Freakchylde's

When I was 16 or 17 I almost killed my father. Now, I don’t mean the usual threat that most kids pass on, I mean I actually almost killed my father. The scissor points were pressed against his throat, pushing against his skin. He could feel them and see the cold blank stare coming at him from his daughter’s eyes. What prompted it, was the fact that I really wasn’t up for a lesson in patience that evening, and I would have preferred to work on one of my many art projects, instead. But, that was not for my choosing, apparently. He launched right into me, making the mistake of bringing himself to my level, while I had a pair of scissors in my hand. I don’t know what possessed me that night, maybe it was an attempt at forcing a final “No, never again” (which it didn’t). Then again, I don’t know what stopped me, either. I didn’t feel anything but pure rage at that moment, the empty shell was just completely filled, and for once pouring over the edges of my container. Maybe there was some spark of humanity left in me, strong enough to control my motions so that the scissors didn’t embed in their target, but it remained buried and behind the scenes that night. For those that know me, know that my eyes are the windows to my soul, they betray every emotion that I might be feeling at any given moment. That night, they were a complete void, totally dialated and creating an absolute vacuum. My Dad walked away with a new understanding of his daughter. He knew I wasn’t terribly thrilled with who he was as an individual, but I don’t think he ever stopped to think that I might raise a weapon against him, with the prospect of removing him from my life.

If anything was going through my head, during those moments, I don’t recall a single thing. I do know, that afterwards I collapsed into a fear of having been forced into my stairwell. Up to that point, I had never considered the concept of taking life, for any other reason than food or defense. Though, I always considered if I had to take a life for defense, it would be a stranger, not blood. The next couple of days were quite stressful, trying to resolve this new knowledge of myself and incorporating it into my being. By that point in my life, I was still quite numb from everything leading up to it. I had just lost my hearing, as well as all the other things that I’ve referenced in this reading space in the past, but don’t have time to look up and link. The only conclusions I could come to, were that the base of my being is indeed void of everything except my base animal instincts. All emotions are things piled upon that foundation by society and experience. In the years following, I’ve learned how to drop into that mode, shutting off emotion and becoming that dark pit. It’s helped me through some things in this life, and it’s helped me look at them from unassuming eyes. The problem is, I have to force myself to revert to my human form. To have the emotions required to exist seamlessly in this society, in a similar manner as the main character of American Psycho. Our social interactions don’t allow for the emotionless science that exists in animal nature, they require an openness, a willingness to laugh and play nice, instead of the cold, cruel world that exists inside me. Yes, I do sit and think about the death and killing of people, and very painful deaths, at that. It’s nothing personal, has nothing to do with how much I like or dislike a person, it’s just my existence. When I sit in a group of people, I have my inner monologue going that sounds very much like the character’s sudden outbursts. And this is why it’s best that you don’t ask me what I’m thinking. Though, I will admit that I’m trying to change that thinking, it’s a hindrance in what I’m trying to accomplish (and those inner monologues are less frequent).

Those who know me best, have seen me struggle with the appropriate words to convey my inner thoughts in an appropriate manner, so not to insult (and I usually fail). It’s actually a project in motion for me, not because I’m trying to fit in, but because I’m trying to feel, trying to dig myself out of the hole that I’ve been living in for the last 20 years. It’s a tiring process, and sometimes I revert because I don’t have the energy to continue and I have to stop and regroup. I am a shell, and I am trying to fill myself with the things that I desire of myself and how I envision the person of who I am and want to be. I know there’s a spark in there, that I’m trying to foster into a flame to consume me in a passion other than anger. I know it’s there, and if it can be used in that manner for anger and destruction, then obviously it can be used for growth and compassion. I have those qualities, and can exhibit them, but making them real and a part of me, is a completely different process. In that vein, I’ve become and actress worthy of accolades. I’ve fooled people for so long, to the point they think stories like this are fiction, when in fact, they are reality.

Welcome to the lower platform.