At every school I've ever been at, I've clashed with people without meaning too. Normally I felt like I have to act cool to get people to like me, but my version of cool wasn't always what others perceived as cool. Some of my friends would just tell me that I was being silly, but I'd normally have no one to tell me. This was part of my social anxiety, but also just because I didn't fit in period. Sometimes this was a good thing, as it stopped me getting in with the wrong crowd, but most often than not it was a bad thing.
One particually bad experience was when I was at tafe, when I was 17. I went to tafe after a year of close to no social interactions at all outside of my family. Needless to say, I started tafe without knowing anyone or having any recent social experiences. It was like a life of hell for me after the initial novelty had worn off. I believed I had friends, but pretty early I realized they were just fakes.
I tried for sometime to go with it, to just try and act the way they acted to me, but that just pissed them off more. I had a few people I got a long with but I never knew whether they were fakes as well or not. By the end of first term I'd been assaulted, bullied and had threats against me. Needless to say I started having seveare problems with trust.
By the end of the main semester, I was attending at around 4 to 3 days a week maximum. The one full week I went for 2nd term was for work experience. I only wanted to go to get my certificate from then on. I couldn't stand being there and its safe to say they couldn't stand me either.
Maybe I wasn't like them, maybe it was my mind playing up or maybe I'm just a bad person.
Who knows, who cares? I bet you don't
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Camping Nightmares
When I was little up until I was 16, I had a serious problem that many children experience. It's one of utter embarrassment and shame, but so many children and teenagers experience it. It lead to me never sleeping at friends houses or having them stay at my house.
I wet the bed.
This wasn't a real problem much, just annoying and meant I needed a shower before school each day. After about Prep, I started never staying away from home or having people stay at my house. I couldn't stand having anyone know about my problem. A lot of my friends got angry or thought I didn't like them since I never wanted them staying over or said yes to their invitations to stay at their house but nothing bad ever really came of it.
The biggest problem of all though was school camps. Grade One was my first one, but that was a single night and I wore a pull up (a type of child nappy for ages 3+). After that year, I changed schools and the new school didn't take kids on camp until grade 3, but I left prior to that. The new school I went to took kids on camp from grade 3 on wards, and I couldn't get out of it. I went for two nights and wet the bed on the 2nd night. As soon as school got back from camp, I went home crying from being teased about it, and didn't go back for a week.
Grade 4 of that school was different. I left before we went on camp, and the new school had already been so I didn't do camp that year.
Grade 6 was hell. I went on camp and we the bed on the 2nd night of a 4 night stay. I changed beds and told the teachers, but kids found out and I was bullied badly. I spent that camp absolutely aggressive and untrusting of anyone. When I went back to school, I disappeared again. Luckily, camp was the last day of term, so I was gone for two weeks.
Year 7 wasn't too good. I was put in a cabin with 4 boys I didn't get along with at all. In fact, they were bullies to me. At the time, I was reading a book called "Drowned Wednesday" and I wet the bed on Wednesday. I couldn't find any teachers to tell so I had to tell a year 10 camp leader. By the end of camp, all the year 10s knew about it. I acted up on that camp badly. I wouldn't talk to anyone but I was trying to look cool by being an idiot. Luckily, once again, camp was the last week of term so I got home and spent 2 weeks depressed in my room.
Year 8 was my last camp ever. On this camp I was camping in a tent with a boy who I locked horns with constantly, because we were the only boys in the group. He teased me so much about wetting the bed, we started a verbal argument which quickly became physical. It ended with me striking him to the head before walking off in to the bush near camp and coming back an hour later. Naturally, this did nothing for my social standing at school and I was teased more. This was the 2nd last week of term so I skipped the last week and spent 3 weeks in my room not talking, not communicating with school and just playing Bass, which I got that last week of school, because I was close to suicide.
The bed wetting stopped on its on when I was about 16, which was lucky because I started sleeping with girls a little while later. Now days it still makes me feel upset thinking about the bullying that came from such a small thing. I'm only putting this up here to help anyone else who wets the bed or has. Your not alone.
I wet the bed.
This wasn't a real problem much, just annoying and meant I needed a shower before school each day. After about Prep, I started never staying away from home or having people stay at my house. I couldn't stand having anyone know about my problem. A lot of my friends got angry or thought I didn't like them since I never wanted them staying over or said yes to their invitations to stay at their house but nothing bad ever really came of it.
