before my first smartphone, I would watch YouTube on my mother's Ipad. Grotesque videos of popular children's characters performing sexual and violent acts on each other. My favorites were the ones in which they used dolls to tell the story.

           I watched many “Prank” videos as well. Obnoxious people — usually men — screaming at the camera about how epic and awesome everything is. They often uploaded “Kissing pranks”. The word prank is used extremely liberally, it was just ten minutes of men kissing random women on the street. I liked watching them, they made me bite at my fingers. I would shove the Ipad under my pillow when my mom walked in. I knew the way it made me feel was shameful, even if I didn't know yet what that feeling was.

           I used to frequent a quiz website. While it was mostly for creating quizzes, you could also upload stories, and create forums. I would read fan-fiction on this site, created by equally as illiterate children as I.

           I remember a man who used to message me often. He taught me a lot about my body. I could describe how much I hate that man for ruining my innocence, but in full honesty, I don't really care. I just pretend to when I want a “mental health break” from my responsibilities.

           The Internet was my only escape for a long while, aside from listening to music as I paced. All my friends were digital, all my friends were adults. They loved me, or rather, my body. I didn't see them as humans, and maybe they didn't see me as one either. It was a fair trade, no?

           School was dreadful. I don't remember Elementary school, and I never went to high school, but middle school was horrible.

           Friends never came easy to me. At least, not at this point in my life. I was a mess. My hair was matted and gross. My parents never taught me to care for it. I would invade conversations at poor times, speak louder than I should've, said unbecoming things. “Awkward” would be an understatement.

           Most of my school days were spent in my own head, waiting for the bell. The moment I was home, I would get online.

           It wasn't until 7th grade that it got truly bad. My vision is quite horrible, and because of this, I've always been on a 504 plan. But in 7th grade, it was finally turned into an IEP. This means I was officially Special Education student. I found it shameful.

           The Sped teacher was, in my father's words, a raging cunt. In my own words, far beyond the pale. She would constantly insult me, calling me gross, a rat, an idiot, retarded, whiny, or sociopathic. She tormented me, said it was because I was a little brat.

           It was a self fulfilling prophecy. Under her watch, I became much worse. I went from acting socially oblivious, to angry and violent.

           I threw chairs, slammed my head against walls, screamed at people... Of course, everyone believed that I was insubordinate. They didn't believe she made me that way.

           I told her one day, while sitting in the small sped Classroom, “I can't read this part of my worksheet.” She sat behind her desk, staring at her computer like I hadn't said a word. The room was dead quiet, but I assumed she didn't hear me. So I spoke again, “Ma'am, I need help.” 

           “You can read it just fine, stop looking for attention.”

           I still don't know who she was accusing me of seeking attention from. It was just me and her in the classroom. But it made me angry. I was trying to be a good student, but what does that get me?

           I threw my binder at her and went home early. Violent, they called me. I had just wanted to be good.

           When my mother asked why I called her to pick me up, I told her I was sick. We both knew it was a lie, she was the only one who believed me about that teacher.

           Another time, that teacher had seen the lines on my wrists. It's not like I tried to hide them. She laughed, hit them with her pen to make them sting, then told me, “If you want me to care, try bleeding out on the floor. Otherwise, do your schoolwork.” 

           It was because of her that I was pulled out of school. Home-school would suit me much better, my mother had told me.

           The transition from public to home school wasn't horrible. At the time, COVID had just become a big problem, so everyone was learning digitally now anyway. Though, after a few weeks, my mother got tired.

           It always ended with me sitting in our filthy living room, watching the time tick by. I could hear her in the other room, playing her video games. Whatever, I didn't need her, I decided.

           I would play on my phone instead. Send scandalous texts to men quice my age, doodle on a shotty art app, watch soft-core animes until my brain shut off.

           Once the clock struck three, I would dash to my bedroom for either reason: to self injure out of hatred, or self injure out of lust. The result was the same either way, neat lines on my wrists and thighs. I would take photos for my online friends to praise.

           I started hitting them with my pencils myself. I thought if I learned to like it, that teacher wouldn't make me so angry. It didn't work, I still have a seething hatred for her to this day.