Reach out to those who cannot speak up

Okay, forget the schedule. I am torqued, and I am going to write what is on my mind. I know full well no one will read this (new blog, tiny blog), but, you know what, maybe someone will.

I saw THIS ( today while on Epbot. The poster wrote her own thing, and now I will write mine. Not on bullying per say.

Bullies are jerks, and often, they are hurting jerks. Ever see “Breakfast Club”? If not, go watch it (then come back.) This movie perfectly captures every kind of person. There are five main characters: The princess (queen of school, loved by rich father, used as a tool of her parents war- no sense of self and a snot); The nerd (high expectation parents, though they love him, bullied by the jocks, seems happy-go-luck but isn’t inside); The jock (father molding him to be a clone, a ‘good job son’ boy, little sense of identity and miserable); The basketcase (the weird one everyone ignores, including parents, has no social skills and isolates herself); and the Criminal.

The criminal comes from an abusive home, where fist-fights are common and its the law of the jungle. He is fundemntally someone very hurt, who takes his hurt out by hurting the rest of the world. All five are hurt, and have different ways of showing it (princess and criminal bully; jock and nerd hide it; outcast just hides then explodes). The bully, obviously, is the most harmful of the three options. The criminal and the princess use this- or the highest and lowest of any schools food chain.

Obviously, I am not going to defend them in the slightest. I am stating facts. Now here’s another fact: no one ever stands up for the victims.

Everyone says, let live and let live; it isn’t MY problem, I shouldn’t get involved, I don’t know what’s going on. BS, in my frank opinion. Even my uncle is that way, much to my horror. Though, he had a point: 8 out of 10 people will avoid a fight, the 9th will fight if he has to, and the 10th just is looking for a fight. I’m the 9th. Bullies are the 10th. And the rest of you? Cut the ‘I don’t know what’s going on’ nonsense.

Look, I’ve been picked on my entire life. I am weird, I am different. I am socially stunted, and personality an oddball. I am the basketcase, so often, I’m the outcast. Most words directed at me were either condescending, pitying, or mean. Needless to say I detested this. Fortunately, my current group doesn’t do this. But I was ALONE. I had no friends, only pals. I had no one I could trust, confide in, or ask for help. And with all the abuse I got at home, I needed that. Desperately.

I actually tried to kill myself at 17. It failed. Why? Long, long story not appropriate for here. But it failed and I didn’t try again, though to this day I wish I were dead at times. And why did I? Because of all the abuse I went through. And because NOBODY CARED.

Humans need human comfort. We need friends, family, somebody to care and love us. Deprive us of that, and we will kill ourselves. Or torment us so much that we CANNOT take it anymore and we will. When the darkness starts to outweigh the light is when a person looks to the noose. They don’t have to be goth/emo/cutter/smoker/addict to be hurting. They don’t have to be physically assaulted to be wounded. They don’t have to have no family to feel alone. Perfectly ordinary (seemingly) people can be hurting so deeply.

Another reason I’m writing this? JewWario, a happy-go-lucky ball of sunshine if there ever was one, killed himself. Shot his head off with his wife pleading at him from the other side of the door. This man has no obvious sorrow, no obvious problems. The viewers (he’s a reviewer), his family, they don’t know why he did this. He seemed happy. Obviously, the happiness did nothing to stem the will to die.

And that’s why the ‘not my problem’ philosophy bugs me so much. A kind word, ONE KIND WORD, can save a persons life. On Pintrest, you occasionally see this story, about a valedictorian’s speech. He was bullied. On the way home, he had all his books, and some jerks knocked him to the ground for being a nerd. One student was worried, and offered to help him gather the books. They got to know each other through high school. When he gave his speech, he explained that on THAT DAY he was planning on committing suicide- that’s why he cleared out his locker and had all the books. If the student HADN’T intervened, he would be dead.

It really is that simple. One person can make a world of difference. One small, seemly random act can change everything. Something like that happened to me: my friend, who I know live with, gave me this friendship ring a few weeks before I tried to kill myself. It was a simple thing, and said “Loyalty, friendship, love.” A silly, cheap bookstore ring. I cherished it (lost it when I moved in, it is hiding in my carpet I swear). That meant the world to me. That she noticed my crying. That she CARED. And that’s WHY I moved in with her family, and chose her family. Though it helped nothing for the first attempt, if I hadn’t moved in with these guys, I would have killed myself when my mom died. I am positive of that- and I can’t count on it failing twice. She saved my life, though she will never know it. By getting a cheap, 3 dollar ring.