The biggest problem of all though was school camps. Grade One was my first one, but that was a single night and I wore a pull up (a type of child nappy for ages 3+). After that year, I changed schools and the new school didn't take kids on camp until grade 3, but I left prior to that. The new school I went to took kids on camp from grade 3 on wards, and I couldn't get out of it. I went for two nights and wet the bed on the 2nd night. As soon as school got back from camp, I went home crying from being teased about it, and didn't go back for a week.
Grade 4 of that school was different. I left before we went on camp, and the new school had already been so I didn't do camp that year.
Grade 6 was hell. I went on camp and we the bed on the 2nd night of a 4 night stay. I changed beds and told the teachers, but kids found out and I was bullied badly. I spent that camp absolutely aggressive and untrusting of anyone. When I went back to school, I disappeared again. Luckily, camp was the last day of term, so I was gone for two weeks.
Year 7 wasn't too good. I was put in a cabin with 4 boys I didn't get along with at all. In fact, they were bullies to me. At the time, I was reading a book called "Drowned Wednesday" and I wet the bed on Wednesday. I couldn't find any teachers to tell so I had to tell a year 10 camp leader. By the end of camp, all the year 10s knew about it. I acted up on that camp badly. I wouldn't talk to anyone but I was trying to look cool by being an idiot. Luckily, once again, camp was the last week of term so I got home and spent 2 weeks depressed in my room.
Year 8 was my last camp ever. On this camp I was camping in a tent with a boy who I locked horns with constantly, because we were the only boys in the group. He teased me so much about wetting the bed, we started a verbal argument which quickly became physical. It ended with me striking him to the head before walking off in to the bush near camp and coming back an hour later. Naturally, this did nothing for my social standing at school and I was teased more. This was the 2nd last week of term so I skipped the last week and spent 3 weeks in my room not talking, not communicating with school and just playing Bass, which I got that last week of school, because I was close to suicide.
The bed wetting stopped on its on when I was about 16, which was lucky because I started sleeping with girls a little while later. Now days it still makes me feel upset thinking about the bullying that came from such a small thing. I'm only putting this up here to help anyone else who wets the bed or has. Your not alone.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Past, The Present And The Future
Recently, I've started chatting with a girl, who's my ex girlfriend's friend, via Facebook. She's a very delightful young lady, though in a lot of ways incredibly different to the girls I normally am friends with.
For one, she has more mental conditions than me, which is rare and uncommon.
She also is very smart for her age (she's a few years younger than me)
But the biggest difference between me and this girl is, she is saving her self for marriage. I lost my virginity at age 14, and I regret it, but since then I regret only one time. Normally with me, a girl telling me that is basically an instant reaction for me to put her in the friend zone and never flirt with her. But for some reason, I can't stop thinking about her. Better yet, I've never actually met her, at the time of writing.
To add to the big mess, I'm moving interstate at the end of my tafe course to go to university, so I can't really date a girl down here for fear of hurting her by being so far away at the end of the year.
The cherry on top is that her friend (my ex) still knows me as the bad guy from all my previous stories. I recently changed after looking in the mirror for a long time and realizing I hated who I was. But almost no one knows that I'm different unless they hang around with me. So she has forbade me from hitting on her any more or asking her out.
So to summaries, she's different to any other girl I've ever liked, I'll be on the other side of the country at the end of the year, our mutual friend disproves and we've never met.
But yet I still like her. I guess watch this space.
For one, she has more mental conditions than me, which is rare and uncommon.
She also is very smart for her age (she's a few years younger than me)
But the biggest difference between me and this girl is, she is saving her self for marriage. I lost my virginity at age 14, and I regret it, but since then I regret only one time. Normally with me, a girl telling me that is basically an instant reaction for me to put her in the friend zone and never flirt with her. But for some reason, I can't stop thinking about her. Better yet, I've never actually met her, at the time of writing.
To add to the big mess, I'm moving interstate at the end of my tafe course to go to university, so I can't really date a girl down here for fear of hurting her by being so far away at the end of the year.
The cherry on top is that her friend (my ex) still knows me as the bad guy from all my previous stories. I recently changed after looking in the mirror for a long time and realizing I hated who I was. But almost no one knows that I'm different unless they hang around with me. So she has forbade me from hitting on her any more or asking her out.
