Bof

This account doesn’t serve any particular purpose, other then having a place to store my thoughts, written down at miscellaneous times. Usually as they occur.

It’s a sort of diary, I suppose. Lately my thoughts have been a bit jumbled and messy. I suppose you could say I fancied a bit of a clean.

In advance, if anyone happens to stumble across my page -which isn’t necessarily the purpose- I apologise if anything I write disturbs or upsets you. This is purely for myself, serving as a way to lay my thoughts out, and make it easily accessible chance I ever need to go back and reassess.

Thank you

Behind him is a dark mirror. The room is empty, but he knows there are things around him. It feels empty.

He turns around to face the mirror, the outline of which being the only thing he’s acutely aware of seeing. (In the very back of his mind he sees all else, the bed and the bookshelf, the sheets tossed on the ground..)

He sees his reflection. It seems like theres a dull white light coming from above, though he has no idea how that is. The light casts dark shadows under his cheekbones and under his eyes. For a moment, its him in the mirror. Nothing but his motionless reflection.

He stares too long. Now the reflection is a something else. Someone else.

That cant be. He sees himself in the mirror, thats him, but its as if he’s looking at himself not through the mirror, but from outside of his body.

The edges of his vision blur and he looks around the corners of the mirror, looking at himself (or what he’s sure is himself) with burning eyes.

He feels his pupils moving. He’s looking at different parts of this reflection, but the pupils of the reflection do not move. He takes a breath, but the movement doesn’t match up with the reflection. Its as if, there is a copy of himself in a mirror frame, badly imitating his every move. He moves his hand up, first to press against the mirror. When his hands meet the cold glass he pauses. His hand and the reflections are pressing against each other. He notes- there is no gap between their hands.

He slides his hand to the reflections neck and feels the air leave his lungs as a ghostly soft pressure settles around his neck. His hand is still pressed against the mirror, and the reflecting copies him still.

My younger brothers birthday was yesterday, and I was urged to return home for a few days. I obviously didn’t want to, my brother lives with my mum still. He’s turning 17, and I wasn’t there for his 16th birthday, I felt a bit obligated to go.

The days was spent with family. My brother, my step sister and my mother and father. My little brother wanted to go to the mall so we went. mum bought him all that he wanted and dad got us food. I bought him a new skateboard, which was a lot more expensive than I thought it would be.

There was a moment where me and my mum were alone, walking through the store while my dad and brother looked around. My wee step sister had decided to latch onto me, and I really couldn’t say no to a pouting four year old.

My mother was tinkering around on her phone and we were, in that moment, stuck in an awkward silence. I was nodding along to Ellie’s nonsense babbling when my mum cursed at something a bit abruptly. It was instinct to hover away and ignore her, but instead I asked her what was wrong. As expected she waved her hand around aggressively and told me to bugger off. I didn’t, because I was still holding Ellie. After a few seconds she screamed and smacked her head and dropped her phone on the ground, walking off.

When she walked away, probably out of the store, I gave Ellie to my dad, who came over after hearing my mother, and grabbed her smashed phone. I realised that even though my mother wasn’t the best- far from it, I still loved her, because I followed her out. I didn’t find her, which is why I assumed she left the store, but i kept her phone.

I told her no.

We talked about my career options. She told me I needed a reliable job. Something safe. Something traditional.

I told her I wanted to be a DI.

Immediately she shot off in a rant about how dangerous and stupid it was to even consider being in the police. I told her it was what grandfather did and I had a real interest in it. I wanted to help people, to take an active roll in bringing people peace.

She told me never to bring up her father again. She told me I was certainly not the one to proceed him.

I told her I wasn’t going to change my mind. She told me “a manic cannae be a copper, you’ll kill s’mbody.”

I am not a manic.

She said. “Worst of all I let my loony mistake be nothin more than what y’are.”

What do I even say to that?

As a child, I did sometimes do untraditional things. Often I would run away, though I’d be back before the sun went down.

I suppose that isn’t really untraditional. Many kids ‘run away from home’. There was never anything overly unique about me.

Sometimes mum would rile me up so much, I would be so upset. I knew better than to talk back. Talking back would get you hit. I would get so upset I would feel sick. I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t talk back, couldn’t defend myself, so I ran. I ran often. Mum would tell me not to come back, but I would get a ring and I would be back the next half hour.

