Creation

3:44PM
I don't know how long it has been, but I've been sitting here drawing bunny comics and thinking about how Lionel just completely misunderstands me. I don't know what or how the hell he sees and thinks that I am a "gleeful" person. I'm not. I'm grateful and I was happy to be there with him, but I am just like everybody else, frustrated, angry and depressed. Just because I wasn't frowning every second of the day like someone who has a black and white perception or because I wasn't someone who could only think of why things are bad, doesn't mean I don't understand it. If someone truly thinks that there is more bad than good, and they have every reason to believe that, it doesn't mean they're right, but it doesn't mean they're wrong either. Even fucking bimbo girls get depressed at least once a month. It is completely unrealistic to think that someone has never experienced depression. No, don't even say it, I know there is a big fucking difference between depression and sadness.
My entire fucking life has been rough. There was a time where I cried non-stop for hours a day. Not because I was self-pitying myself, not because I didn't get what I wanted, not because I didn't get enough attention, but because I was blamed for things I didn't do. Because no one ever listened. Because I was called a liar when I wasn't. Because no one ever believed me. No one helped me and I was alone. I was alone my entire life. Do you understand how traumatizing it is to a kid who is still learning about life, to be blamed, falsely accused and laughed at? Do you know what that does to a kid? It makes the kid feel worthless. It makes them feel helpless and it makes them want to leave and never come back. Do you know what that does to a person who is still experiencing that?
How the fuck can someone assume with such confidence that a person whom they've just met, has never experienced depression? How the fuck can you do that? He apologized, yes, but he still thinks I don't understand. I know this because I showed a little bit of sadness on the Tuesday that I had to leave, and he snapped and said to me, "it's not like you're dying". What, is it suddenly not normal for someone to be a little fucking sad that they're leaving?
Unlike him, my life didn't get fucked up in high school, it got fucked up the day my dad threw the vase at my mother and it shattered across the floor. Dirt, water and black ceramic pieces everywhere. Sounds of struggle, loud slapping sounds, sounds of things getting pushed and falling to the ground, the sound of clothing and meat, suddenly the phone flew, hit the washing machine and broke apart. My mother screamed, more sounds of my dad hitting her, she cried. She got away and ran to the room, slamming the door shut. She cried loudly. I remember it all, I remember it all so clearly because I hated myself that moment. I was having a heartburn for the first time in my life. I had just turned seven last month. I couldn't go break up the fight by showing up in the kitchen and just standing there, getting in the way. I've done it before. it works because your parents, no matter how in rage they are, they're not going to be as vicious if you're watching.
From that moment, everything went downhill. We moved constantly and I watched my mother go through all of it, and I couldn't do anything because I was too little. No one wants to listen to a little kid, they don't understand, right? I understood everything. I wanted to help. I wanted to get rid of all the problems, I wanted things to be good again. There was money issues. I wanted to help. I couldn't because no one wants to hire a kid. No one wants to hire a girl for labor work. No one wants to listen. I never gave up.
Forth grade was hell. As usual, I am the youngest in the class. I was one of the top students of the school, no, not class, I said school. I was fast, I was strong and I was good at everything. Then I had to transfer schools because of the divorce. I wasn't in school for months. Then, suddenly I was the new kid. I didn't understand the lesson, I was behind, way behind. I didn't understand anything, I didn't learn about this stuff yet. I was a pro at getting C's and F's sometimes B's, but that made no difference. I was a failure. I was stupid. I was ugly and no one wanted to hang out with me except the other weird, ugly or stupid kids. I finished the grade there and moved to another school. 5th grade, everyone was the new kid because it was a new school year. I was top of the class again, I out-figured math problems and found two or three different ways to solve it before most kids even figured out how to solve the problem by the way of the book. I was top student of the school again. I was also one of the three only Asian in the school, the rest was Mexican, and only Mexican. My mother's friend whom we were living with laughed at me because I said something wrong in Vietnamese. I think it was a grammar issue, they both laughed at me and repeated my mistake. I didn't react. I didn't say anything. I went to my room, I closed the door, and then I cried. I said I was never going to speak Vietnamese ever again. So I didn't. They thought I was playing a game, so they wanted to see how long I could keep it up... Then after a couple months, they got annoyed that I only spoke English, they lectured me, they yelled at me. I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel bad. I didn't think I made a mistake so I didn't apologize and I didn't change my ways. I'm still not speaking the language and I still refuse to.