So to summaries, she's different to any other girl I've ever liked, I'll be on the other side of the country at the end of the year, our mutual friend disproves and we've never met.
But yet I still like her. I guess watch this space.
My Hero
The day after I finished my suspension from the incident I posted about in my post "Scars", I was feeling the worst I have ever felt. My parents could see, and were worried about me, so they forced me to come along with the family to my little sisters soccer game. I had little to no interest in the game, and really didn't want to be in public.
I had plans to take my own life later that night. The plan at the time was to tie weights to myself and go into the damn on my parents property, late at night so they wouldn't be able to see me.
To cheer me up, my dad took me to the music store afterwards. Basses had long been a keen interest of mine and I quickly noticed the basses out the back, so I went to look at them.
None really took my fancy, but there was a guitar for sale as part of a package. It was a cheap knock off of a Fender Stratocaster, but at the time I didn't know or care. It was $300, the amount of money I had saved exactly. I told mum that I liked the guitar, and she bought it for me, telling me to give her the money when I got home.
The guitar was the last one there, so I got the only color they had, black. I played it the whole way home, in the back of the guitar with the cheap guitar picks I got with it as part of the pack.
Because I wanted to use the amp, my mum dropped me off at my grandma's, where I had my own room in the basement, where my drum kit was along with my game consoles and tv. There was a computer up stairs, so I ran in with my guitar and amp, and printed of the tab to my favorite song at the time, sweet child o' mine by guns n roses.
Then I went downstairs, and just played. I was absolute shit, but I love the feeling the guitar gave me. I stopped 3 hours later, having all the fingers on my left hand bandaged from bleeding. I played it literally like Bryan Adams sings in "Summer of 69" with the line "I got my first real 6 string...played it 'til my fingers bleed"
That night, I slept the best I had in months. I woke up the next day, and played again, breaking the scabs and bleeding all over the strings, but I didn't care.
The day after, I took it to school and spent all recess and lunch playing again. Kids still insulted me, but I could ignore them when I had the guitar. It was like a shield.
Eventually I broke a string after a particularly harsh morning of insults from kids. That left me in a rage for the day because I couldn't play guitar, so when I got home, I bought a paint pen, spray paint and new strings, and decorated the guitar to show how everyone felt about me. I ended up with a black, sparkle silver and hot pink guitar, that caught anyone's attention. I called the guitar after it's paint job. It was named "Freak" (My banner is actually an inverted picture of Freak's body after I broke it's neck)
This guitar single handedly made me feel completely different and I became happier. I've had guitars since, but freak has always been a favorite no matter what. It really is My Hero.
I had plans to take my own life later that night. The plan at the time was to tie weights to myself and go into the damn on my parents property, late at night so they wouldn't be able to see me.
To cheer me up, my dad took me to the music store afterwards. Basses had long been a keen interest of mine and I quickly noticed the basses out the back, so I went to look at them.
None really took my fancy, but there was a guitar for sale as part of a package. It was a cheap knock off of a Fender Stratocaster, but at the time I didn't know or care. It was $300, the amount of money I had saved exactly. I told mum that I liked the guitar, and she bought it for me, telling me to give her the money when I got home.
The guitar was the last one there, so I got the only color they had, black. I played it the whole way home, in the back of the guitar with the cheap guitar picks I got with it as part of the pack.
Because I wanted to use the amp, my mum dropped me off at my grandma's, where I had my own room in the basement, where my drum kit was along with my game consoles and tv. There was a computer up stairs, so I ran in with my guitar and amp, and printed of the tab to my favorite song at the time, sweet child o' mine by guns n roses.
Then I went downstairs, and just played. I was absolute shit, but I love the feeling the guitar gave me. I stopped 3 hours later, having all the fingers on my left hand bandaged from bleeding. I played it literally like Bryan Adams sings in "Summer of 69" with the line "I got my first real 6 string...played it 'til my fingers bleed"
That night, I slept the best I had in months. I woke up the next day, and played again, breaking the scabs and bleeding all over the strings, but I didn't care.
The day after, I took it to school and spent all recess and lunch playing again. Kids still insulted me, but I could ignore them when I had the guitar. It was like a shield.
