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I've used these forums a lot as a kinda diary, every now and again delving into them to write about myself to try and work out what on Earth is going on. I did it for my own understanding, and of course for the lovely responses, which always helped anyway. For those have been following my quest to cure myself, don't expect anything.
In a basic summary, age seven I had meningitis and I appeared to lose my memory. The illness isn't important, I think, but the age is. I don't know what happened and I don't think I ever will, but I developed amnesia and for the longest time I laid the blame as a side affect of having meningitis.
Except when I came to examine dates that I'd forgotten, while my memory before seven had been pretty much completely wiped, there were patches much much older, going right up to age sixteen. I was seventeen when I realised something was wrong, I'm nineteen now.
I started looking deeper at this 'amnesia', and where it had come from. I began to realise that this was not something that had been forced upon me, but I had forced it upon myself.
There was a nine year spread, of what I could guess, which was blanked up. I had pretty much shut it off.
So I started looking deeper into it, it became my life. I came to university, studying God knows what. I was distancing myself from everyone and anyone I loved, and I took to my bed. I sat in my room and drunk myself silly, letting the alcohol help me fight my mind.
Things started happening and I started remembering. My mind started reopening doors that I had closed a long time ago, and I started once again hallucinating, time was standing still and running off, I was blacking out, I spent hours staring at walls, I would check the time to find that hours past, but not just that, but I had gone down to the shops and bought food without even realising.
Naturally I fell apart. I knew there was something wrong with me, but I wanted to control it myself. I didn't want to go to doctors, to take pills to normalise me. I started to remember more, I pushed myself harder.
My girlfriend left me, and I realised that I had obsessed myself with my mind, destroying myself to understand myself, ending up depressed and alone. From what I can see, thought, there wasn't really an easier way to do it.
The worst feeling in the world , and quite possibly the most difficult thing to do, is remembering something you don't want to remember. There are things I don't mind mentioning, I tried to hang myself and the rope broke, hallucinations keeping me awake for far past me realising how long it had been, parents fighting, running away, the norm for the torn childhood... and then there are things that I would rather not write about at all. Basically it's all a little screwed up, you'll have to trust me on that.
And what then? Finally forcing myself to face the truth of my past a little more, I gave up. I couldn't possibly let myself dig deeper, for the damage it had already done to me. Perhaps I had destroyed so many of my years already, I needed to force myself to push on.
Easily said. More depression followed, the eventuality of trying anti-depressants just to keep me from killing myself. Killing myself from what? Fear, guilt? A lot of my memories I had blocked because I was afraid of becoming a monster. I realise that there are far worse monsters than me.
The real horror in this world is not fear or hatred, it is the realisation that in the end, it is nothing. To lose feeling, emotion. People going about their day, falling in love, apathetically lost in whatever they could to distract them from their 'horror'. The wars, the loss of life, serial killers, rapists, paedophiles. They are not the real horror. The real horror is they don't even matter.
I would tell you that I am emotionally stubbed, castrated. I would tell you that it was a lie, that I am well, I feel love, happiness, joy. I can tell you I am both, because in all honesty I am not sure.
Melodramatic perhaps? I'm afraid not, this story is far from over.
Perhaps it's easy to understand so far, but unfortunately it's now about to get a little more complicated. The newest revelation, now, is that I suffer from multiple personalities disorder. To some of you, this may not come as a surprise. Christ, some of you were the first to spot it, way before I did.
I have tried to kill myself more times than it's worth. There is, however, a part of my mind that I have created, somehow, that's assigned to keeping me alive as far as possible.
As I said, this may get a little complicated.
The personality that keeps me alive has no name, I don't even assign it a sex. You can call it whatever you want to, but I do not have a name for it.
I believe something happened when I was much younger that threatened my life and forced me to confide in myself. I guess having nobody to turn to forces you to turn inwards.
I cannot tell you how many personalities I have, because I honestly don't know. It's hard to tell which is which, sometimes. I know there's more than four, I can tell that much.
In many ways it's fantastic. It's a break from normality, the oddness triumphant over boring old simpleness. I wish to understand it better so I can basically joke about it. Humour is the grandest weapon in the entire world.
But unfortunately it's also troublesome. The reason now I realise I have so much trouble bringing back my memories...? Because my personalities have different memories, different experiences... different pasts. They all go along the same line. While perhaps one personality believes I was playing on a tyre swing at the bottom of the garden, another personality (I refuse to use names) seems to believe I was trying to hang myself. To be honest, I don't know which one is truth.