During the summer, right before 6th grade started for middle school, my uncle took me to get a haircut from some woman-friend of his. Two inches somehow ended up being ten inches. I was confused. I thought I was just getting a trim. My hair was cut to my ears when it was down passed my shoulders. Maybe it was the hair style, this will look okay. She was done. I looked horrible. I wanted to scream. She sprayed some shit on my hair and I had enough, how much more is she going to fuck it up? I got home and looked in the mirror again and again and again. Why the hell was it orange?!
I went to school. I wore a skirt. I got questioning looks. People whispered to each other, is that a boy or a girl? People stared. I tensed. I pushed through. Then... Eventually I got sick of seeing people's faces, the floor was more interesting. I stared at the floor the entire school year. Everyone thought I was weird. My name was Joey. I skateboarded, I played basketball, I skated home, I biked home, I roller-bladed home. I wore a black hat to cover my hair, but it made no different. I adopted the posture of a boy. I dressed like a boy. My self esteem was gone, which effected my grades, which affected how my mother saw me, which affected how I saw myself. I started to give up. I stilled tried hard on my grades, I still tried hard to be the best, but I wasn't the best anymore. 7th grade... I was constantly late for school, I hung out with other skaters, I broke into other peoples houses just because I wanted to see if I could, I picked fights, I stole from stores, I got into arguments. I hung out with a guy who lives out of his car with his girlfriend and he smokes. I refused, but... One day my mother ignored me, she ignored my existence, because I did something wrong... Or maybe I didn't even do anything! She does that a lot, just one day I would come home and she would pretend I was never born and I wasn't standing there talking to her. I slammed the door, I made noises, I made a mess and I broke things. I did all of this because I was angry. I wanted her to yell at me and tell me what I did wrong. That would be so less painful than to just ignore my existence completely as if I wasn't ever born. I took the offer of smoking. I was twelve. And I drank beer... And I smoked a lot. I wanted to damage myself because I wanted to see how far I could push myself, I wanted to see how bad I could go and I wanted my mother to notice what was happening to me, I wanted her to notice what she was doing to me. I ended up being reported to the counselor and ended up in a mental hospital for being suicidal.
My mother was finally worried, she was worried because she didn't fully understand why I was at the hospital or what they were doing to me there. She just knows that I was trying to kill myself.
At the mental hospital, I was quiet, I polite, and I didn't socialize because I was twelve and everyone else was four to eight years old. They thought it was weird, so they kept me longer. I started to get frustrated. I didn't want to be here in this place taking medicine because there was nothing wrong with me. I have every reason to act the way I am but apparently it's not normal to be depressed. Then... I got a roommate. She was obnoxious, she went through my writings, she laid on my bed and she messed up my stuff. I asked her politely to not touch my stuff, she ignored me, I repeated myself over and over until I was screaming at her and I had my hand on her head, pushing her face into my bed as hard as I could. I wanted to break her nose, I wanted to bruise her face and I wanted her to fucking scream for help. She didn't, all she did was laugh. The fifteen minute check in nurse came and saw this, she called people and they came to pull me off of her, they pried my hands off her neck and I scratched her, digging my nails as deep as I could into her neck before they pulled me into the quiet room, I wanted her to go to the emergency room.
I hated this place. I hated the other patients, I hated the doctors, I hated the social worker, I hated the pills and I hated the meetings. I wanted to go home. I constantly reminded them that I wasn't crazy and that I shouldn't be here, that it was a mistake. I screamed and I cried but they only kept me longer.
A couple months after I got discharged, I attempted a couple times to kill my mother. I didn't do anything, but I spoke freely to my counselor, telling her that I often go to the kitchen, take out the knife in the drawer and stare at it, and then put it back. I told her things I wanted to do to a lot of people, and I told her the names and what they looked like and how they treated me. I trusted her. Then she sent me to the mental hospital. When I got there, the staffs were saying "you're back!" I didn't care about being here this time. I was strangely peaceful.
