Archive of Our Own

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Do you ever look in the mirror and don’t recognize your reflection?

Sometimes I look and I know in my head that the person I’m seeing is supposed to be me, but they just don’t seem to be me

Other times I don’t seem to recognize the person staring back at me at all.
Not my hair
Not my eyes
Not my lips
Not my jaw
Not my shoulders
Not me

And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I see something else entirely in the mirror
Rotten flesh
Sunken eyes
Wiry, stringy, hair
It seemed to move on its own, not following what I do
The shadows shift behind it
Faces
Always faces

Sometimes I wonder if what’s looking at me wants to come out, to escape. Would it even be me? The thing that doesn’t look like me, doesn’t act like me

I should just look down while I’m washing my hands

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There are dots on my ceiling
Smudges
Marks

Accumulated over the years from random things, probably nothing

But I see them out of the corner of my eye, they don’t look like nothing

The longer I stare the more they warp and shift, moving and becoming bugs

More dots appear

Bugs, bugs, there are so many bugs.

It’s not just the dots anymore
A streak of something on my wall is a worm, writhing and stretching
A clump of dust is a huge beetle
There are so many
I can’t just ignore them anymore

I pull my blanket over my head,
creating an invisible for field that the bugs cannot pass

But they still jump, covering the force field and blocking out all light, even when they slide off or get squashed by my shield, more and more and more keep coming.
They persist

I do not care
I hide in my bed

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I am a small child
Maybe three or four

I am scared

My neighbor, pat, lives in the condo next door

I fear her

I have a ritual, every night

When I lie in bed, awake.

I cover my body beneath the sheets

With just a little left out

Pat wants a different amount and part every night

My right hand
Some hair
My face
Must be exact, no mistakes
Sometimes nothing, and I must hide all of me under the covers
I must hold my breath, she is only happy when I don’t breathe

I shut my eyes tight and she opens my bedroom door
I imagine the yellow light flooding my room as she walks towards my bed
But I cannot see

Fat ankles, smell of cigarette smoke, jutting teeth and small eyes, arms drowning in rolls of fat drowning her stubby arms

I stay still, not a breath, eyes shut, as she looks
Inspects

And then she leaves and I let out a breath

After the move, I kept up this weird ritual for a while, but then stopped. No point now.
After all, we had new neighbors

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It always happens. I think I’m getting so much better, that the thoughts are finally gone, but there they are again.

I wake up early in the morning and wish I could fall back asleep and never wake up.

I sit, staring out a window and wish I was never born.

I get scared again and curl up into a ball, pretending to not exist.

I wish that there ways a way to beat these thoughts.
I wish that I didn’t have to live in fear of my own mind.
I wish that I could just be normal, like the ‘lululemon girls’.

But I can’t.

So I sit here,
hiding in my closet,
staring out a window,
struggling to get out of bed, and instead I wish for the quiet release of death.

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I sit on my bed, late at night, holding a pair of fingernail clippers. Cold in my hand.

Snip

Clip

With each cut that is not my nail but my skin

I cut off my flesh

Oh, but it hurts

Oh, but it tastes so good

My own skin in my mouth

Food to eat and savor the flavor in every piece

But the clippers are a chain

That shackles me to pain

To scars on my fingertips

To sore hands and tired eyes

Oh, how I wish I could rid my life of such manacles

But at the same time

As my mind wanders

Into places I do not want to be

Times I do not want to think about

Or remember

The clippers shackle me to this moment

This time

Where despite the pain,

I am safe

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Oh wow I'm feeling emotion right now

That rare

Forgot what this was like

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I died yesterday.
I died when you told me of the pain.
I died when you described its claws.
I died because it festers inside you, cutting your arms,
I died because it tears through your skin and emerges, screaming and crying and shrieking.
I died because of how it can be silent
A pooling puddle of ink, pouring down your legs to your feet, creeping into the floor as a shadow.
I died because it must be let out.
It eats away at your insides, emptying you from the inside out, invisible but consuming.
I died because what I cannot see still exists, it becomes you, until you are the pain and it is you.
I died when you spoke, your words robotic and formatted, a shell of your own being
Were we not just laughing the other day?

