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  1. Based on real experiences. Attempting to make light of the trauma by putting it on paper. May be depressing and potentially triggering. 95% narration, 5% wetting. “Anything else you’d like to share with me?” My teacher asked after I had finished telling him, in a relatively calm voice, about a portion of all the unhappy events from my past. The blazing morning light was streaming in through the office windows; this February had been an unusually warm one. Not good news for me. My arms were firmly wrapped in long black sleeves, a futile attempt to hide the aftermath of my misdeeds while unwittingly announcing to the world the crime I had committed. Those scars from my paper knife seemed to act on behalf of me. I got my knife taken away for them. The deputy principal saw me for them. They put me under supervision for them. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Not even a hiccup. Deep down I was fully aware that there was a dam ready to burst, that I could keep on pouring out what had happened to me for hours as long as there wasn’t that goddamn math lesson waiting for me a few minutes later. But nothing came out. I began scanning my soul for the problem like a software scanning itself for bugs. Surely supervision itself couldn’t be the problem, not if it meant nothing more than speaking to your favorite teacher for ten minutes each morning. Math couldn’t be the problem either, despite that I never was good at it, and despite that the subconscious part of me constantly braced myself for someone to yell at me for anything I was not good at. I myself must be the problem then. With this thought I glanced down at my left arm. It was clad in a black sleeve, but I felt as if I could see right through it. Lines, crosses, dots, all in red, zigzagging, overlapping, marking my arm. Like pen on a test paper. “Anything you have to say for yourself, young lady?” She stood in front of the classroom and growled at me, a whole ten seconds after flinging the whiteboard marker in her hand across the classroom with an almighty swing, aiming towards me in the corner. That growl, compared to one produced by an adult female, was closer to that of a female lion on the Savannah; I swear it could be heard within miles. “Sleeping in class - is that how our prodigy uses her magical powers to study instead of listening to the teacher?” Prodigy. I hated that word. She talked my mother into signing up for her extracurricular English lessons because she convinced her that I was one, before putting me in the worst seat in a class full of teenagers five years older than me. The ways that bunch of fifteen-year-olds welcome an advanced ten-year-old into their class were pretty much something you would expect, from “accidentally” knocking her book onto the ground to rolling their eyes whenever she made an attempt to interact with them. As for sleeping in class, I was fairly sure that it was something all normal ten-year-olds would be inclined to do if they were kept in a classroom at 10 p.m. Right - that is exactly the time she preferred to drag her evening lessons into, since so much of them had already been spent on yelling and sneering while checking our work, laced with some occasional yanking and kicking the chair. Staring at her distant figure, I tried very hard not to recall the time she pinched my chin with her free hand while holding my notebook with another till I see stars. “Oh dear,” she sneered as she slowly, very slowly, descended from her sacred place in front of the classroom to where I sat, “that’s right - you have absolutely no respect towards your elders. Do you know,” my notebook was grabbed from my desk without warning, “how we refer to those who have those wacky brains but are disrespectful?” The room was silent. An answer was not expected from them, and everyone, including her, knew that one was not expected from me either. “We call them poisonous.” she calmly answered, twisting my notebook in her hand, “and by poisonous I mean that you devastate your parents’ and your whole family’s lives and reputation. If I were your mother, and I’m glad I’m not, I would’ve sent you away before sunrise.” With that word, she dropped my notebook back onto my desk more forcefully than necessary before striding back to the front of the room. The pages of the notebook billowed slightly at the remainder of that force, fluttering to past assignments where the marks were, as always, low. Lines, crosses, dots, all in red, zigzagging, overlapping, marking my paper. Like scars on an arm. I myself must be the problem then. “Look at your grades.” The only source of illumination in the classroom was a faulty LED light that made funny noises while edging her dark silhouette with a silver glisten. It was dark outside, and it was late. Very late. I had long lost track of time; the only thing I was sure was that it had been long past 10 p.m. since I was kept behind