I got so sick one day, I don’t really remember what had made me so upset, but mum sent me up to my room. I didn’t come out till the next evening, and my mother was happy and seemed to forget ever shouting at me. She said something like ‘don’t stray too far off or you’ll wind up dead.’

I told her “I wish I was dead.”

Maybe hinting at a suicide is cruel.

She called me a mistake, and I’m an adult now, so it shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. It hurt more than the dog bite or the broken arm, that’s for sure.

Maybe it’s sick. I remember watching a documentary with my mother when I was 16. It was about a serial killer who, as a young boy, experienced many adulterated things no child should ever undergo. I remember laughing and turning to mum, saying something about how traumatic childhoods like that seem to explain how murderers act. She told me “it’s not funny. He may be a murderer but it’s still something that happened to a child.”

I immediately felt bad. Awful. Horrible, because she was right. I had been looking at it wrong for so long. Knowing a killers past had been traumatic, it doesn’t excuse their actions but it helps you understand.

No matter what my mum would say to me I would still be there to help her. My traumatic child would never be enough to excuse any cynical behaviour I may have developed had it been worse. It’s sad, but my experiences are not uncommon. I try not to feel too sorry for myself. It’s not fair to think my life is the worst when the worst of it is over. Now that I’m an adult, I can do what I want, albeit abiding to the law. I would never do anything untoward to anyone but myself.

I remember getting angry with my mother. She had told me what she had today- you were a mistake.

Deep down, past the hurt and the instinct to believe anything my mother says, I know there are many things wrong with her statement, shouted over the video call on my laptop.

When I was 15 I had a cat. I named him Wilfred, after the Sitcom ‘Wilfred’. At the time, that slap-knee comedy was the only thing that could make my emotionally deprived self crack a smile.

My mother had a shepherd dog, though it was a mix with some breed that made her fur curly and tail short. Her dog loved to chase my cat, and I told my mother

“Your mad dog is going to kill my cat! What a mistake, taking in a dog we can hardly control!”

She immediately replied: “keep the heid, you were a mistake too, don’t get a swelled head.”

I felt awful all the time. Felt alien in my own home.

“I wish I were dead”

I don’t remember her saying anything to that.

Hinting at a suicide is cruel. What’s worse, I wanted her to know if I did die, be it by suicide or something else, the last think she said to me was something awful.

You were a mistake.

You’re your fathers son.

Your too far gone.

I can’t stand you.

A lost cause.

Sick in the head.

I wanted her to know if I did end up hurting myself, it was because of her. I wanted her to feel guilty. Feel responsible.

Maybe I am sick in the head. I feel sick in the head. I don’t want to be, because she’s right. A loony can’t be a copper.

I try and look deeper into it. Try and find reasons why I would want her to feel responsible.

I think she should, because most of my internal struggle stems from her, but I know it’s not right.

He may be a murderer but that’s still something that happened to a child.

But I was a child too.

She called me sick in the head. Called me a mistake. She told me she couldn’t stand me, and I couldn’t understand.

I could never understand how my mother, the woman who raised me, could say those things.

My father was despondent and my mother was manic depressive, what does that make me?

I find myself stuck relaying the past in my mind. Reminiscing on a simpler, yet traumatic time in my life, where I was too young to vocalise my problems clearly.

It’s easy to say things would be better if I was never born. If i didn’t exist, so many people would have different lives. I think because of how fast everything went in my childhood, I grew up faster too. I was born into a reasonably normal family, but I was 6 years younger than my older brother, so I don’t think my parents were really prepared for another child, as they screwed me up an awful lot. They named me Jonathan Campbell Bof, Campbell, after my mothers father.

Actually, when I was born, my parents fought over which last name I would take. When my younger brother Cameron was born, my parents were debating divorce, so his last name was Paisley, like my mothers.

All my life I’ve lived in a small area. Our house was small, our town was small. I grew up taller then most of my classmates, much like my father did when he was young. Aside from genetic height, I found myself growing at a different rate mentally, in particular.

I was going too fast. I had plans that no one bothered making because we were still young. When I was 12 I knew what I wanted to do with my life and made a plan on how to do it. I still have that plan. My goal hasn’t changed.