Then... A couple months after getting discharged from this place, I got sent there again. This time, I did it on purpose. I wanted to go back there. I loved it there. It felt right. It felt like home. I told the counselor I wanted to kill myself and I couldn't stop thinking about it and I would do it today when I get home. The ambulance came right away to take me away.
I was expelled from school in the first few months of 8th grade, because someone said I was on drugs and I was high on cocaine. Hours of sitting around a cop showed up and took my pulse. It was fast, but it was because I have an irregular heartbeat and I was nervous about going to jail. He didn't take me to jail, he said he didn't want me to go there and I was too nice. The principle who hated me for some reason expelled me.
I wasn't in school for months again. I went into independent studies school for high schoolers for two or three months and then they said something about my records and that I couldn't go there anymore, and I should come back when I'm in high school.
9th grade... As soon as I stepped onto the campus, I went straight for the office to transfer out. I didn't even go to my first high school class, I went straight for the office because I already know that it's not going to be any different than middle school. It's set up the same way, people are pretty much the same except they look older. The people in the office ignored me, they made me stand around for hours, they made me come back later, they sent me to people that didn't help and they made me wait some more. I couldn't speak to the principle because they wouldn't let me, instead they kept sending me to the mental health counselor and some fat lady who screams at children and suspends them. She told me I wasn't smart enough for independent studies and I kept showing up, bothering her, showing her my grades. I kept showing up at her office so much she threatened to send me back a grade because I wasn't even old enough to be in high school. I stopped coming everyday and came only once a week to the office (not to her office)... And then once every few weeks. I wanted to speak to someone who can get me out of this hell hole.
10th grade, a couple months after school started, there was a new principle. I wrote a ten page essay on why I don't want to be here and why I wanted to be transferred to independent studies and what the teachers were doing (I mean WEREN'T!) and I barely learning anything in this school. He sent me out. He sent me to a part-time high school and part-time college. I didn't get along with two of the teachers, there was an English teacher that wasn't good at English and a math teacher that was better at bragging and judging kids than he was at teacher. I got sick of that place and asked to be transferred to independent studies.
Months without school again... I'm definitely falling way behind. I went out of my way to go to that independent studies school again, and when I got there, it turned into a daycare center. They told me they relocated to downtown two years ago. Stunned. Frustrated. Angry. I just spent half the day to get here!
I lived with my cousin now. My cousin's dad stole money from my piggy bank when I was five, he took a lot, my mother had hundred dollar bills in there and he took it, telling me that it was his and it belonged to him because I stole from him and he's just taking what belongs to him because it's only fair that way. I stayed in the room the entire day, I come out only in the morning and late at night when no one is around. Somehow... I still managed to get blamed for things even though I don't even show my face in daylight. I slept on the hard cold floor mold filled room. I spent my time alone, crying, lost in my thoughts for hours. There wasn't a day I didn't cry for at least an hour without stopping.
Six months into being insulted, laughed at, being disappointed and being a disappointment, weight loss, hair falling out, blacking out, many MANY nights where I can't sleep no matter how tired I was, and ritual uncontrollable crying. During this time I went from 109 lbs to 87 lbs in less than a month. I did psychedelic mushrooms for the first time and died. People don't think it's a big deal to hallucinate a death, but I am a mental being, not a physical. As this is probably more vivid to me than anyone who has experienced death and came back, because I actually remember, I saw what happened to my body, I felt it being sown back together, I saw the other half of me on the other side of the road, I saw the reactions of my death, I felt the coldness of losing life, nothing could warm me. I lost vision, I felt the slippery stickiness of the blood, I saw the walls and floor covered in trails of blood and I saw what I did to people. I saw my mother crying. I saw the hospital, I heard the machines beep, I saw the nurses, I saw the doctors, I heard people rustling around. I think I have had a fuller death experience than most people, because I was traumatized by it for months, it was very lucid, very real, and when I was done being traumatized, I learned a lot and I wasn't scared of being dead anymore, because it's not the end.