after she dismissed the rest of the class. For the first time I wished I were with those teenagers. Or with anyone at all. At any place in this world as long as there was access to a toilet. Having been kept behind meant that I had not been able to take a break for hours, and now my bladder was making itself known, in almost the same way she was venting on me. “Just look at it - prodigy.” My face must have been paler than the ring of silver around her, partly from sheer fear, and partly from the effort of holding in the contents of my bladder. I stared into the void, not at her, not at my paper. Obviously a fifth-grader failing a test designed for tenth-graders was a felony to her, I thought. “I’ve never seen such poor work.” I could swear I heard her teeth grinding as she said that, “And I’ve never seen such a pathetic student as you.” The silence that punctuated her lines were as dark and suffocating as waters in the Mariana Trench. Then it was broken by thin, neat sounds of paper ripping apart as she tore my test paper into tiny pieces, before reaching back for a plastic ruler conveniently placed behind her at that very moment. “Give me your hand.” She grinned, the kind of grin serial killers carry around while searching for their next victim. I did - as if I had other options. It was the weirdest experience ever. I heard the smack, but I could not feel it. All my senses seemed to have descended into some sort of protective fog I had evolved since meeting her. However, though I could not feel the smack, I felt something else. I felt my crotch growing warm and wet, I felt water streaming down my legs and pooling around my feet, I felt my the pressure n my bladder dropping as it if were a living organism acting on its own will, I felt - I felt my soul withering, along with my ability to shed tears. My bladder was numb like it would be in any fear wetting scenario, but the rest of my body physically hurt. For a rare moment or two she was silent, probably stunned at this unexpected wetting, at least to her. Clearly my protective fog was not thick enough, for it was torn open by the shrill voice she used to yell at people in class: “Get lost - out of my sight, you disgusting spoiled brat - Now!” For the first time I was happy to carry out her order, not grabbing a look at those shredded pieces of my test paper lying across the desk, for I knew all too well what they looked like. Lines, crosses, dots, all in red, zigzagging, overlapping, marking my paper. Like scars on an arm. And out of her sight I went. My mother did not manage to pull me out from her extracurricular learning center without a lot of pleading and ranting from her side and much more phone calls than necessary. She could have forgotten about me the instant I stopped paying my tuition, yet she had lived with me for much, much longer than I would have ever wished. I began waking up at night coated with cold sweat. I began to develop irrational fears towards people similar to her in whatever ways. I began to resent the word prodigy ever since even though I ceased to be one after I finished primary school. My bladder control became worse, much worse, and even to this day I still occasionally spurt into my panties when I get spooked, and may lose control on a larger scale when I cry; when the water runs loose on this end of my body it does the same thing on the other end as well. The diagnose for depression did not come until much later, and one day, coupled by the stress from the upcoming mock exams and blurred memories unable to recognise, I locked myself into the school toilet and cut myself with my paper knife without bothering to relieve myself first. Blood and urine seeped out at the same time from different openings on my body, dampening my tissues and my panties. Physically I was numb, but mentally the searing pain from that smack of the ruler revisited me after all these years. Lines, crosses, dots, all in red, zigzagging, overlapping, marking my arm. Like pen on a test paper. “I don’t really have much advice for you, but just remember - you’re not a burden to anyone. There are many things that aren’t your problem.” Sunlight blazed into the office; my teacher decided to say something to fill in the silence, before asking again, “So......anything else you’d like to share with me?” Suddenly furious at myself for not realizing that before and still not being able to face it after all these years, I shook my head. “Alright,” he replied, probably assuming that he already knew enough about my past from my research projects and the dribs and drabs I had managed to tell him. I enjoyed his company; but that was one of the moments I desperately needed to be alone. Not waiting for the bell, I hurried out of the office without even bothering to say thank you. The warm morning air took me into its arms; yet I bit my lip at its embrace, realizing that my long sleeves have completely blocked off the breeze making its way down the corridor.
