Romantically Masochistic

Where to start with this? Well, the beginning or close enough. I was born. Here I wish to say a good family or nice parents. But it doesn't ring true. My Mother, bless her, has always been so good to me when it matters. She always had my corner. My father, will be explained more as this goes on. 

So me, I am smart. I was a bright kid. I started speaking with full sentences but the way my parents reacted I though that was wrong and went back to be mute for a while. Can’t really think of much better start for this were I writing it as fiction, it reflects so well what is to come.

But, I was very smart, I was always years ahead of where I should be, academically and to a fair degree emotionally. IQ of 185 and a conceptual pattern of cognition to go with it. It’s why I always used to misquote things, I would remember what they meant not what they said. 

So at primary school, I guess that’s where I got my ego, I was special. Took exams years above where I should be and aced them. Got shown off as the star pupil, I got my own special lessons, spent so much time in the teachers offices for various things good and bad. 

All was still good here, my first primary school, lovely house with a huge garden to play in and we used to breed Borzoi’s, my mother’s health was good, and though I was bullied I had friends too. 

My dad was a salesman, he used to travel, have a company car and a good salary, we, we had nice things. And the accounts he managed meant he got given all the tooth paste we could need, it even lasted for years after he lost that job. 

And yes, he broke his back on a company trip and in the ensuing legal mess the job was gone. Not long after my school stopped caring that I was smart, stopped pushing me because it would cost them too much, so my mother moved my schools to try and do better by me. 

Second school was good but went down hill, one of only 5 boys in my year back when we weren't supposed to socialize with girls, and well, I was always the odd one out by any measure. I changed my name into this school too. Didn't like having a strange one. Wasn't comfortable when people assumed I was a girl. 

But, the head master changed, temporary headmistress, lovely woman and I made some friends, got stretched academically. Permanent one, ran the school down to where it was closed a year or two back. Hated me, used to reduce me into tears in the class room, made me do the same work year on year. 

So here my parents decided to take me out of school and go home educated. Found a group of home ed kids. Made new friends here, after a few hiccups. Was guided self ed for the most but I got my qualifications early and was headed for 6th form a year early. Always mistaken for older than I was here, it’s when I got attached to being the youngest in a group. 

This was hard times for my parents, my mother had been working a job for several years because my dad was spending more than her earned, this is when the creep of not sure poverty is the right word, but certainly fiscal strife that began to set in, relieved for a while by the inheritance my grandfather left. I never met the man, my mother hadn't spoken to him for a quarter of a century. But, it turns out that money was the only reason my mother didn’t leave.

My friendships here were odd, had a couple of gamer friends I was very close to across this time, And he who stuck with me to this day has been a good voice of reason in my dark days. But I gave that up for 6th form, and suddenly joining 2000 people every day, a lot of things changed.

So 6th form days, finances got worse and worse back home, my father gave up a failed bid at teaching and went to warehouse work, where he’s been since, my mother’s health really began declining here, entire winter’s spent bed bound. I had a first group of friends, good people for a bit. But lost them to being caught up in my first real relationship. 

Made new friends though, more boys though, trust issues. That relationship really took it’s toll. Though we are on speaking terms now, hell I swear we get on better than we did then, both in far better places with ourselves, it helps. But that relationship nearly killed me. 

Some of my friends saw the damage at the time, others have seen the scar, where I ripped open my wrist with my nails, tore at it till my hands were covered in blood. That, that’s how well that relationship went. And breaking it off was the right thing right then. 

Time to collect for a while, consolidate with new friends. Got too close to a nasty one though. But that was a strange one, I could talk better with him, I guess for someone who doesn't understand emotion a sociopath makes a good friend. 

But then I met Charlotte. 

The only name you’ll read here because it’s the only name I feel I have to right to use. Charlotte is me, or at least a part of me. A section of my mind that broke off and now acts beyond my direct control. Inert for the most, but drastically alters the landscape of my psyche. And Charlotte exists for the most pitiful reason, because it gives me someone to talk to.  

Charlotte was idealised what I should have been if I’d taken the right turns through my life. The name I should have had, the insight I should have, the intelligence I would have had, had I nod had my skull cracked as a child.  To my perception everything I should have been. None of the chronic pain, the twitches, the crippling fears of people. An alter formed from my dreams of perfection. 

