Kids say the darnedest things.

Full disclosure: I did some terrible, terrible things in my childhood and adolescence. I am baring my heart and soul in this post, more so than ever before.

It is about to get brutally honest up in here.

Every now and then I think back to elementary school to when things first got really bad and when I first realized there was something wrong with me. Sometimes it’s brought on by similar feelings, sometimes by random flash backs. I don’t remember a definitive beginning. I have certain time periods that stick out.

I was facing a lot of rage before the third grade, but I remember that time as being particularly bad. I hate to think about this one, let alone talk about it. There was a girl that sat across from me in my class, she was one of those loud kids with overly dramatic hand gestures and sound effects. At this point I had no idea how to handle my anger at school, especially when something in particular was triggering it. Now I realize that more than likely this classmate of mine had ADHD. Her constant incessant talking along with everything in my head made me feel like I was suffocating. I’d ask her to quiet down or let me concentrate and she’d laugh and it’s only get worse. I started getting violent when she began touching things on my desk and trying to poke me. There were a few times that I pinched her or jabbed her with a pencil. One day I lost what little composure I had after she would not stop poking, prodding, talking 90 miles a minute among other things. I drew a picture of her on my desk with speech bubbles reading “blah blah blah” all around her. Then I added myself to the scene, with a butcher knife cutting off her head. Our teacher cam over checking up on our work and she saw the cartoon. I blamed her. Our parents were spoken to about it, and she had to start seeing the school counselor. I felt so awful, but I also didn’t want my problems brought to light. The idea terrified me.

In fifth grade my problems couldn’t be missed or ignored. That year I ended up in an outpatient program at the children’s hospital. I was miserable all the time. At school I was either fighting acting on my rage, or so depressed I was constantly being told to pick my head up off my desk. I was cycling so fast I was the embodiment of Sybil on speed. The first time I ever identified or noticed a trigger was when I started having a mental breakdown every morning when I had to get dressed. My mom eventually ended up getting me dressed in the car before heading into the clinic every morning. All I wanted was to stay in my pajamas because at that point I had acclimated to them. I hated the way everything felt on my skin. I had horrible eczema at the time, so that didn’t help. I was so uncomfortable in my body at the time. I had just gained 14 lbs. in two weeks after starting a new medication. I would get so uncomfortable, anxious, and angry that I would literally rip all of my clothing off and lay on the ground thrashing and sobbing just for the release.

The worst thing I have ever done, and the one thing that comes to mind on the subject of regret, happened in junior high. On a night that I lost control over something minuscule enough that I don’t remember, my dad was trying his hardest to calm me. My parents always alternated, or read my mood to decide who I needed. A lot of the time I got overwhelmed by the two of them together. I was on the living room couch, sobbing, hyperventilating, screaming, shaking, while my dad was trying to hold me and talk me down. I was mentally fried to the point where I was almost delirious. I didn’t how to help myself, or relieve anything. My dads words of comfort and talking in general was setting me off. I took a pillow and held it on his face. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, I just wanted him to be quiet and it all to go away. He just sat there. Didn’t tell me to stop or fight me, he knew what he was doing. That’s what snapped me out of it. I had lost control and couldn’t come back. I have always been a daddy’s girl and always will be, so this is something that I will never forget or forgive myself for. I try. Every time I think about it, I cry. It makes me hate myself.

In high school I was more than the stereotypical “I hate the world, my parents are the worst” teenager. I cursed at my parents, called them names and told the to shut up, even told them I hate them. And that is another thing I hate myself for. Every now and then when things get emotional I cry about it and run to my parents, wrap my arms and around them and between my sobs, tell them how sorry I am.

I’ve done a lot of terrible things. The above are what I am most ashamed of. I don’t have excuses and don’t look for them, but now I know the explanation. I hope that someone reads this and it resonates with them. Mental illness is ugly, and I want others to know that you are not alone in your bad behavior or your regrets.

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