I am thinking about starting a third blog. It's where I will write about my life if I didn't have CF - or the life I want, or the life I have but would prefer my friends and family don't read about.
I would write things like, "It's 11:35 and I just got home from work, but at least the tips are good."
I could write about things that have happened to me like dealing with the fat man with the little penis. These are just stories I'm not comfortable writing in this blog - my most honest blog (since the other one that exists is a travel blog...).
I'm timid and not quite sure how people would react to true entries like the one I thought of on Sunday.
I'm going to be brave and write what I wanted to write. Here it is,
The Things I Didn't Admit Publicly.
Ray, my 400 pound nurse, was here. He is a special human being, the kind that brags about the 38 guns he owns. And that doesn't include the handguns. He's an Obama basher and girl watcher and surprisingly he seems to care about me the most out of all my nurses. He cares about me the way my therapist cares about me. He cares enough to threaten the lives of those who hurt me. Like my ex - Ray threatened to kill him if he ever broke my heart. I didn't have the heart to tell Ray when we broke up - I was afraid he really might kill my ex. Maybe I should have told him. My therapist said he knows two guys from Chicago who could kneecap someone for me - and while I doubt my therapist actually knows people who would kneecap someone for me, I have no doubt that Ray could find someone to take out my ex. That's just who Ray is.
Ray was here and he was talking about last week's issue of the Isthmus. I have yet to read this article (which I should probably do before I blog about it), but the article according to Ray was an interview with the boy who shot and killed the high school principal last year in Wisconsin. Ray said that the boy said in the interview that he is finally happy. It took him killing the principal for anyone to notice that he was being bullied, and now he has no pain.
I have now read the article, here, I know that Ray was right. It said what Ray said it did. My mother and Ray were going on and on about how horrible it was that they ran the article, but I think it's good. I don't agree what Hainstock did was right in any way - but I know how he feels.
Reading the article, I found many similarities between myself and Hainstock. It's the differences that kept me from killing anyone, though.
When I was in high school I was being tortured. I was being tortured by my own teacher. I was so traumatized that I would sit in his class and fantasize about pushing him down the stairs. In notebook after notebook I drew flip books of stick people falling down stairs and their skulls being crushed into a pool of red ink at the end. There were a couple times I got behind him on the stairwell and it took all the sanity I had left to keep me from shoving him. That, and I knew enough physics to know that the probability of me pushing hard enough to kill him was unlikely.
I still wish he were dead. I want him dead because I don't want anyone else to have to suffer through what he can do.
My ordeal would have improved once I got the courage to talk to someone about it - had that someone listened to me. My guidance counselor didn't believe me. She said I was misreading signals and that he was too nice of a guy to do anything bad. I went to her twice - well, more than that, but twice I told her I was being harassed, and twice she told me I was wrong.
I knew that if a female guidance counselor didn't believe me, there was no way the male administration would believe me. So I became the monster from hell. Everyday I tore through that school mad as a bull. I threw things. I screamed. I kicked things. I beat up freshmen. I threatened people. I blackmailed the teacher. I survived - just barely.
I understand where this kid is coming from. When no one listens to how bad things are for you, you feel completely helpless and alone. I chose to fight one way, sadly, Hainstock chose to fight the way he knew best - which was to kill someone. I know I could have ended up killing someone. I'm surprised with how much anger and rage I had that I didn't kill anyone - my good friend at the time probably would have been my target. Her, or the other friends who didn't listen to me.
It is tragic that all these school shootings have happened because kids were traumatized and bullied - but I understand why. I understand the intense anger behind being tortured and the intense desire to have anyone pay attention to what you are silently crying, silently begging for - help.
I hope this article, while I know the outrage it will cause (if it hasn't already caused much outrage), I hope people LISTEN to this kid, and realize that now he finally feels safe.
For me, I had to graduate high school, move away to college, go through therapy, (nearly die, move home, move back, move home, move back... etc), get on the right drugs for the PTSD, then finally get the bastard fired, flee from my hometown never to return, and now I just hope he's dead.
I like to think that he is dead, because it's the only way I feel safe.
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