Classroom

Inspired by my daily life as a student. Then shifting to trauma dumping. Feel free to skip this, but I do hope you have at least not hated my work.

There once was a young man who felt like those around him were immature.

This man was easy to recognize, roughly 6’3” with bright orange hair.

He had a loud voice and was able to change his voice to the extremes, almost any accent. Able to make others laugh, able to scare those he hated, and able to completely change his personality to fit almost any character he wanted to play. He used to love drama. But he lost love for it when he was framed for graffiti. When the weekly insults that he was worthless, weird, strange, hated, or evil finally broke his psyche.

But the man was not happy, not even before that. Sometimes there were glimmers of hope, but no longer.

He was tired, oh so tired.

Tired of the daily drag through what felt like a world of suffering.

Tired of being yelled at for doing something he either didn’t do or couldn’t control.

Tired of his classmates who never went silent.

Tired of the noise, oh the horrible noise that these immature fools made.

Tired of everything.

The man at first tried to defend himself whenever he was insulted, or people threw things at him, or insulted his family.

Then the man just stopped.

He stopped reacting, he stopped being offended by the people that groped him, by the bickering around him, by the stationary thrown at him.

The man didn’t have enough energy to keep going.

So, the man tried writing, putting his thoughts into abstract stories.

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It made him feel better, but things got worse.

So, even further he went.

He started to try to escape the hellhole of these classrooms through stories, books, games anything.

Nothing. Ever. Worked.

He stopped being able to sleep, not due to fear, discomfort or even the fear that he may not make it home one day.

No, he was too tired to sleep.

Now, you might think that doesn’t make sense, but this man had long since given up.

He hated that people call him a good person.

Hated that what he did wasn’t the bare minimum.

Hated that people seemed to want to make his life hell for no reason.

So, the rage simmered in the back. A constant background hate for nearly everything.

The man took up drawing, pottery, writing, and DND, but it failed to help.

He was far too far gone for this.

I am still too far gone for this.

I have tried everything. Melatonin? Sleeping mists? Silence? Music? Cold air? Warm air? Flowing air? Still air? Light? No light? No screens? Screens? Meditation? ASMR? Beating the shit out of a chain until I run out of gas?

No.

Nothing ever helped.

My mind faltered, my body crumbled.

I just want some fucking sleep.

I just want to be able to have fun again.

I just want to be loved.

I want to be worthy of all the people that love me.

I want to prove those that hate me wrong, but every step feels like I’m going in the wrong direction.

Therapy helped at first.

Then I started having breakdowns.

Let’s roll back the tape again, so I can point out some shit that scares me. That hurts me.

Back in 2021, over the course of one week, I was:

Threatened by a man on the bus, saying he would crush my skull, and trying to steal my things.

Threatened with a knife because I am too tall.

Threatened by a homeless man because he thought I was pitying him.

Further back.

Hit by a car.

Hit by my father, for something I didn’t do.

Used as a tool for chopping wood and building parts of the house.

Got permanent scarring because my fist went through a glass door.

Nearly drowned by my brother.

Neglected and replaced by my father.

Told I’m worthless day in and day out by my father and brother.

Used as a target to vent my father's frustrations.

Screamed at for sharing facts that my father didn’t believe.

Now, this here is being written in class, in a corner.

I write these stories because they portray how I see the world.

Some days I genuinely don’t know if I will be able to go home safely. Not because of some abuse, no, the people I live with are all better than they were in the past. No, I am terrified that someday I will meet someone with the guts to push that knife, to pull that trigger, to throw that punch.

I am terrified that I will be the target of hatred.

I am tired.

I am hated.

I hate so many things, but if I die then who will prevent my family from falling apart?

I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, and nobody to share it with.

Thank you for making it this far.

Thank you for reading my written screams of pain.

Thank you.

Please, just don’t be a fuck up like me.