I love being friends. I love stupid in jokes and fun activities and outings and all the things that make everyone including me happy. I am happy and other people are happy and that makes me feel good— but it feels better to hurt them or get them mad.
I’ll say horrible things and do horrible shit, make fucked up jokes, and I feel better than ever before until the high of being the top dog kind of wears off and I know I can’t have fun anymore, not the kind that fades too but lasts longer and is a bit less strong. I feel bad for hurting people, for being a bad person but I want to do it again and again because if I can be hurt then I can hurt other people and that’s how things go.
If my own mother can whore me out and my father can threaten me with a loaded firearm to never go to the cops about him beating and assaulting my mother, if my classmates can beat me too and attempt to garrotte me because I was a stupid queer child who stretched out hands towards people who did not want my filth, then I should be able to enjoy the high of hurting someone who liked me and watching them get angrier and angrier at losing the friend they loved because I loved them too. But I love being happy more.
I’m scared to stop or just go fucking cold turkey or whatever, because then I’ll have nothing left except friendship where I overcompensate by saying sorry for stupid shit and never enough for the vile wretchedness of my actions; always just hurting them a little bit and barely feeling good.
I have tried medications and therapists and I have been insulted, harmed and put on medications that fucked with my body and mind. I don’t mean this in a “rats make me crazy” way, I just mean other people doing what I do and being cruel because it feels good. Making me undress for an ECG while nobody else had to, and then getting disgusted by my body, poking fun of my wanting to off myself and making me apologise to my mother for my being a burden (such as by making her drive me to the psychiatrist appointment— I am 17 (at the time 15), don’t have access to my own finances, and cannot drive; public transport wouldn’t have brought me there), telling me bluntly that my appearance was the sole factor I was being bullied… the list goes on.
I can prove that I was mistreated. I can prove that I am perpetuating this infernal fucking cycle and just doing the same thing my mother did to me, my father did to her…. So on, so forth, one gets the idea.
A friend whom I hurt said that I could be a good person, as I said I am afraid of getting rid of my one source of real happiness. Painting or cuddling my cat who I am afraid to touch because what if I hurt her or hot baths where I can’t fucking look at myself because I hate what I see or long walks where I have to come home at the end or sculpting or life sketching or sewing or reading or writing or making stupid fucking pins out of recycled stuff cannot amount to this. Those fade so, so fast. I said I didn’t know what I would be without the feeling of power that gives me the joyful feeling
I don’t know what to do. I think that I could be good, if I tried, but I was a bad egg from the start. I screamed and cried when my mother shaved her head because she looked like the guy she got paid by, I never cried as a baby, I would try and hurt myself when I was a kid if I felt bad, I would eat my hair, I bit and kicked my father often, I would try and go from the shed we lived in to the home of my father where there was a TV to watch a violent show about creepy monsters, I am angry and scared and angry again all over all the fucking time.
I think maybe I could be happy and fulfilled if I didn’t get the joy in my life from being a bad person. I like doing good things. I keep apologizing but it doesn’t fit right, shitty taxidermy skin kind of. I want to stop being like this because the sadness that comes after the powerfulness is stronger than the regular one, now.
Help me, not because I deserve it, but because me being a good person will make the world better, from what I can see.