I died because when it is let out I must feel it too
I died because my pain is a fraction of yours
I died because you letting it out doesn’t mean it ever left
I died because it was only ever hidden from my sight and from yours
I died because I know it can’t
I died because I know it will only ever shrink or take a vacation, before returning once again
I died yesterday and yesterday has come before and yesterday will come again

I died yesterday and it was worth it because I died for you
But weren’t we just joking around last week?
Didn’t we just have a day out, all smiles and cheers?
Wasn’t the pain not ever there, just you and I?
Or was that never you, and I was only talking to the pain?

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I want to slice open someone’s skin with a knife. I want to watch their blood one from the wound that I made. I want to dip my head down and suck deep on their flesh, drinking the glorious ichor that pours from within. I want to graze my teeth across their skin as they are tied up beneath me. I want to feel them shudder and thrash as I bite down on them, plunging my head inside of them. I want them to scream as I eat them alive, face covered in someone else’s innards.

I want them to sob as I grab their skull in my hands. I want to push my thumbs against their forces open eyes. I want to plunge my thumbs deep into their deaths as I burst their eyeball. I want to shove my fist up from the inside of their mouth. I want to tear open the thin membranous skin that lies there, forcing my fist into their brain. I want to grab the brown in my hand, and squeeze it. I want to turn it into a slurry of neurons with a yougurt-like consistency. I want to watch them spasm and convulse as their brain is destroyed in my hands. I want to pull my hand out of their mouth and watch it drip with human brain and spinal fluid.

I want to grab a knife and plunge it deep within someone. I want to hear the sound as it sinks down. I want to hear the squirt of blood I coax from them. I want to pull out my knife and plunge it deep again, thrusting with it over and over until both our clothes are coated in their delicious thick blood.

I want to be given an axe with a mask and power. I want to be given the lives of many. I want to look into their eyes as I decapitate them, to see the terror, the pleading, as I kill them all. I want to bring them to a dongeon for tourturing. I want to force them to sit on a singular hot spike and pike rocks on their head and watch as they sink lower and lower until they fall to the ground impaled. I want to take a medieval pear and shove it in all their holes, ripping them open and tearing them apart. I want to tie them on top at a piece of rapid growing bamboo. I want to watch their face as it enters them and grows through them, turning them into a food source for the plant. I want to take that same bamboo and cut off a small piece and shove it underneath until they bleed and their skin feels like wood grain from all the splinters.

I want to put someone in my lab for harvesting. I want to tie them down and drain their blood. I want to observe them and their reactions as I inject them and their brain to various chemicals and substances. I want to see their mind break untill they are begging me for death, for me to kill them. I want to make them wait, for them to die painfully as I slowly drain them. I want to experiment on their body and jot down my observations for my lab parteners to see.

I want to hunt someone. I want to chance them, feel the thrill rich through me from the terror in their voice and eyes as they try to run, but I am faster. I want to grab their head and snap their neck with my bare hands once I catch them. I want to bring them to my house slung across my shoulders as I bring them home as my prize. I want to slice their stomach open and spill their guts upon my floor. I want to skin them, removing their hide and turning it into leather. I want to tear open their rib cage with my bear hands, and hear the crunch and rip as I take them apart. I want to section all the meat of their bones. I want to wear their bones around my neck as a prize, or break them open and eat the marrow. I want to chop their head and make it a taxidermy to hang from my wall. I want to take their human meat and put it on my grill and cook it into a delicious brisket.I want to cut open that brisket and see it’s juices spill out. I want to feed it to my guests at a party. I want to bite into that delicious juice meat and feel their flavor across my tongue. I want to chew them up into a million tiny pieces and swallow them, feeling them slide down my gullet.

Mmm, stake sounds good. I should go eat a steak.

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Unusual
They say strange fascination, infatuation
A lunatic
Call me what’s with your taste
I just wanna taste
And I′ve always heard it's what′s inside that counts

Cus my insides are red and yours are too
And the red on my face is matching you
And goodness you're bleeding, what a wonderful feeling
You're down and you′re pleading, my head is just reeling

The red means I love you
Tasting your blood means I love you
The red means I love you
The red means I love you

Unfortunate
They say such a shame, I turned out this way
A maniac
Well yeah I get manic when I cause a panic
And of course I′m excited when I see you around

Cus my insides are red and yours are too
And the red on my face is matching you
And goodness you′re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling
You're down and you′re pleading, my head is just reeling

The red means I love you
Tasting your blood means I love you
The red means I love you
The red means I love you

You leave me high and dry
A rush comes to my mind at the drops
Of blood, you leave behind
Run as you might, my love will never, ever stop