Naturally, I'm seeing a pyschiatrist. Naturally, he'll hand me ink blot tests, ask me what I see, I might say butterflies and flowers, I might say split skulls, I might tell him the truth.
I remember thinking when I was younger, how I dreamed to be 'mad' because all the mad people seemed to be so cool. I wanted to be crazy, because it'd make people laugh.
Times change, I suppose.
I'm trying to use my experiences to write a book, a novel. As confusing as all this is, I think what I've learned added to my imagination makes good story telling.
The hardest thing to realise is I can't trust my past. Nine years of creating a puzzle that I cannot solve, and another two years wasted trying to solve it. All I can do now is make sure my mind isn't going to explode on me.
Boo-hoo, eh? I'd tell you it was nothing more than another distraction to keep me from getting too bored, or perhaps pointless confusion to stop me from achieving real success in life.
Perhaps I'd say my inward tendencies had made me blind to the world around me, but then, perhaps my fight to make sure I help in the world no matter was distracting me from my own personal state.
But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me, and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it, comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
In a basic summary, age seven I had meningitis and I appeared to lose my memory. The illness isn't important, I think, but the age is. I don't know what happened and I don't think I ever will, but I developed amnesia and for the longest time I laid the blame as a side affect of having meningitis.
Except when I came to examine dates that I'd forgotten, while my memory before seven had been pretty much completely wiped, there were patches much much older, going right up to age sixteen. I was seventeen when I realised something was wrong, I'm nineteen now.
I started looking deeper at this 'amnesia', and where it had come from. I began to realise that this was not something that had been forced upon me, but I had forced it upon myself.
There was a nine year spread, of what I could guess, which was blanked up. I had pretty much shut it off.
So I started looking deeper into it, it became my life. I came to university, studying God knows what. I was distancing myself from everyone and anyone I loved, and I took to my bed. I sat in my room and drunk myself silly, letting the alcohol help me fight my mind.
Things started happening and I started remembering. My mind started reopening doors that I had closed a long time ago, and I started once again hallucinating, time was standing still and running off, I was blacking out, I spent hours staring at walls, I would check the time to find that hours past, but not just that, but I had gone down to the shops and bought food without even realising.
Naturally I fell apart. I knew there was something wrong with me, but I wanted to control it myself. I didn't want to go to doctors, to take pills to normalise me. I started to remember more, I pushed myself harder.
My girlfriend left me, and I realised that I had obsessed myself with my mind, destroying myself to understand myself, ending up depressed and alone. From what I can see, thought, there wasn't really an easier way to do it.
The worst feeling in the world , and quite possibly the most difficult thing to do, is remembering something you don't want to remember. There are things I don't mind mentioning, I tried to hang myself and the rope broke, hallucinations keeping me awake for far past me realising how long it had been, parents fighting, running away, the norm for the torn childhood... and then there are things that I would rather not write about at all. Basically it's all a little screwed up, you'll have to trust me on that.
And what then? Finally forcing myself to face the truth of my past a little more, I gave up. I couldn't possibly let myself dig deeper, for the damage it had already done to me. Perhaps I had destroyed so many of my years already, I needed to force myself to push on.
Easily said. More depression followed, the eventuality of trying anti-depressants just to keep me from killing myself. Killing myself from what? Fear, guilt? A lot of my memories I had blocked because I was afraid of becoming a monster. I realise that there are far worse monsters than me.
The real horror in this world is not fear or hatred, it is the realisation that in the end, it is nothing. To lose feeling, emotion. People going about their day, falling in love, apathetically lost in whatever they could to distract them from their 'horror'. The wars, the loss of life, serial killers, rapists, paedophiles. They are not the real horror. The real horror is they don't even matter.
I would tell you that I am emotionally stubbed, castrated. I would tell you that it was a lie, that I am well, I feel love, happiness, joy. I can tell you I am both, because in all honesty I am not sure.
Melodramatic perhaps? I'm afraid not, this story is far from over.
Perhaps it's easy to understand so far, but unfortunately it's now about to get a little more complicated. The newest revelation, now, is that I suffer from multiple personalities disorder. To some of you, this may not come as a surprise. Christ, some of you were the first to spot it, way before I did.
I have tried to kill myself more times than it's worth. There is, however, a part of my mind that I have created, somehow, that's assigned to keeping me alive as far as possible.
As I said, this may get a little complicated.
The personality that keeps me alive has no name, I don't even assign it a sex. You can call it whatever you want to, but I do not have a name for it.
I believe something happened when I was much younger that threatened my life and forced me to confide in myself. I guess having nobody to turn to forces you to turn inwards.