Your actions mean everything. It isn’t enough to NOT bully. It isn’t enough to keep a civil tongue. You have to reach out. See the kid in the back of the room? The one hunched over a book, hair blocking their face? The one with shining eyes, for no reason, because of some memory? The kid who walks alone, sits alone, says nothing to anyone? The one who looks hopefully at those talking… but cannot join in?

Go to them. Talk to them. Find a common ground. Find something. Not small talk, not pity talk, human-to-human talk. Real talk. Let them know you are willing to talk to them. Show them you are genuine. And try more than once. On the second or third try, they will open up. By then, its too much of a hassle for a pity person, it means its a real person.

You never know when a simple skin word will save a life.

(PS. If you really see someone bullied, if you do not want to stop it, go up to the kid afterwards and just say, “hey, forget it. Those guys are jerks/idiots. You are much better than that” or something along those lines. Reassure them, if you can.)


(PPS: why did I bring up the crinimal at all? Because they usually START as someone bullied or abused. The then take out their pain on others, creating an endless vicious cycle. By the bulling phase they are kinda helpless- but if you get to them BEFORE that, not only will you help them but you would prevent future victims. )


A lengthy intro of why I am so screwed up

Hiya guys! Okay, story time:


Once upon a time, in a quaint little state, at a lovely little college, a boy and a girl met. They were young, both new to the college. They fell in love at first site, and did as all lovers did. The girl assured the boy that all was alright, and their love was so sweet, what harm could come of it?


Well… lets see. Boy has mental issues- severe OCD. Now, little lesson for the ignorant: OCD is not a clean freak or a organization freak (that is OCPD. There is a difference, learn it). OCD is a mixture (in layman terms) of Tourette’s and anxiety attacks. Its the need to do certain things- ticks- or feel like your in danger- anxiety. 

Girl is Catholic. Blessing and curse there. Curse: parents refuse to support her if she keep the kid. Blessing: they refuse to let her have an abortion.


Much to my relief, I was not aborted. The kid is me, and my parents were idiots. Fortunately, the girl was Catholic, and the boy has a good father. He and his new wife (do not ask why he re-married, I do not know) wanted children, but were way to old. 50 for him, 40 for her; kids were out of the question. The were considering adoption already. Boy asked Father, father agree, and I got adopted by my grandfather and step-grandmother.


And yes, step-grandmother is even WORSE than a step-mom. Is there a rule that a step-anything is as mean as they should be kind? Seriously? Step-sibling is mostly okay, sibling fight. Step-parent is hell, because parents are supposed to be helpful. Step-grandparent is HELL because grandparents are supposed to be kind!


Anyways. Great start to life, huh? Oh, and add in some problems. One, I was (and still am) super-sensitive. All my senses work better than they are supposed to, so little things like sunlight on my face make me cry. Loudly. And it also makes clothes shopping hell, because I HAVE to have comfortable clothes. As an infant, this is obnoxious at best. For a older mother, this is kinda hell. Oh, and that sensory thing? It meant I HATED human contact. If Mom ever held me, I would cry non-stop. The only thing that concluded me was water. Or maybe it was just Mom. According to old family friends, when they held me, I shut up. I think I felt the crazy coming off Mom and reacted to that. One way or another, you could not console me by rocking, bouncing, or hugging. That… hurt Mom. A lot. Not that I could help it!


Oh, and add in wonky eyes that do NOT work together. One eye works (or worked, they got better. Somewhat) at a time. The other became lazy. Oh, and since one eye is near-sighted and the other is far-sighted, the working eye changed. Nice. Real confusing too. This meant I never crawled- couldn’t focus my eyes on an object to crawl to! I walked and ran early, though (9 months. Nice… active, half-blind infant). So sensory issues, bad eyes, wonky development, hyper-active, weird-ass sleep schedule (6 hour 0-6 months, 14 hours 6-12. That SHOULD be backwards!). Oh, and Mom got pregnant with my sister 6 months after getting me. So, she wasn’t exactly at her best physical (or mental state).