I wrote it all down. When I was a kid, I wrote everything down. I would tell anyone that would listen, my whole future plan.

It was such a small town, eventually it felt my dreams were too big to be confined there.

I was born in East Lothian, Berwick ,on 6 November, 2001. (Arguably the worst month to be born) Because of my fathers work we moved often. We lived in Glasgow for a bit, but didn’t stay long. When I was ten, we lived in America for around three years, but after that we moved back to Berwick. When we lived in America my parents, Alastair and Grace Bof, were still together, and things were otherwise happy and light for a while. It never lasted long. Nothing with my parents ever lasted long. When I was 13 they divorced, but it felt like they were separated long before that.

I was the middle child in a family of three boys. My older brother, Blair left home when he turned 18, to what I always assumed was to get away from mums abuse, that had been going on for a little over a year at that point. For that I never much bothered to keep in contact with him.

My younger brother and I lived with mum, while my father remarried. He was never there for us when we all lived together, even when he wasn’t working, so I never talked to him much after he left either.

After we came back from America and my parents separated my mother got even more aggressive then before. I think it was because seeing your father dead in his bedroom having overdosed two days earlier would make you fairly unstable as well, but it was no excuse to get angry at us so often.

I’d tell my little brother it was only because she was stressed. I’d tell him she didn’t mean the things she said, but eventually he got to an age where I couldn’t slip lies to him so easily. He’s just three years younger than me, but mum never hit Cameron, I’m glad for that.

As soon as I turned 17 I moved to London with a few close friends to help pay rent.

At the time, mum had actually calmed down enough were I felt safe leaving Cameron under her care.

I needed somewhere bigger than my hometown, but since we were so close to Edinburgh, my mother suggested I moved there instead. It’s a nice place, but London was more intriguing to me.

My mother stayed in Berwick with my younger brother but they moved to Edinburgh after I turned 18. Now that I look back that was about two years ago. Seems like it’s been far longer than that.

I wish things were different back then, though I suppose if they were I wouldn’t be were I am today, mildly content with the life I’ve created for myself. I’m grateful, and I understand things could be far worse.

I’m also glad I’m nothing like my parents. My mother and father both worked hard for us, but they never put more effort than was necessary. That’s not to say the didn’t love us, I’m sure they did. My mother was brutal, but she would apologise often and make up for it in subtle displays of parental affection. (that of which I rejected.) my father and I never had a super close relationship, to the point where it was often quite awkward to be around him. What could I have talked to him about? It got better after he left oddly enough, and he still calls and checks up. He also happens to think me as a homosexual, mainly because of my lack of relationship, and the time he visited my flat without my knowing and walked in on me and my friend after we had gotten piss drunk in the middle of the day for a reason I can’t quite recall. I don’t think I’m gay, but most of my encounters have been with men. I suppose that would be considered gay, though it’s mostly because we used to get drunk enough to mindlessly shag. I don’t really dwell on it. My sexuality was never really something I wanted to put a label on.

Besides my mostly screwed life and my strange parents I think I’m doing alright now. I don’t hate who I am, and I certainly don’t wish I was somebody else anymore. I’ve reached a mild complacency.

I wasn’t scared when my mother hit me, and I wasn’t scared of my childhood bullies. I certainly wasn’t scared when my mother practically dragged my broken body to the hospital, and I wasn’t scared hearing my grandfather had been dead in his room for over two days.

I think fear is a very important emotion, and it’s why I feel a bit awkward without it present most of the time.

I’m not scared of people, or public speaking. Growing up I wasn’t afraid of presenting a project in front of the class, and I wasn’t scared of meeting new people.

I wasn’t scared of police officers, the doctors, or the medications. I wasn’t scared in general.

I was always like that. It wasn’t that I was fearless, or unable to be afraid, it’s only that my fear wasn’t average. It didn’t happen on the same spectrum normal people had.

I grew up always being an anomaly.

I guess that’s why I wasn’t scared of the dog that randomly attacked us on our way home.

I was with some friends, it was just four of us, Elsie, Michael, Stephan and myself, and while I’m aware I shouldn’t be addressing them by their real names, I don’t think it would do any real harm. We had gone out for drinks (that I couldn’t have because the legal drinking age in America is 21) and it was around 1am.

I’m not sure why the dog choose me out of the four of us, but I suppose I should be more flattered that it did.

It latched onto the bag holding our leftovers, (because we are poor and cannot afford to waste even mediocre food) and I assumed it was either going for my leg or arse, and I’m glad it happened to miss because I quite like both of them.

Obviously I was surprised. Elsie screamed and tried swatting at the poor pooch who I assumed afterwards was only trying to get a meal in, and Stephan and Michael laughed and pulled me away.

I was confused and startled but I wasn’t afraid of this dog, that was big enough to eat at least half of my 4”11 colleague. It bit my hand in an attempt to get a better grip on the cheap reusable cloth bag and while it latched into me I dropped the bag. The pain didn’t set in till later, after the dog had ran away with a mock kick from Michael and the 2 dollar cheeseburger I had ordered. I was shaken and frustrated, but we left afterwards.

My hand and wrist was bleeding a bit, but I wasn’t scared of being mauled. Wasn’t afraid of an infection or rabies, but afraid for what might happen to the dog if it were caught by the wrong person. What if someone had saw what happened and called animal control? I doubt it, since it was so late, but it was still on my mind.

Even though I had a dog myself, I don’t really like them that much. Of course I loved my dog, bleep, and missed her loads, but I’ve always been more of a cat person.

Actually, I never really had an interest in animals or pets at all.

If I saw a lost kitten or an abandoned dog there’s no doubt I’d bring it home. Most of my childhood pets were found on the street shaken and hurt. That’s no way to live.

As a kid, I too found myself shaken and hurt. Not always for myself, but for others that were dealing with the consequences of my actions.

I wasn’t afraid of the stitches and antibiotics I was given a few about 2 hours ago, after the pain had increased to the point of it being annoyingly persistent, (Though the bill was particularly frightening) but I have found thinking about that poor dog has made me awfully depressed. I did go out and tried to find it after I got home, but it gets so dark so quickly, I knew there would be no way I could find it.

Thinking about all the things I can’t fix has always put me in a bit of a mood.

I’ve always been quite easily depressed.

There’s no reason innocent animals should have to suffer at the hands of careless humans. I’m sure once that dog had a family and a home. What happened that you could just throw a beautiful living animal out onto the street? How is it meant to survive, when it’s been brought up in an environment it’s supposed to get everything it needs from?

Even in a seemingly wonderful place like this there are still things that remind me of home. Sick people who only care about themselves. Hopeless humans who wallow in their own miseries and throw it onto their innocent children and beautiful companions. That’s how you make a monster. That’s how you make an aggressive animal. No one is born evil. No one is born angry at the world.

I always wondered, if I had a different upbringing, would I be normal? There’s something sick inside me, and even though my ideals are true, I can’t help the thoughts that scare even me. It makes me feel helpless. If I can’t fix myself, how can I fix anything else?

I grew up thinking nothing in the world mattered, but that’s not the case. Nothing in the universe matters more than good people, and those with the potential to good.

Nothing is not worth my time. Nothing is not worth trying to fix.

Nothing else matters to me. Nothing matters except the thought that I can try and make things at least a little bit better.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up, but I think I’ll use this as an excuse to strive to do better. I thought I’d saved up enough to make it at least two months, but I’ve already had to ask my father for money, something in of itself embarrassing. And complicated. It took me a horribly long afternoon trying to understand the transfer of cash. I know I need a job, but that shouldn’t be extremely hard, because recently after exploring the campus of my new college and sighting up for my desired classes (that I’ll be attending next semester) I’ve met a few friends who are happy to talk to their managers. Apparently, because of the pandemic, lots of businesses are looking for new hires.

I’m not going to think so much. I’m going to start making decisions.

There’s a chemical taste when I lick my lips, and my eyes sting, unfocused.

It feels like there’s something inside me that my body cannot contain.

The taste of salt, and iron is thick on my tongue. No amount of vigorous brushing seems to wash it away.

My hands are littered with scars and small curved cuts.

As I stare into my mirror, I see my face is blank and I can feel the pull of my neck muscles when I look up.

It’s hard to breath. It’s always hard to breath. It’s almost as if there’s something constricting around my chest. When I take a deep breath, a sharp pain pierces my lungs on either side.

Shallow breaths.

Refrain from exertion.

My life always involves exertion. It’s a sad routine.

It takes far more energy than it should to drag myself out of bed.

I’m used to the sound of my door shaking on its hinges, from my mothers brutal knocks. The shouting and the pain in my arm because it was always a bit achy in the morning.

Now I only wake up to silence.

It’s harder to wake up in silence, but since I was used to the loud noises, I found myself easily sleeping through that too.

My mouth is dry, but even when I spend the day only consuming water my lips are still chapped.

I look dead, and certainly feel it.

The large T-shirt I’d worn to bed sits on me like a long-sleeved dress, falling just past my knees. A shirt one of my mates left behind after a night drinking he hadn’t cared enough about to want back.

There was really no point in wearing it, anyways. It’s not that I didn’t have any sleepwear, I’m sure there’s a pair somewhere.

It’s just not often I wake up clothed, especially recently.

Is it safe? Absolutely.

Is it mutual? Almost exclusively.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve ran out of care for what happens to my own body.

It’s mindless pleasure that last minutely, a disgusting bliss that leaves me feeling used and dirty, but it’s a distraction for when things get difficult.

It’s not always a go to. It’s not always random. I’m sure there are worse outlets I could have (Drugs, murder, self-harm..)

But I find myself grateful for the one I have. Grateful it’s not addictive for me, though it does leave me in a vulnerable position. (Literally and figuratively)

Shame.

Disgust.

Nausea and it’s not something exclusively for adulterated fun.

I am an adult, capable of making my own decisions. Though 19 is still fairly young, I’m aware. I’m lucky to at least be seen and considered an adult, and not a very sick lanky teenager.

Is this vague enough? Or should I go more into detail with some of my worst life decisions? Suppose there’s no need. It’s not like they were decisions, anyway. Out of my control.

Unfortunately, most things that directly involve me are out of my control, but isn’t that the way it is for everyone? I’ve spent half my life with the doctrine ‘nothing in the universe matters, life holds no meaning’ but can I really stand true to that?

My battered body is begging to break down but I’m not ready yet. The only thing keeping me from falling is the thought that one day I’ll make things better for people. It’s such a broad goal, that it seems almost childish. So confusing, a person like me, who’s barely functional as a human being, could want something so taxing.

I need to clean up bad habits first.

I have many mirrors in my room. Mirrors that I turn around at night. I only do this before bed, because as I sleep, I don’t want to wake up and spot myself. I don’t want to see anything in that little moment of foggy awareness.

If I were to sleep, and suddenly wake up with an unfamiliar weight on my bed, the last thing I would want to happen is to witness it. I would rather lay frozen, blissfully unaware of what was truly upon me. I’ve never had an issue doing this when I was younger. A teenage boy, so uninterested in the prospect of being active in love was never a choice, but in a time where everyone is curious, stressed and lonely, I felt I had no choice but to engage. Even if I hardly did anything in the act.

Some things I’ve seen have starved off that hunger. My trauma started so young I didn’t think I quite developed that instinct. That interest. I can’t close my eyes and relax in it, because of the smells, and the thoughts. It’s not my cup of tea.

A barren body, crouched over me. Unnaturally long limbs make it so the skinny figure can hover just above my limp sleeping form. Even though I am not. I am not asleep, but I cannot move. I am a third party, seeing everything from outside myself.

It’s long, dog-like snout an inch away from my slack face. I cannot scream. The darkness eats up all sound. All light but the light allowing me to spectate. Even though I am not in my own body I can feel everything that’s happening.

I can’t push it away. I’m stuck in a cramped space. It’s my fault, for agreeing in the first place, knowing I was not going to enjoy it. So much bigger than me, what choice did I have?

It’s oddly familiar and disgusting. It knots my insides up and I can do nothing but lay still and feel. Sit, and watch from the side.

It has no eyes, but deep dark sockets in perfect circles encase me.

It crouched lower, barely straddling my slack body. What will happen? Why does this feel familiar, like it’s happened before?

While the sight is horrific I feel no fear. I am only full of questions. Thoughts.

When I wake up, I am not afraid. I can see, my eyes in the reflection of the mirror I hadn’t managed to flip around. There is nothing weighing my bed down, and nothing heavy on my chest.

The room is bright, signalling the beginning of the day.