I cannot tell you how many personalities I have, because I honestly don't know. It's hard to tell which is which, sometimes. I know there's more than four, I can tell that much.
In many ways it's fantastic. It's a break from normality, the oddness triumphant over boring old simpleness. I wish to understand it better so I can basically joke about it. Humour is the grandest weapon in the entire world.
But unfortunately it's also troublesome. The reason now I realise I have so much trouble bringing back my memories...? Because my personalities have different memories, different experiences... different pasts. They all go along the same line. While perhaps one personality believes I was playing on a tyre swing at the bottom of the garden, another personality (I refuse to use names) seems to believe I was trying to hang myself. To be honest, I don't know which one is truth.
Naturally, I'm seeing a pyschiatrist. Naturally, he'll hand me ink blot tests, ask me what I see, I might say butterflies and flowers, I might say split skulls, I might tell him the truth.
I remember thinking when I was younger, how I dreamed to be 'mad' because all the mad people seemed to be so cool. I wanted to be crazy, because it'd make people laugh.
Times change, I suppose.
I'm trying to use my experiences to write a book, a novel. As confusing as all this is, I think what I've learned added to my imagination makes good story telling.
The hardest thing to realise is I can't trust my past. Nine years of creating a puzzle that I cannot solve, and another two years wasted trying to solve it. All I can do now is make sure my mind isn't going to explode on me.
Boo-hoo, eh? I'd tell you it was nothing more than another distraction to keep me from getting too bored, or perhaps pointless confusion to stop me from achieving real success in life.
Perhaps I'd say my inward tendencies had made me blind to the world around me, but then, perhaps my fight to make sure I help in the world no matter was distracting me from my own personal state.
But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me, and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it, comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
Page:
Oh dear, no, I'm not in pain or anything... this is.. erm, more like where I am at the moment and what I'm trying to figure out a bit better. Foundation of today, you know? Thanks for the luck though, I think I'm quite lucky anyway.
Grix Thraves wrote:
> But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me,
> and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it,
> comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
And yes, I did enjoy it. T'was a very interesting, complex and crazy read.
> But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me,
> and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it,
> comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
And yes, I did enjoy it. T'was a very interesting, complex and crazy read.
Curious, can these split personalities take over at any time?
*Emblushens*
I wrote a kind of autobiography of my life so far a while ago. All I can say about you piece is that it was very eerie and powerful. As Venom said, good luck with all of this stuff Grix, on some levels I understand some of the pain and anguish you are going through.
Interesting read. Not really much I can say besides wishing you good luck with, um... stuff.
I've used these forums a lot as a kinda diary, every now and again delving into them to write about myself to try and work out what on Earth is going on. I did it for my own understanding, and of course for the lovely responses, which always helped anyway. For those have been following my quest to cure myself, don't expect anything.
In a basic summary, age seven I had meningitis and I appeared to lose my memory. The illness isn't important, I think, but the age is. I don't know what happened and I don't think I ever will, but I developed amnesia and for the longest time I laid the blame as a side affect of having meningitis.
Except when I came to examine dates that I'd forgotten, while my memory before seven had been pretty much completely wiped, there were patches much much older, going right up to age sixteen. I was seventeen when I realised something was wrong, I'm nineteen now.
I started looking deeper at this 'amnesia', and where it had come from. I began to realise that this was not something that had been forced upon me, but I had forced it upon myself.
There was a nine year spread, of what I could guess, which was blanked up. I had pretty much shut it off.
So I started looking deeper into it, it became my life. I came to university, studying God knows what. I was distancing myself from everyone and anyone I loved, and I took to my bed. I sat in my room and drunk myself silly, letting the alcohol help me fight my mind.
Things started happening and I started remembering. My mind started reopening doors that I had closed a long time ago, and I started once again hallucinating, time was standing still and running off, I was blacking out, I spent hours staring at walls, I would check the time to find that hours past, but not just that, but I had gone down to the shops and bought food without even realising.
Naturally I fell apart. I knew there was something wrong with me, but I wanted to control it myself. I didn't want to go to doctors, to take pills to normalise me. I started to remember more, I pushed myself harder.
My girlfriend left me, and I realised that I had obsessed myself with my mind, destroying myself to understand myself, ending up depressed and alone. From what I can see, thought, there wasn't really an easier way to do it.