And I always heard it what's inside

Cus my insides are red and yours are too
And the red on my face is matching you
And goodness you're bleeding, what a wonderful feeling
You're down and you′re pleading, my head is just reeling

The red means I love you
Tasting your blood means I love you
The red means I love you
The red means I love you

The red means I love you
Tasting your blood means I love you
The red means I love you
The red means I love you

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You always said
If a scar was a story
You'd be a leather bound book
Of endless fairytales
Hundreds of stories
Weaving a tale
But baby
My darling
That's the one place where
I disagree
Cus I think you'd be
A Websters dictionary
The stories fragmented
Not put together
Connection lost
amoungst a pile of scattered words
A floating plane of shattered memories
Or a thesaurus
Where the tales are half concealed
And you never know what the words truly ment
As the stories fade
Into inferences
And shadows

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I hope I’m far enough into this for you guys to get to know a little bit about me. For internet safety I will be keeping every piece of information about me besides base life events private. I started this diary because whenever I tried to write in an analog one I didn’t like the feeling of nobody listening. I would put on a voice or caricature to write in like I was performing the act instead of actually writing what I was thinking and feeling. Without further ado, this chapter is going to be a trauma dump of all of the life events in my childhood that lead to me becoming the way that I am today. Hoo boy. This is going to be a long one.

Part 1: Father

My father was never an emotionally mature man. Him not getting his way would often lean to explosives tantrums and screaming fits. There were two clear stages to his stability in my life; that in my early childhood and that in my later preteen and teenage years. The memories I have when I was younger relating to my trauma. It's both a blessing and a miracle that I have them at all, but I'll cover that mor when I get to my brother. When I was younger his state was much more adult like than he eventually ended up as, but his emotional maturity was still next to none. Even when I was as young as two or three, he would get into yelling and lecturing matches with me that would almost always end in me getting hit. After I, naturally, would start crying, he would grow angery at my pain response and tell me that it didn't hurt. My father is and always has been around 300 pounds and 6 feet tall. I'm most of these incidents I was younger than nine, and closer to five. When I got slightly older but still before my preteen years, he got the idea into his head that I was lazy. He would spend most of the time he was talking to me to tell me how lazy and useless and worthless I was over things like forgetting to brush my hair. He always heavily favored my brother over me, which I theorize is at least partly to due with misogyny. He would tell him how great he was, compliment his achievements, and treat him as human, all while I would be sitting right next to him. I always found it funny when I got older how this broke the stereotype of the younger child being the favorite and the older being the one getting hit. I have only ever seen my father try to hurt other people twice in my life, one of those being my brother. In that incident, my and my brother were trying to argue against him in something, ( we were both very young at the time, maybe 7 and 9) and it was the first time he had ever tried to defend me in an arguement. After slapping me, my father picked him up and through him at our couch. Luckily for him, it was a couch, and I doubt he even got a bruise. A few seconds later, my father rushed towards him and apoligiesed purfusely and comforted him while he cried. That stung far more than the slap. The other time I saw him hurt someone besides me was my mother. She was trying to reason with him to do the dishes, which he was just then starting to refuse to ever do. He got a very with her and hit her, while I was standing there watching, helpless. Even though I only saw him do it once, given large gaps in my memory and the secrecy my parents had with me, I do not know if it was the only time he ever hit her. My mother did not know that he hit me until many years later, as he only ever did this when she was absent. Around the time when I turned nine is when his mental age started to regress. He started relying more and more on me and especially my mother to take care of the house and family. The family dynamic became much more like a single mother of three children than like the relatively normal family we had before. I do not know what caused this shift, but it happened nonetheless. He started acting more and more childish, only working around four hours a day and putting our family in financial hardship. I also lost a figure I felt I could go to for advice, and our personal dynamic became much more like disgruntled older teenage brother to me. He started spending most of his free time playing video games and watching YouTube, as well as becoming a much less responsible person in general. Whenever my mother went on a work trip, she would come back to find the house in disrepair. Garbage would be everywhere, it would smell like rotten food, and dishes would be piled high in the sink. My brother would have his cheekbones sticking out of his face, and I would be blatantly over fead. My father always, in some sick and twisted way, saw himself in me. He would overfeed me as a way of justifying his own obesity, as if us both being fat somehow made his overeating ok. When I finally, the summer before my seventh grade year, decided to stop overeating and start going for walks as minor exercise, he lashed out, getting angry. Even when i had just started not eating a giant bowl of ice cream every night, he told me that I would die if I did not eat it. Luckily, I double checked this with my mother, and continued my exercise. At the same time that he started regressing, his OCD became much more apparent. He had been diagnosed since his twenties, but it had never really shown up that much in his daily life. Suddenly, forgetting to unplug the toaster would be cause for a temper tantrum. A single drop of raw egg on the counter would mean a screaming match. A bent tomato sauce can wrenched tears. His ticks never made much sense to me. A broken bowl was a major event that spoiled the entire day, but when I found small shards of glass in my hand he couldn't care less. He washed his hands for three minuted at a time every single time he passed a sink, but skipped showers for days at a time. He would also insist that the reason he had these fears was to 'protect his family', but refused to work anymore to help us. Any confrontation about his behavior would lead to tears and screaming in his toddler esque tantrums. We had two dogs when I was younger. My parents had got them before I was born. Their names were daisy and penny. We used to joke that daisy was his favorite child because of how much he clearly loved the ugly creature more than any of us. Penny was my favorite. When she contracted terminal leukemia of the bone when I was in seventh grade, she went on chemotherapy to prolong her life. My father was terrified of the pills. When he had to give them to her while my mother was on work trips, it would be a huge ordeal. Many times she would simply chew it up and spit it out. When she didn't take it in one simple gulp, he would let out ungodly screams, jumping up and down, shaking the entire house, while screaming "no, No, NO!". I was terrified of the man I had once trusted. Around this time I built a pillow fort in my closet. I would hide there, amoungst the pillows and blankets. I always was attacked to tight, dark spaces. This has lead to a deep love of caves later in life. He continued his deep emotional abuse throughout my entire life with him. I would genuinely forget he was my father and that he could legally bring me to doctors appointments or sign permission slips. Not like he did anyways. He was deeply narcissistic, and thought very highly of himself and his own morality. He genuinely believed that he was this tragic hero character that he made up in his head. He would pretend to be compassionate and empathetic, though I could always see through his act, as could everyone else in my family. The hardest part for me was probably that no one outside of our little bubble could tell that something was wrong. He a charming man, who gave warm hugs and had a boisterous laugh. He cracked jokes. He was a family man. There were only a few outside signs that something was wrong. Getting him to go over to a friends house was a Herculean struggle. After he left, my mother would check every outlet he walked near. It was very difficult to get permission for me to have friends over to my house, but my friends just assumed that I had strict parents and we usually ended up hanging at their house, especially after my brother got his license and my father no longer had to worry about driving me home. I will always long for a father in my life to treat me as something of a son. To play catch with, and mariocart that didn't end in god-damming me to hell. Someone to be proud of me, who I could take advice from. Sadly, no amount of my younger self fantasizing about a mothers new boyfriend after an imaginary surprise divorce could makeup for lost time. I am going to be breaking up thetrauma dump into several parts. 1-3 will be family members, and four will be related to anything outside that. I wanted to do just one chapter, but I figured that that would be too long. I may post between these parts with other entries.