Eventually I broke a string after a particularly harsh morning of insults from kids. That left me in a rage for the day because I couldn't play guitar, so when I got home, I bought a paint pen, spray paint and new strings, and decorated the guitar to show how everyone felt about me. I ended up with a black, sparkle silver and hot pink guitar, that caught anyone's attention. I called the guitar after it's paint job. It was named "Freak" (My banner is actually an inverted picture of Freak's body after I broke it's neck)
This guitar single handedly made me feel completely different and I became happier. I've had guitars since, but freak has always been a favorite no matter what. It really is My Hero.
Scars
When I was about 14 or 15 (I'm not sure) I went to the most expensive school in my district. And I hated it.
It was the sort of school where if you weren't academic or sporty, the teachers didn't like you and you didn't fit in.
A few months prior, I'd gotten my first Bass guitar and started my first band. Being so excited to be in a band, I got big headed and got kicked out. I still have a very negative relationship with the lead singer based on it.
On this particular day, I can't remember exactly what happened but some how I fell foul of a year 12 who put their hands round my neck. I was a large boy, both in height and fat, but I had enough muscle to shove the student away and run.
At the time, I had little to fall back on. My family disliked me and I had few, if any friends, so if I was upset, I really couldn't take it.
I walked off campus crying, after the kids I thought were my friends had done nothing to stand up for me. I sat by the spot I usually waited to be picked up at and, I'm sorry to say, cut myself intentionally. After a while, a teacher spotted me. Unfortunately it was my least favorite teacher. It was well known around the school that he had little man syndrome, standing three inches shorter than me, he had a hatred for me since the day I started there.
Luckily for me, he'd received a blow to the head the day before, so he got a different teacher to come down for me. As soon as he was out of sight, I took of to the other side of campus. Unfortunately I was spotted by the one teacher that cared about me, and he followed me. I did everything I could to shake him off, but not being fit by any stretch of the imagination, he kept up easily.
Eventually, I ran out of breath and stopped. He took me to the office and then noticed my cut. I refused to tell him how I got it, and he assumed from my past history that I'd done it to myself intentionally.
This resulted in me being suspended from school for two days. I spent those days in one of the head teachers offices, under constant supervision so I couldn't self harm again.
Following that day, if I wore gloves going below my wrist of was holding my wrist, the three teachers involved would always force me to display that they weren't cut, or if they were, provide a reason why.
The worst cut from that day was actually between my thumb and index finger on the back of my left hand. It has scared, but is only really visible if I point it out.
It was the sort of school where if you weren't academic or sporty, the teachers didn't like you and you didn't fit in.
A few months prior, I'd gotten my first Bass guitar and started my first band. Being so excited to be in a band, I got big headed and got kicked out. I still have a very negative relationship with the lead singer based on it.
On this particular day, I can't remember exactly what happened but some how I fell foul of a year 12 who put their hands round my neck. I was a large boy, both in height and fat, but I had enough muscle to shove the student away and run.
At the time, I had little to fall back on. My family disliked me and I had few, if any friends, so if I was upset, I really couldn't take it.
I walked off campus crying, after the kids I thought were my friends had done nothing to stand up for me. I sat by the spot I usually waited to be picked up at and, I'm sorry to say, cut myself intentionally. After a while, a teacher spotted me. Unfortunately it was my least favorite teacher. It was well known around the school that he had little man syndrome, standing three inches shorter than me, he had a hatred for me since the day I started there.
Luckily for me, he'd received a blow to the head the day before, so he got a different teacher to come down for me. As soon as he was out of sight, I took of to the other side of campus. Unfortunately I was spotted by the one teacher that cared about me, and he followed me. I did everything I could to shake him off, but not being fit by any stretch of the imagination, he kept up easily.
Eventually, I ran out of breath and stopped. He took me to the office and then noticed my cut. I refused to tell him how I got it, and he assumed from my past history that I'd done it to myself intentionally.
This resulted in me being suspended from school for two days. I spent those days in one of the head teachers offices, under constant supervision so I couldn't self harm again.
Following that day, if I wore gloves going below my wrist of was holding my wrist, the three teachers involved would always force me to display that they weren't cut, or if they were, provide a reason why.
The worst cut from that day was actually between my thumb and index finger on the back of my left hand. It has scared, but is only really visible if I point it out.
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