Oh, and let’s make it EVEN better: mom has mental issues herself. Never diagnosed, of course. I suspect either bipolar or multiple-personality disorder. Plus probably some form of mania depression. You get the jist, i’m sure. 

When my sister was born, she went insane trying to get her to nurse (sis refused. Sensed the crazy too). She looked herself in the bathroom, much to my Dad’s dismay. HE went mad trying to help her, calling a family friend in desperation, having just left the house. He could NOT handle her insanity. Overwhelming is a good word. Impossible is another.


And this trend continued, btw. Dad could not deal with Mom, and would just walk out of the room when she nagged him, yelled at him; often in front of us. How do you confront a harpy? Mom wouldn’t listen to reason, emotion, anything. She got mad, she STAYED mad. You either weathered it in silence, or walked out if you could. And she was ALWAYS mad. Dad ran away in the sense he was always away on business. Now, he had an international business, highly successful. He was a wonderful businessman- a great man in general. He was kind, generous, helpful, a person of conviction. But a family man? There he failed. Miserably. By not doing anything. He didn’t hurt- but all he did was treat us girls to fun stuff. That’s it. Really, he acted like a grandfather, or a kind uncle. But not a dad. Never a dad. Thus, I grew up dad-less.


But let’s rewind a little to 5. Its moving time, from one house to another. Dad is staying at the old house, Mom and us girls at the new. Its temporary, until the old house sells and the new one is finished. I have a feeling Mom arranged it that way- it makes too much sense for us to be at the old house and Dad at the new. Logic was not Mom’s strong suit. Anyways. There was one other constant there- a worker (named jimmy, or something. No one remembers his name.) Now, that’s a little odd. Girls all alone and a worker. 


Now, it gets worse- and confusing. First, remember the PTSD thing? What is one part of it? Flashbacks, that’s right. And repressing memories. I’ve done both. I can flash-back to the EMOTIONS I felt that day, but not the actual event. 

There is one traumatic event in my life that actually gave me PTSD. I know it happened at five. Why? The feeling is so simplistic, so childish, that it cannot be any older age. The feeling is of a five-year-old. Plus, when I flash into that state (Lily is the 5 year old. She is a person, a state. She acts five), I have certain ticks. A way of holding my face, holding my body. I have this little kid expression: slightly pouty mouth, downturn eyes, but face otherwise at rest. Very simplistic, and characteristic of a shy little girl. Also, my thoughts become simplistic, unable to think anything more complex than a little kid. If I’m moving, I usually hunch down a bit, and follow people around like a puppy dog (again, shy little kid). And besides all these ticks, I KNOW its five. Photos also help. At 5, I change expressions completely. I go from a happy-go-lucky grin to a look of fear and worry. I never smile after 5. I always smiled before that.


So, super traumatic event at 5. The triggers? Asking for permission for something (both apologizing and simply asking for a favor trigger this). The other is going to a person, especially if they are behind a door.

I’ll explain one severe flashback. Someone’s parakeet had escaped, and my friend and her mom were going out to get it. Because the dog was barking his head off, I feared trouble and went running (quick note: I was, and still kinda am, socially stunted. Back then, I was half-feral, and thus acted very weird). I managed to scare the bird away. The friend was obviously very distraught (those birds die in the wild, quickly.) The mother ordered me to go to her room and apologize. I was already feeling very upset and anxious (I lived with them at this time, too. So I was originally hiding in my room). The order to go up to her closed door, knock, and ask for forgiveness terrified me.

I flashbacked, and BADLY. I was now sitting at the dinner table, and I immediately went into turtle-mode. In this, I curl my legs up and try to draw my head down as far as possible. Really, its fetal position, only sitting instead of lying down. I could hear the mom talk with me, trying to get me to say anything (and getting angry at my silence). I mentally was responding to everything she said- but I could.not.move. My mind had become disconnected from my body; my sub-conscious from my conscious mind.  As a survival mechanism, when one would have to act in seconds with no hesitation, I had allowed my mind to split my conscious and subconscious minds and allowed my subconscious to take over. This normally meant I went into being Amaya (more on this later). BUT, the subconscious governs flashbacks.