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I'm using this bed as a pin cushion

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Hehe 69 hits lmao

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The maggots will grow beneath my skin eating at the flesh beneath and burst their way out from my fingertips. They crawl up my arm and cover me, going back under to feed again. I can feel them, their gluttony. I feel everything as I begin to rot. I am alive. The mold grows on my moist skin, covering my throat and insides as puss erupts from my skin. I'm green and rotting, white and yellow fuzz replacing my hair. Grease secretes from my pores, creating a puddle that cements me to the ground. I swear I am alive. The plants begin inside of me, thorns and roots scraping the mold from my throat. A stem bursts from my browning stomach, growing higher and higher. I am filled with maggots and worms and roots as if I am dirt but I am alive. My skin blackens and saggs, organs deteriorating. I begin to fall apart, skin thinning and splitting, muscles falling off bone. A seed falls into my left eyeball and it deflates, goo oozing down my face. I am a skeleton surround by the maggots and thorns but I am still alive, why am I alive? I am alive and I am hungry, I have no stomach but I must feed.

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I want to take a knife and slice into your arm and suck out your bright red blood

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Please don’t kill yourself

Oh god, I don’t want is to end up like that

I know that you love me
And that would never change
But know that if you did that
I would be broken
Not just you
Please, please stay

I love you

I need you

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Uuuugh I hate having colds whyyyyy this fucking suuuuuucks