What it means to be.

I tried a new format with this one. Instead of just writing, I recorded and transcribed my voice into words. I usually just write stuff, but I’ve come to the realization that, sometimes my mind works faster than I can write. That’s a weird thing to say. I know. But really, some of the more profound things that I have had attributed to me, came from a deep conversation with other people. So why not converse with yourself? Or rather monologue I suppose.

I have never really had a voice. And I’m still not ready to put my own voice out there. So instead, I translate my thoughts into words, which you have to read yourself. Writing gives me time and can even alleviate some anxiety that comes from conversation. I have never in my life (until now, when I started actively working on it) voiced my opinion over the majority. Be it classmates, parents, superficial friends. Only people who knew the real me were and are my real friends. Ironically, I always had a lot to say. But I just didn’t. I struggled to find my own voice.

I want control. Control over what comes out of my mouth, out of my mind. Writing is great in the way that you can control the final product. You can format it and even erase past mistakes. But forget all that. This is mostly raw brain-vomit. I intended this to be that way. It’s coherent enough for you to understand everything intellectually and it’s raw enough that you can probably feel the kinds of emotions I’m going through as I recall some of the past horrors of a quiet life in a loud brain.

I just have this deep, deep rooted desire to finally be able to
express myself, because I feel like I haven’t been able to for the past 20
years of my life. I was born in a small, conservative community. I hated everyone there. I was afraid of everyone there. And I even thought about killing myself ever since I discovered as a child that you can in fact, die. I grew up there and I just couldn’t speak my mind, ever. It’d be heresy. Instead, I’d pick up these small little quirks that I would consider acts of rebellion. I’d skip Sunday church. I’d skip school. Little things like that. But when you have so little freedom, doing these things feel amazing. You rebelled, man. And you know what? I’m fucking proud of myself. I had the balls to get in occasional trouble. Always did. Always was a fighter. If you weren’t in a similar situation, I’m sorry I just can’t properly explain how it feels like. These little rebellious behaviors, slowly snowball into something greater, something grander. I formed my entire life philosophy over trying to protect people and perhaps even free them from the clutches of horrible oppression I was subjugated by. In a sick and twisted way, I’m glad I was dragged through the shadowy realms of trauma and authoritarian nightmares. The hate has never left me. The hate only grows as I meet more people like me, who in some cases had it even worse. The hate will never leave me until the beast is slain. Until we burn it to the goddamn ground. I have become an anarchist. But in a way, I’ve always been one. With the first thought of rebellion, which the watchful eye of Sauron tried to extinguish in me. In vain. I have never given in.

The first few years of my life, the formative, the most important fucking
years of a person’s life were absolutely horrible. Nightmare fuel. Painful. Riddled with trauma. Guilt, even. Poverty. Bullying. But I was… powerful.

So many things happened to me that I’m not even ready to talk about yet.
But finally, I’m able to at least start scratching the surface. It’s been gnawing at me, just burrowing under my brain and subconsciously controlling me like a puppet. Every time I would get angry, every time I
would get in a manic episode, or every time I would just kind of feel bad for no reason. The fog of the past. The fucking demons would come haunting me again. I would see the long cast shadow of the people that once used to be a very real terror in my life. Still be present, still cast a presence.

For me, it was continuous. There are specific events in my life of course, which messes me up the most. But I can’t exactly put my finger on any one thing. It was like the trauma itself was literally what formed me in
the first few years of my life. I was the fucking demon, for a long time.

I became a misanthrope. I hated other human beings, I wanted to be alone. But at the same time I would desperately grasp for any connection that I could find. Fortunately enough, I found some good friends. But that came later in life when I was already a little monster. Now, I’m trying to be better, open up to more people. I’d gladly take a bullet for any one of my close friends though. For now, that’s more than enough.

We would start a club. Losers club if you will. We’d meet at this little basement that belonged to one of our friends. We were geeks, gamers, hackers. Whatever label you want to use. But more importantly, we formed a misfit community. Right there in my hometown, in our hometown, the extremely conservative, right wing, shitty little nasty fucking horrible community full of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting. Right in their faces blossomed a counter culture community. We’d meet up, do fun stuff. Occasional graffiti You know. Can’t say much more than that. Anarchist symbols, rocking LGBT pins everywhere around town. We became the local hope. At least it felt like it. At the very least, in the face of overwhelming odds, we were still able to build a beautiful community. We were as free as was possible at that time. All because we took it in our hands and made it a reality. Don’t write it off as childish and rebellious or “edgy” for the sake of being edgy. In the age of persecution, being brave enough to show your true colors is no small feat of incredible bravery. I for one, am proud.

That was the first step in rebellion. That was my first step towards freedom. And best of all. I started it. I fucking started it. You can too. Find like minded people. Inspire. Express who you are.