So my conscious mind was held hostage while my subconscious snapped into flashback mode, age five. The original trauma. I could feel, at the back of my head, all the fear of that day, the simplistic thoughts of a little girl terrified. I could feel the emotions that kept me paralyzed. But because of the split, some part of my mind remained logical. This is a form of repression, I think. Its kinda helpful. But it means that I cannot snap myself out of the flashbacks.

Eventually, the mom managed to snap me out. I don’t remember how- I think she said something I finally could respond to. Once I could talk, I started to ease out of it. I explained about the flashback, my utter paralysis, and what caused it.


It happened at five. It related to a closed door, and asking for something. It also involves two other things: some beating and something sexual.


Now, let me explain those too. All my life I’ve been afraid of being beaten, even though I cannot recall a time when Mom beat me. I instinctively raise my arms above my head to ward off blow whenever I fell scared at all. Whenever Mom gets mad, I run for my life, and barricade myself. If not, I have run outside in an attempt to evade her. She never hits me- I just think she will. I suspect because of something that happened that day.


The second, oh boy. This is hard. This is also stupid as hell to post online- but I need to get it off my chest, in a sense. Sexual. Okay, even that word causes me pain. Physical pain.

You know how sometimes something scary makes your stomach clench up and just ache? Or a thought feels physically painful? Anything even remotely related to romance, or sex, causes this to happen to me. Even just being touched, anywhere, will cause it. Do NOT poke me unless you want me to slap you, hard (and I have done this…). Do not hug me. Even seeing someone hug, or kiss, will cause me pain. The more intense, the more painful. It quickly becomes absolutely debilitating, and I will sink to the ground, tightly holding my head. The pressure is on my temples- I find that pain helps to stop thinking. Plus its a subconscious wish to just pass out and not deal with it. 

Remember the clothes thing? Its more a pants thing. If the pant fabric is at all tight, or even fitted, or even touching my legs, I am in pain. Physical, mental. And I literally cannot stop thinking about it. Its kinda hell if I’m stuck in class, battling my head and every vulgar, painful image it can think of. Unfortunately, I watched way too many adult shows as a kid, so I have a vast source of resources to torment myself with. 

One last thing. If you’ve ever read Speak, you may remember Melinda. I act, think and talk exactly like her. To an absolutely eerie degree. 


Okay, that is all the background you need. 5, incredibly traumatic, something about a closed door (or what is behind said door), some physical abuse, something sexual. Also, the worker, with Dad away.

There are two theories, neither pleasant. I think it started with me going up to ask for a cookie, or something (I’m five, its going to be silly). I knock, probably walk in (I did that. No one ever taught me NOT to). Now, one of two theories.

Either I see my mom messing around… and she proceeds to beat the tar out of me (leaving my head traumatized and me with amnesia). Theory two, my personal one: the guy rapes me. (with or without mom beating me- she was sick in the head, so trust me, IT IS POSSIBLE).


I suspect the second simply because of the sensory issues. If I simply saw something, why would I be so hurt by touch? But, I don’t know. Mom is dead, and no one knows the worker’s name. I’ve repressed it with NO intention of ever reliving the event. No thank you.


Once already splintered me. I was Lily, originally. It was my name- yes, middle name, I went by my middle name. She was protected. Amaya, as my defensive side, took over and protected Lily. She took the brunt of whatever trauma happened, leaving Lily happy-go-lucky and ignorant (flashback state aside, Lily normally is happy and carefree. I think that state is right at the tear). Amaya is Lily broken, and as such, is her opposite. She is quiet, pessimistic, fearful, angry, controlling, sad, broken. She is shattered. She is also not a little girl. Physical age aside, Amaya acts like she is 17. The event, the trauma, aged her immensely. She had to be an adult. 


Amaya had to fend for herself, mentally, emotionally, and physically. She had to be in fight-or-flight permanently, never leave survival mode. She is hyper-vigilant and cannot feel safe or trust anyone. In a way, she is the persona of the PTSD, and all the defense mechanisms that come with it. She is the personality and face to something in my own mind. 

Lily was to remain separate, hidden, isolated. She was put in stasis, until such time as it was safe to bring her out. She is, therefore, exactly the same as before that day. She is frozen in time, through the efforts to retain some amount of innocence. 

And me? Coraline? I was to be the over-seer. The one who can swap between the others, who remains even when they take over. I am separate, but I am boss. But as an over-seer, I have no real personality. I am still trying to find one. But I’m the one who also deals with all the emotions, mostly the sadness. Fear is Amaya, Anger is Forgotten.


Oh ya, Forgotten. She has her own story- and this one is already too long. Quick intro: Forgotten is anger incarnate, and is in the end bestial rage. She is incapable of doing anything except destroying everything around her. Needless to say, I keep her caged up most of the time!


Harlequin is similar (and another story). She is the psychopath side of me, one who just wants to destroy the world for the hell of it. Like a psychopath, she REALLY doesn’t care and can’t feel any deep emotions at all. All she can feel is a feeling of delight or satisfaction (aka, Moriarty). 

Scarlet is simply the persona of my conscious. In lieu of parents, I had to go inward for all advice, and she quickly developed into an objective voice of reason. She is pure logic to my often emotional-ness. She often tells me what I already know but kinda forgot in my emotions. Also, whenever I have to argue about a decision (again, in lieu of anyone else to argue with, I have to do so with myself. A true debater, I decide things based on arguments).


So that’s all of us! Nice crew, huh? Next post will be more history. Now, I am going to bed… or doing something less mental intensive. 

Welcome to the Madness

Hello all, Amaya-kin here. WordPress doesn’t allow for cool names, so bear with the sillyish looking one.


What is the kin about? Its kinda a reference to a character called Crona, who I always call Crona-kin. (Crona’s from Soul Eater). May want to look up Crona, she is very similar to me. Or I to her, I guess. Amaya is simply a name meaning darkness.


Really original start I know. Don’t expect much better from that. With little sense of identity, I will take it from wherever I can get it. Though, I guess I should tell a little bit about myself.


I am Coraline Amaya Lily (not my real name, though the initials are identical). I really should go by Coraline here, but I like Amaya better. Sounds nicer. More fitting, too. Anyways. I am weird. See those names? Those are three of the 6 of us here. They are those three, plus: Scarlet, Harlequin and Forgotten. No, they’re not full separate personalities. They are personality fragments, yes, including Coraline. She, I, whatever; is the boss. But I am not a full personality either, merely a meadly of the others. Mostly of Amaya and Lily.


Guess I should explain why. I have PTSD, and I heavily suspect, C-PTSD. Since its not a recognized disorder yet, when I was tested it didn’t show up. BUT, since I was traumatized for 16 years, I am claiming the C-PTSD as MORE ACCURATE. And part of it? Personality splinters and loss of identity. Thus, the 6 of us who aren’t really people at all. 


You can image what living life with PTSD is like. No, sorry, you CAN’T imagine it. No one can, really, unless they have it. And that’s the problem. No one gets it. Everyone around me is fairly normal, no mental issues, no super-trauma. I mean some trauma, everyone is traumatized to some degree. But not enough for ANYONE to get the level that is PTSD.


And maybe that’s why I’m writing this. I’m tired of feeling alone, like no one gets it, like I’m making it all up. I know others have this- and online is the best reach-out. Maybe I just want to talk and have someone sympathize, for once. But also this.


Welcome to the madness is a real welcome. I’m fairly certain there are others out there, like me, utterly alone. Here, maybe we can meet, talk, compare notes, and figure something out. Or be an understanding ear in an un-understanding world. 


So, welcome. It will be mad. I will explain what its like in my head- it isn’t pretty. The struggles, the pains. But also the little solutions I’ve found, the ways of coping, the ways of growing. I wish someone could have taught me- maybe I can teach someone else. 


Oh, and one last thing. One reason I’m doing this? Because I honestly thing this is one reason I go through all the hell.


And sorry, if you don’t believe in God, I will probably get on your nerves. I will mention my faith, as it is part of my life. I will not preach, though. I will promise you that. This is not a ‘sunshine and roses and prayers’ blog, this is ‘life is hell, here’s how to get through it alive’ blog. So no, I won’t be the annoying Christian bloggers whose like ‘just pray and everything will me hunky-dory!’ No. Don’t expect that. Hopefully, this won’t turn anyone off- I will try to not do that- but honestly, its part of who I am. And this blog is going to be raw me.


Anyways, welcome, ‘enjoy’ your stay.