I think we've all had our shares of emotional turbulence and turpitude in our lives. Between the ages of 14 and 17, I was a very... special case. Note, I've never been to a psychiatrist or a therapist in my life or taken any pills and I began evening out when I was 19 or so. Maybe I'm not well right now but I don't do the strange stuff I used to do between 14 and 17.
I was raised with a conflict in me. I grew up in a wholly black neighbourhood and I was one of the only non-blacks in my primary school, yet my parents raised me as racist. Most Indians here are very primitive and have a thing against blacks. So I was always confused whether I should make friends or not, because this was never really cleared up for me. I am supposed to please my parents but what am I to do about friends? I make friends, anyway.
Age 9, my father teaches me how to fight. He says if I am going to be friends with niggers, I should at least know how to defend myself when things get rough. He shows me how to break an arm and how to break a leg and uh that Vulcan Nose Grip thing that Spock from Star Trek used to do. He asks me if he could tie me up to see if I could escape. I oblige. He ties me up but I can't get out. I never learnt how to.
Age 10, I get into a fight over trivial name-calling and damage a boy fairly badly. I am the star pupil of my class so they let me off the hook. I don't get into another fight until I am 12, this time in secondary school, where I slam a boy's head against a desk. I frighten the entire class but again, I am let off the hook with just penance and told not to do anything like that again.
At age 13, my first sexual encounter is with my cousin. She was 15 at the time. I used to spy on her while she changed her clothes. She catches me one day and opens her towel for me and asks me what I like most about her body. I want to run away but I don't know what to do. I tell her that her breasts look the nicest. A couple months later, we are at a beach house, sleeping together in the same room. There is so much of us that we have to share beds. She decides to sleep on the same bed as me. While I am trying to sleep, her hand reaches over and touches my dick. It becomes semi-hard. She asks me if I like it. I say yes. She jacks me off and I come. We've spoken normally ever since but never about that. She's married now.
That same year, my father turns alcoholic and begins beating me up. He begins to make fun of the way I look. But I never react. At age 14, I get into my second secondary school fight. I choke-slam a black boy in my class. It is mostly a one-sided fight. My father is called in to have a conference with me and my form teacher. In front of the teacher, he tells me not to do it again. In the car, he tells me, "That nigger deserved it."
Age 14 still, I begin fantasizing about killing people. Didn't know if I would seriously do it or if it was just a bi-product of my anger from being beaten up. I fantasize about stabbing, strangling, drowning and "blow-torching" several people I know, including my father. One day, some asshole tells me that if I want to attack someone, I should go straight for the neck and break their windpipe. So I begin fantasizing about that.
Sidenote: I didn't start listening to music or watching movies until I was 15, for some strange reason. I never liked any movies or music before that age.
Age 15, I get into a fight with my father. I go for his throat and I win. He is more surprised than angry and not really damaged. Two months later, I get into another fight with him but he wins and I get a black eye. Nobody at school does or says anything. After that, I begin something I call "pretend-killing", which I basically do by turning off the lights and stomping, kicking and punching the ground, pretending someone's there (not anyone in particular, really). I begin writing my first novel. I finish it in 5 months. It is called "Animosity" and it is utter shit, yet the school hails me as a "literary genius", just because I wrote a book, without considering if it's good or not.
Age 15 still, Christmas Day. I am using the Internet in my room but my father keeps disconnecting the phone line from outside. He does it to mock me. I come outside to reconnect the phone line but as soon as I go back into my room, he disconnects it and laughs. This continues for about 6 more times. He disconnects it the last time and I stare at my computer screen blankly for about 15 minutes. I come out of my room. I grab a chair from the kitchen, drag it across the room and smash it against my father's back. My mother cries. I reconnect the Internet and go back into my room.
Age 16, I make my first and only pathetic attempt at suicide by hanging. The rope comes loose and I fall. I am mugged two weeks later. I break the mugger's arm and take my wallet back. I write my second novel. It is slightly better than my first but still shit. Though I perceive it as shit, escaping it into my new worlds make me happier and I look forward to it every day. I enter a few essay and poem competitions and win. My school makes the papers and they like the press.
Age 16 still, I get into my third secondary school fight. It is with a boy who brought a cricket bat to beat me with for 'stealing' his girlfriend. I launch at him, aiming for his neck and begin digging into it. People pull me off and another conference is called. They say this is my final warning before I get kicked out of the school and that I would be kicked out if I weren't so "literary" because it's good for the school's name.
Age 17, I shave my eyebrows off and begin lurking in my parents' room while they are sleeping. I look at them sleep and contemplate killing them with a butcher knife. My father wakes up and sees me one day. He asks me what I'm doing what that butcher knife. I tell him, "To butcher you with". The next day, my father quits drinking and beating me.
Age 18, my eyebrows grow back. A boy at school throws toilet water in my face as a prank. I laugh it off. He does it again five minutes later. I feel the fight response coming. I look at his neck. I growl. I think about breaking his windpipe. I resist it really hard. I run into the toilet and vomit. I sit down and calm myself.
Age 21 (now), I have not gotten into a fight since. I don't think about breaking windpipes and have yet to break one. I don't play with butcher knives anymore. My father and I are friends. I have a fetish for black girls. I still write and have amassed a whole line of other hobbies to occupy my time. Suicide seems very far away because life is swell.
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