The worst feeling in the world , and quite possibly the most difficult thing to do, is remembering something you don't want to remember. There are things I don't mind mentioning, I tried to hang myself and the rope broke, hallucinations keeping me awake for far past me realising how long it had been, parents fighting, running away, the norm for the torn childhood... and then there are things that I would rather not write about at all. Basically it's all a little screwed up, you'll have to trust me on that.
And what then? Finally forcing myself to face the truth of my past a little more, I gave up. I couldn't possibly let myself dig deeper, for the damage it had already done to me. Perhaps I had destroyed so many of my years already, I needed to force myself to push on.
Easily said. More depression followed, the eventuality of trying anti-depressants just to keep me from killing myself. Killing myself from what? Fear, guilt? A lot of my memories I had blocked because I was afraid of becoming a monster. I realise that there are far worse monsters than me.
The real horror in this world is not fear or hatred, it is the realisation that in the end, it is nothing. To lose feeling, emotion. People going about their day, falling in love, apathetically lost in whatever they could to distract them from their 'horror'. The wars, the loss of life, serial killers, rapists, paedophiles. They are not the real horror. The real horror is they don't even matter.
I would tell you that I am emotionally stubbed, castrated. I would tell you that it was a lie, that I am well, I feel love, happiness, joy. I can tell you I am both, because in all honesty I am not sure.
Melodramatic perhaps? I'm afraid not, this story is far from over.
Perhaps it's easy to understand so far, but unfortunately it's now about to get a little more complicated. The newest revelation, now, is that I suffer from multiple personalities disorder. To some of you, this may not come as a surprise. Christ, some of you were the first to spot it, way before I did.
I have tried to kill myself more times than it's worth. There is, however, a part of my mind that I have created, somehow, that's assigned to keeping me alive as far as possible.
As I said, this may get a little complicated.
The personality that keeps me alive has no name, I don't even assign it a sex. You can call it whatever you want to, but I do not have a name for it.
I believe something happened when I was much younger that threatened my life and forced me to confide in myself. I guess having nobody to turn to forces you to turn inwards.
I cannot tell you how many personalities I have, because I honestly don't know. It's hard to tell which is which, sometimes. I know there's more than four, I can tell that much.
In many ways it's fantastic. It's a break from normality, the oddness triumphant over boring old simpleness. I wish to understand it better so I can basically joke about it. Humour is the grandest weapon in the entire world.
But unfortunately it's also troublesome. The reason now I realise I have so much trouble bringing back my memories...? Because my personalities have different memories, different experiences... different pasts. They all go along the same line. While perhaps one personality believes I was playing on a tyre swing at the bottom of the garden, another personality (I refuse to use names) seems to believe I was trying to hang myself. To be honest, I don't know which one is truth.
Naturally, I'm seeing a pyschiatrist. Naturally, he'll hand me ink blot tests, ask me what I see, I might say butterflies and flowers, I might say split skulls, I might tell him the truth.
I remember thinking when I was younger, how I dreamed to be 'mad' because all the mad people seemed to be so cool. I wanted to be crazy, because it'd make people laugh.
Times change, I suppose.
I'm trying to use my experiences to write a book, a novel. As confusing as all this is, I think what I've learned added to my imagination makes good story telling.
The hardest thing to realise is I can't trust my past. Nine years of creating a puzzle that I cannot solve, and another two years wasted trying to solve it. All I can do now is make sure my mind isn't going to explode on me.
Boo-hoo, eh? I'd tell you it was nothing more than another distraction to keep me from getting too bored, or perhaps pointless confusion to stop me from achieving real success in life.
Perhaps I'd say my inward tendencies had made me blind to the world around me, but then, perhaps my fight to make sure I help in the world no matter was distracting me from my own personal state.
But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me, and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it, comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
In a basic summary, age seven I had meningitis and I appeared to lose my memory. The illness isn't important, I think, but the age is. I don't know what happened and I don't think I ever will, but I developed amnesia and for the longest time I laid the blame as a side affect of having meningitis.
Except when I came to examine dates that I'd forgotten, while my memory before seven had been pretty much completely wiped, there were patches much much older, going right up to age sixteen. I was seventeen when I realised something was wrong, I'm nineteen now.
I started looking deeper at this 'amnesia', and where it had come from. I began to realise that this was not something that had been forced upon me, but I had forced it upon myself.
There was a nine year spread, of what I could guess, which was blanked up. I had pretty much shut it off.
So I started looking deeper into it, it became my life. I came to university, studying God knows what. I was distancing myself from everyone and anyone I loved, and I took to my bed. I sat in my room and drunk myself silly, letting the alcohol help me fight my mind.