So, we would see each other some times and speak. And I didn't tell anyone. Took me weeks to realise she wasn't even real, but then I filed it away got on with life and she faded away.

The summer passed and the finances got worse. My mother’s health too, though best she tried to manage it. I applied for Uni, year early but I was allowed to. Got into Oxford, and, well, oddest thing, I wasn't over joyed, I wasn't ridiculously happy. It was what had always been expected of me. I was about as happy as when I got and A on my homework. But then it wasn't too long since I’d sobbed after getting a D because I felt I’d let everyone down. 

I've always had self esteem issues I guess, they are just easier to understand as you grow up.  But there is this problem, with being intelligent, and having this cripplingly low self esteem, you manage to double think yourself. You have this knowledge from knowing all the facts knowing people only share what they want to show off putting it together to realise how incredible you actually are, while still thinking you are a piece of dirt that is barely worthy of the air you breath. 

It’s true double thinking, like holding both aspects of the Necker cube in your mind though it is impossible, so though you can believe both utterly you can only accept one at a time. I never doubted I would get into Oxford because I was better than the other candidates, I could have got in for a dozen subjects, but this is the same person who has turned away food because they didn't deserve it. 

Second year came through, lost my friends to that sociopath, I became disillusioned with how he treated the women in his life. Grew so close to one of them, fell for them utterly. Talked a few others off the tops of buildings. But, he controlled people better than I, so those last few uni days were spent alone, Though Charlotte returned, my real friends were those I’d made at interviews, I spoke to them all I could. I same them, in this case it does mean just one person. 

Charlotte was good company that summer. I had spoken to counsellors about her by then, but she was kind, odd, but kind. I coped through exams and with my little hallucinated alter in tow I moved forward. 

The girl I’d fallen for would stay in my life for a while, on again off again together even. though when it first broke off it broke me. I remember sewing my wrists back together, after a hallucination of her told me not to cut deeper. 

It really does amaze me some days how my brain pulled those images from it’s depths to talk me down, to save itself. And that it was the same mind that but days before was showing me horrors and telling my I bore the blame. 

Finances got harder at home, my mum’s health worse, though the stress meant I was glad to leave when I did. I felt guilty later, wishing I’d been there to care for my mother. I change my name again. 

I was so saddened when my dog died. I’d seen him into this world, not given him half the love I should have but he adored me. And nearly a decade later, I should have been there to say goodbye. He was alone when he went, lost me and his brother. Make’s me feel sick to think that’s why he faded away when he did.

Uni was interesting, made new friends, made some good friends, lost some too. Though that came later, met the most wonderful people.

Barely a month in I lost my mind. 

I have only one person to thank for the fact I lived through that. When my fears spiralled beyond control, when the switch flipped in my head and I was thrown into my own version of hell. 

For those who want to know what hell would be for me, it’s nothing. No landscape, a desolate plain as the world boils away, the room turns to muck and bubbles melting away as Charlotte stands there, screaming, nothing I could possibly focus on but my own mind telling me every element of vileness about my being. 

I had one saviour on those days, now lost. 

This was when I got care properly the first time, it was a whirlwind of meetings everyday, explaining to psych after psych what I’d been through and trying to reason why. But they put me on meds that helped. I say helped. They killed my mind, I could barely think, but Charlotte was gone. 

It’s funny how priorities change, back then my goal was to have at least a masters at 21 anything less was failure. I used to in my fearful times there suggest if I went home it would be a quiet place to live and die, that was my cowards escape. Something to consider but only so I didn’t take it. 

How wrong I was. And how much now I would give for a quiet place to live and die. 

After some more meds, they let me think but gave me parkinsonism and my uni work beginning to fail, tears in tutorials, I finally decided I couldn't do it any more and went home. wasn't to be permanent but a place to collect. 

After months at home my psych contact realised they’d never actually evaluated me. Month’s of wasted time, I didn't get worse but I was close to my worst to start, and I surely didn't get better. The time wasted there meant at least another year would be gone. 

I used to think a year of my life was a huge price, I’d give so much more to get back there now. When I was finally evaluated I met the doctor I’d have for a while, a woman I owe so much too in turning my life around. It may not have been with her I did the therapy work that has meant so much to my recovery, but it was with her my life changed in outlook and recovery became an option. 

So anyone who has spoken to me since I left uni, well you have her to thank for the fact I have got back to a point I can speak to people. Even if some will never get back to the point they can talk to me. 

Therapy was a long process, but, it clicked around Christmas last year, the tools started working. Me and Charlotte get on better now, my mood swings are something I live around not something that control my life. And I can meet new people, speak to new people with confidence. Well I could. 

The summer before approaching a second year of having to say to uni I needed more time I finally decided to drop out completely. I said leave then, sounded better, less like failure. You see the sad reason I dropped out of uni is because I need money. 

I was in debt after leaving uni, because I had bailed out my parents, then cashed out my life insurance policy to bail out my parents. I was in no state to work nor return to get a grant and get back in the black. And being in full time education I couldn't claim support due to the fact I couldn't work. 

So yes, I left university finally and utterly because of the family’s debts. My father’s debts. You see part of my mental instability is inherited on both sides, but it show in my father, and his addiction to spending money. 

And that’s why the money got tighter and tighter, because all of it there was and more he spent on all sorts of junk. His salary pays the bills and the debts, my mothers disability support feeds us. Or did until recently, now that pays more debts and my benefits feed us. 

He has been in psych care as long as I have, and the first people refuse to help him any more. And I told him today why I keep telling him that all his other mental health issues can wait if he can deal with the spending addiction. 

Because I hate him. Because of him I've gone from wondering where to do my doctorate to fearing checking my balance, waiting for the next time I have to buy the family food. When I’ll next buy a take away to avoid a fight. 

My parent’s marriage isn't there any more, hasn't been for years. I have gone backwards as it’s got worse. 

I fear conversations again, but so desperately need them to keep myself sane. I fear the next disaster because there is nowhere left to fall. The debts and the spending leave no outs. 

It’s a horrible feeling, I love my mother, and I do love my father, and with my mother’s health getting so bad I wish I could care for her, but at the same time I want to run away, start again. With less than nothing, but at least hope. 

I hate myself for how far backwards My mind has gone, how the crippling fears have returned, small mercy that Charlotte still hasn’t turned foul again, she is that small comfort sitting beside me now and smiling. 

I hate myself that I have not had the will through this all not to comfort eat myself fat. That I don’t even care enough to shave my face when I leave the house. 

So here I am now, still shaking still shivering, feeling like ice rests on my back despite the sun’s heat still warming the air, trying to make a plan, working out how to keep walking from this and get to somewhere better, to where I'm not afraid and where I can build something for myself. 

It has been nearly three years in all now, since I was last alone in an empty room. Three years since my mind broke off a fragment and I met Charlotte.

In this time we’ve had our ups and downs. She went from being the one who I discussed philosophy with who made sarcy comments about the world around us, then the cheerful figure dancing around, the reason I smiled for no reason and the one companion I had in a crowd. When I slit my wrists she stopped me, in her own way.

Then we got to Uni, she’d help with my work, got me through the day. One day she turned. I cant even remember why I was sad at first but she turned it into the end of my life, my world fell apart. The world dissolved around me and only due to a friend running to me did I see the next dawn.

Things blurred sonewhat from there. I saw a dozen psyche people in as many meetings over as many days. I was put on drugs that dulled my mind. I started failing at uni, but she went away. She came after a while then, the drugs were taken away, some small relief that they were.

Now she hates me though. She screams and shouts at me and I am so often crying in the corner, as I am now. Only one psyche in the last 18 months has seemed truly interested in helping me get better and I said a final goodbye to them yesterday. But I have people tgere trying to help me, guide me.

I’ve heard her words more than everyone else’s put together. Is it any wonder they ring true when Ive heard them so oft. And now they’ve pulled whst recovery I had made down around me.

I’ve left uni, lost good friends. Ruined my life and others’ finally given up on my hopes and plans and replaced them. So now I’ve tried to rebuild and failed, only one thing left to do.