  2. So, here we are. I've been thinking about sharing my story, like a biography but...smaller. Why? Because I have a lot to tell and no place to tell it, and this seems like a save place to talk about my tale of woe. So yeah, strap yourselves in, this gon' b gud. I was born in Februari of 1997 in Leiden, the Netherlands. My mom, let's call her Beth, was born in the Hague, but was raised in Duiven, a town on the border of Germany. My dad, we'll call him Peter, was also born in the Hague, but hadn't moved. Thet met in an appartment building. My dad was a guard there, and my mom was taking classes to become a nurse. The had a child, my sister Amanda, 2 years before I was born. The birth wasn't without complications; I was pushing against my mom's pelvis, but I'll get back to that later. My young years were pretty good. From the stories I heard I was a happy baby, quickly satisfied and not too troublesome. I went to a school nearby with my sister. I was a happy little guy in school as well, often cracking jokes, enjoying classes and wearing bright clothes. My mom took me to a doctor once to check out my feet, as she said they looked wrong, but he dismissed it. I moved to a diffrent schoolbuilding once, because the old one was getting demolished. My mom was in a wheelchair due to the problems with her pelvis, and went under the knife in around 2004. She slowly recovered and soon, she was able to walk without pain again, and things were looking up. I was an avid swimmer, and soon brought home certificate after certificate. Right now, I have about 13 of them, including one scuba diving certificate and first-aid swimming (don't question it.). I always was a tall kid, making people think I'd love basketball, but I hated it. I had something called "DCD", which basically means you can't aim for shit. But it was fine, I laughed my way through the day and enjoyed life to it's fullest... *instert threatening music here* Then...seventh grade happened. You see, I was always kind of a...reclusive kid, not really a going-out type and everything but a badass. Yet, classmates talked to me, and I considered them friends, even inviting them over for birthday parties and the like. However, everything changed when the depression nation attacked. I suddenly came to the realisation that they weren't laughing with me, but laughing about me. I realised how, when they played with me, I always got the shitty roles, barely even playing at all. And calling people "gay" and "stupid" wasn't friendly bater, it were insult, directed at me. My trust in humanity was destroyed, as was my happiness. Almost overnight I went from a super happy kid to a dark, depressed kid, who thought about things he shouldn't think about yet. It was like there had been a party, but I looked out of the window and saw the approaching appocalypse; the party was still there, but I was the only one who saw the pointlessness of it all. On top of that, my relationship with my dad was all but perfect. There would be times where we'd be fighting daily. And at that moment, when it seemed like it couldn't get worse...the bolts that held my moms pelvis together broke loose, and she was back to square one. She had another surgery, now with a sort of substitute-bone, and once again, she slowly recovered. My sister was ok, she went to school, she made homework, she had a slight fear of failiure and a low self image, but she was ok. Between the eight and nineth grade, I switched schools, for real this time. I went to a school for bodily handicaped people. Problem was: my classmates had hung out with eachother for eight years, and I was brand new, and I was the one left out again. This was the point that my love for videogames grew into an addiction. I escaped to a world that was better, friendlier and fairer than the real one, and for a moment I could forget my problems. I finished primairy school and moved on up. I did "HAVO", which is the third highest there is, while my sister did "Gymnasium", which was the highest. Then the fear started. Out of nowhere, a huge paranoia and fear struck me. This started, as I recall, with Herobrine: a myth in the Minecraft community. This went on and on, no medicine worked, and my state got progressively worse. I saw a psychiatrist who, I shit you not, became depressed halfway through and pretty much ditched me, explaining that "He couldn't deal with my negativity". I switched schools again after the third grade, as my school had lost the right to teach at an Havo level. I moved to a school aaaaaall the way to the north of the Netherlands, and it was a hell on earth. For two years, I'd be driven back and forth to a school with an Economy teacher who didn't like kids, an English teacher who let you solve all your problems yourself and a principal...oooooh the principal...if I had the chance, I'd punch him. The amount of times my parents were called over to discuss my "behaviour", with him telling them how I should take responsibility for my problems, and saying that they weren'd being constructive when they asked what was special about this "special" school. My mom actually walked out of a meeting crying once, after threatening to sue the school. This was also the first place I fell in love. It was a pretty, slightly tomboyish girl that we'll call Naomi. She was cute, cuddly and she drove me crazy. Yet, my heart was crushed as I found out she was a lesbian. We're still friends, even though I'm still crushing hard for her. This wasn't the last time by the way, after that there were about 7 other girls that turned out to be lesbian or bisexual, or, as Naomi put it: "You have a great gay-dar, just...the wrong way around..." Around that time, I was sick of being scared, and took my fear head-on. This was in 2014, and I started with reading the plot of a bunch of horror movies on Wikipedia. Around Oktober 2014, when FNaF came out. I watched youtube videos, skipping ahead to the jumpscares. My first full horror video I watched was in Januari 2015, being about FNaF 3. From here, I started moving on up, and in Oktober 2015, I watched my first full horror movie, Final Destination 5. From here I went on to watch all the Final Destination movies and all the Saw movies, and I was no longer scared. Two years, and I failed the exams. I was devistated. I'd burned through a lot of psychiatrists and therapies, and I hit rock bottom. On top of that; remember that my mom had my feet checked out? Yup, now I needed orthopedic shoes to prefent my feet from breaking sideways, making me walk on my legbone. My dad wasn't helping at all and my mom was struggling with a depression herself. I went to another school, this time in Leiden, and got my Havo certificate in a year, lightening the mood a bit. So, we're getting pretty recent. My parent's marriage is moving downhill, my dad has lungcancer and my sister has an unknown illness, and has been bedridden for about 5 months now. On the other hand, I got a good psychiatrist and medicine that make me feel way better, I mean, at least I don't wanna kill myself anymore. Pfew, that's quite something ey. I don't know WHY I want to share this, I just do. Welp....bye! Glenn
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