Things started happening and I started remembering. My mind started reopening doors that I had closed a long time ago, and I started once again hallucinating, time was standing still and running off, I was blacking out, I spent hours staring at walls, I would check the time to find that hours past, but not just that, but I had gone down to the shops and bought food without even realising.
Naturally I fell apart. I knew there was something wrong with me, but I wanted to control it myself. I didn't want to go to doctors, to take pills to normalise me. I started to remember more, I pushed myself harder.
My girlfriend left me, and I realised that I had obsessed myself with my mind, destroying myself to understand myself, ending up depressed and alone. From what I can see, thought, there wasn't really an easier way to do it.
The worst feeling in the world , and quite possibly the most difficult thing to do, is remembering something you don't want to remember. There are things I don't mind mentioning, I tried to hang myself and the rope broke, hallucinations keeping me awake for far past me realising how long it had been, parents fighting, running away, the norm for the torn childhood... and then there are things that I would rather not write about at all. Basically it's all a little screwed up, you'll have to trust me on that.
And what then? Finally forcing myself to face the truth of my past a little more, I gave up. I couldn't possibly let myself dig deeper, for the damage it had already done to me. Perhaps I had destroyed so many of my years already, I needed to force myself to push on.
Easily said. More depression followed, the eventuality of trying anti-depressants just to keep me from killing myself. Killing myself from what? Fear, guilt? A lot of my memories I had blocked because I was afraid of becoming a monster. I realise that there are far worse monsters than me.
The real horror in this world is not fear or hatred, it is the realisation that in the end, it is nothing. To lose feeling, emotion. People going about their day, falling in love, apathetically lost in whatever they could to distract them from their 'horror'. The wars, the loss of life, serial killers, rapists, paedophiles. They are not the real horror. The real horror is they don't even matter.
I would tell you that I am emotionally stubbed, castrated. I would tell you that it was a lie, that I am well, I feel love, happiness, joy. I can tell you I am both, because in all honesty I am not sure.
Melodramatic perhaps? I'm afraid not, this story is far from over.
Perhaps it's easy to understand so far, but unfortunately it's now about to get a little more complicated. The newest revelation, now, is that I suffer from multiple personalities disorder. To some of you, this may not come as a surprise. Christ, some of you were the first to spot it, way before I did.
I have tried to kill myself more times than it's worth. There is, however, a part of my mind that I have created, somehow, that's assigned to keeping me alive as far as possible.
As I said, this may get a little complicated.
The personality that keeps me alive has no name, I don't even assign it a sex. You can call it whatever you want to, but I do not have a name for it.
I believe something happened when I was much younger that threatened my life and forced me to confide in myself. I guess having nobody to turn to forces you to turn inwards.
I cannot tell you how many personalities I have, because I honestly don't know. It's hard to tell which is which, sometimes. I know there's more than four, I can tell that much.
In many ways it's fantastic. It's a break from normality, the oddness triumphant over boring old simpleness. I wish to understand it better so I can basically joke about it. Humour is the grandest weapon in the entire world.
But unfortunately it's also troublesome. The reason now I realise I have so much trouble bringing back my memories...? Because my personalities have different memories, different experiences... different pasts. They all go along the same line. While perhaps one personality believes I was playing on a tyre swing at the bottom of the garden, another personality (I refuse to use names) seems to believe I was trying to hang myself. To be honest, I don't know which one is truth.
Naturally, I'm seeing a pyschiatrist. Naturally, he'll hand me ink blot tests, ask me what I see, I might say butterflies and flowers, I might say split skulls, I might tell him the truth.
I remember thinking when I was younger, how I dreamed to be 'mad' because all the mad people seemed to be so cool. I wanted to be crazy, because it'd make people laugh.
Times change, I suppose.
I'm trying to use my experiences to write a book, a novel. As confusing as all this is, I think what I've learned added to my imagination makes good story telling.
The hardest thing to realise is I can't trust my past. Nine years of creating a puzzle that I cannot solve, and another two years wasted trying to solve it. All I can do now is make sure my mind isn't going to explode on me.
Boo-hoo, eh? I'd tell you it was nothing more than another distraction to keep me from getting too bored, or perhaps pointless confusion to stop me from achieving real success in life.
Perhaps I'd say my inward tendencies had made me blind to the world around me, but then, perhaps my fight to make sure I help in the world no matter was distracting me from my own personal state.
But at the moment, I really just don't care. I wrote this out for me, and well, thought you might like the read too. Hope you enjoyed it, comments welcome, you can buy the soundtrack in the foyer.
Page: