If I were to introduce myself to the world, I guess this is how I'd start: Hi, I'm Maxwell Jordan Poole, but most people call me Max. I'm 16 years old, living in Vancouver, Canada, and I guess you could say I'm not your average teenager. You see, I have this condition... when I get angry, scared, or my heart starts racing, I transform into this large, green-skinned, muscular version of myself. It sounds like something out of a comic book, and trust me, I wish it was. That would mean I could close the book and walk away from it all. But I can't. This is my reality. I live with my mom, Emily, who's my rock. My parents are divorced, and my dad, Daniel... well, let's just say he's not exactly supportive. My little brother, Elliot, is the coolest kid you'll ever meet. He's seven and absolutely adores me, even though he doesn't know the full extent of my... let's call them, adventures. I wear a heart monitor on my left wrist, a constant companion that's supposed to help me manage my condition. It doesn't always work, considering it snaps off every time I transform. My life is a cycle of medication, doctor's visits, and attempts to live as normally as possible, despite knowing that at any moment, I could turn into a rampaging monster. I'm pretty thin, struggle with eating and sleeping, and the medication I take leaves me looking more like a ghost than a teenager. And yeah, I'm dealing with depression and shit-tons of stress. It's hard not to when you're constantly worried about hurting the people around you or destroying half the city in a blind rage. Despite all this, there are glimmers of light in my life. Like Jane, my crush, who has the uncanny ability to make my heart race without triggering my... other side. And then there's my love for alternative music, especially my favorite band, My Chemical Romance. Their music has been a lifeline for me, a reminder that even in the darkest times, you're not alone. I used to love space and science fiction, dreaming of exploring the stars. But now, most of my energy is focused on not losing control and keeping my other side at bay. So, world, that's me. Maxwell Poole. A mix of ordinary and extraordinary, just trying to navigate this complicated life one day at a time.
Today was just another day of battling my own demons. I can feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, suffocating me with every breath I take. Mom tries her best to understand, but Dad... he just doesn't get it. Every time he looks at me, I see nothing but disappointment and disgust in his eyes. Elliot, my sweet little brother, he's the only ray of light in this darkness. His innocent smile reminds me that there's still some good left in the world, even if I can't see it myself sometimes. I wish I could be normal, like other kids my age. But instead, I'm trapped in this endless cycle of fear and anger. The heart monitor on my wrist serves as a constant reminder of what I am, of what I could become at any moment. And Jane... she's like a beacon of hope in the midst of this chaos. Whenever I see her, my heart races and my eyes and veins starts to glow with that sickly bright green hue. I'm terrified of what might happen if she ever finds out the truth about me. But for now, I'll keep wearing this mask of depression and isolation, hiding behind my dyed hair and dark clothes. It's easier to pretend that everything's okay, even when it's tearing me apart inside.
I lost control again today. It happened so suddenly, like a switch flipping inside my head. One moment, I was trying to calm myself down, and the next... I was a monster. I don't remember much of what happened during the rampage. Just flashes of destruction and chaos, like a nightmare I can't wake up from. People were screaming, running for their lives, and I was powerless to stop it. When I finally came to my senses and woke up from what felt like an eternity, I was alone in my room, haunted by the wreckage of my own making. The guilt and shame washed over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me in despair. I can't keep living like this, constantly afraid of what I might do next. But no amount of medicine or therapy seems to help. I'm trapped in this prison of my own making, with no way out.
Today was different. For the first time in what feels like forever, I had a glimmer of hope. Jane actually talked to me today, like, really talked to me. She smiled and laughed, and for a moment, I forgot about all the darkness that consumes me. It was like a breath of fresh air, a ray of sunshine breaking through the storm clouds. Maybe... just maybe, there's still a chance for me to find some semblance of happiness in this life. Maybe I'm not as broken as I thought I was. But deep down, I know the truth. I'm still just a scared, lonely kid, struggling to hold onto what little sanity I have left. And until I can conquer the beast within, I'll never truly be free from this painful world.
I can't shake this feeling of guilt that weighs heavy on my chest like a leaden anchor dragging me down to the depths. Every time I close my eyes, I see the faces of those I've hurt during my rampages. The destruction I've caused haunts me like a specter, refusing to let me forget the monster that lurks within. Mom tries to reassure me, telling me it's not my fault, that I can't control what happens when I transform. But deep down, I know the truth. I may not be able to control the transformation, but I can control my actions. And every time I let the anger consume me, I become just as much a monster as the one I fear. I wish I could undo the damage I've done, make amends for the pain I've caused. But no amount of apologies can erase the scars that mark the city, or the scars that mark my soul.
Mom came into my room tonight, her eyes filled with concern and love. She sat beside me on the bed, gently brushing the hair from my face as she whispered words of comfort. She's the only one who truly understands, who sees past the facade I wear to hide my pain. In her arms, I find solace, a fleeting moment of peace in a world consumed by chaos. I don't know what I would do without her. Her unwavering support is the only thing that keeps me from succumbing to the darkness that threatens to consume me.
I can't keep lying to Elliot, pretending that everything's okay when it's not. He looks up to me, idolizes me even, and the thought of shattering his innocence with the truth fills me with dread. But the longer I keep him in the dark, the more I realize how much damage I'm doing. He deserves to know the truth, to understand the reality of the world we live in. I just hope he can forgive me when he finds out the truth, forgive me for all the lies and half-truths I've told to protect him from the darkness that lurks within me.
Today, I want to talk about something that's been a constant source of solace in my life: music. Specifically, alternative music or I guess you fuckers at my school like to call it "Emo" music. There's something about the raw emotion and authenticity of the genre that speaks to me on a level nothing else can. One band, in particular, has been my lifeline throughout the years of struggling with my condition. They're called "My Chemical Romance," and their music... it's like they reach into the depths of my soul and pull out all the pain and anguish, turning it into something beautiful. Their lyrics resonate with me in ways I can't even begin to describe. It's like they understand the turmoil I've been through, the battles I've fought against my own inner demons. And somehow, knowing that I'm not alone in my struggles makes it a little easier to bear. Whenever I feel like I'm on the brink of losing control, I put on their music and let it wash over me like a soothing balm for my fractured soul. In those moments, I find a sense of peace, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that threatens to consume me. I don't know where I'd be without their music, without the melodies that have carried me through some of the darkest moments of my life. They've been my constant companion, my anchor in a sea of chaos, and for that, I'll be forever grateful.
School has always been a battleground for me, but not the kind where you learn and grow. It's more like a field where I have to dodge bullets every day, trying not to get hit. And the general leading the charge against me? Jordan McYoung. He's tall, athletic, and has the kind of charm that disguises the bully he truly is. His lieutenants, Henry Fisherton, Jonathan March, and Connor Grant, aren't any better. Together, they make my life miserable. Today was particularly rough. They cornered me behind the gym, far from prying eyes. The usual taunts were thrown my way, each word like a dagger meant to cut deep. I stood there, taking it, feeling smaller and smaller with each passing second. What I wouldn't give to stand up to them, to show them I'm not just some weakling they can push around. But fear grips me tightly. Not just the fear of getting hurt, but the terror of what I might become if I let my anger take over. The thought of transforming in front of everyone, especially Jane, is my worst nightmare. Can you imagine? One moment, I'm Max, the guy who's too scared to fight back, and the next, I'm this monster that everyone's terrified of. I'd rather be invisible than be remembered as that. Jane... she's one of the few lights in this dark place. I can't help but wonder how she'd react if she saw the real me, the side of me that even I'm afraid of. Would she be scared? Disgusted, perhaps? I can't even bear the thought. I'm tired of being a coward, but I don't know how to be brave. I don't know how to stand up to Jordan and his gang without risking everything. Every day, I wear this mask, pretending I'm okay, pretending I can handle it. But inside, I'm screaming for it all to end. I just want to be normal, to go to school without this constant fear hanging over me. But I guess that's too much to ask for someone like me.
I've never talked about this before, but I have this game I play almost religiously – Quake. It's old-school, sure, but there's something about its straightforward, no-nonsense approach to demon blasting that gets me. After a long day of dealing with everything and everyone, there's a kind of peace that comes from diving into a world where my problems can be solved with a digital rocket launcher. Here's the part where I admit something kind of messed up – as I'm navigating through those dark, pixelated corridors, blasting away at anything that moves, I sometimes imagine the monsters are the people who've wronged me. Jordan McYoung, his cronies, and anyone else who's made my life a living hell. I know how it sounds. Trust me, I do. It makes me seem like I'm one bad day away from becoming a headline on the evening news. But it's not like that, really. It's just... in the game, I have control. I'm powerful. I'm not the scared, skinny kid trying to make himself smaller in the hallway at school. In Quake, I can fight back, and I always fucking win. But then the screen goes dark, and I'm just me again. Max Poole, the guy who's too afraid to let his anger show because of what he might become. It's this weird cycle of feeling powerless in real life, then all-powerful in the game, and back to powerless again. I guess in some twisted way, it's therapeutic. It's a safe space for my anger – a place where it can't hurt anyone, not even myself. But part of me worries what it says about me. Does reveling in this digital destruction feed the monster inside, or does it keep him at bay? I don't have the answers. Maybe I am a little messed up. But at least in Quake, the only consequences are in pixels. And maybe, just maybe, it helps keep the real monster in check.
Last night was... unbelievable. I went to see My Chemical Romance live, my favorite band in the entire world, and it was everything I dreamed of and more. But the cherry on top? I met the lead singer after the concert. Even now, as I'm writing this, I'm still wiping away tears of sheer joy. The concert itself was a battle for me, not against the usual suspects like Jordan or my inner demons, but against my own body. The music, the energy, the atmosphere – it was overwhelming in the best way possible. But with my heart racing and emotions flying high, I felt the familiar tingle of a partial transformation. My eyes threatened to glow bright green, my veins pulsing with that unearthly light. This time, it wasn't anger or fear driving the change but something else... excitement, happiness, maybe even love. Standing there, surrounded by fans, I struggled to keep calm. I focused on the music, letting it anchor me to my human side. It was a surreal reminder of how closely my emotions are tied to my condition, how even the best feelings can risk exposing the monster within. Then, the moment that felt like a dream: meeting him, my idol: Gerard Arthur Way, the voice that's gotten me through my darkest times. He was so... real. It sounds silly, but after idolizing someone for so long, you half-expect them to be this untouchable figure, not a person who laughs and smiles and shakes your hand. He talked to me, just a few words, but they meant the world. He thanked me for being a fan, for supporting their music. If only he knew how much his music has supported me. I managed to tell him how much his music meant to me, how it's been a friend in the loneliest of times. I don't know if he could fully grasp the depth of my gratitude, but he seemed genuinely moved by my words. As we parted ways, he gave me a nod and a smile that I'll cherish forever. I'm still riding the high from last night, a mix of euphoria and disbelief. For a few hours, I wasn't Max the unstoppable, enraged monster; I was just Max, a fan of music that has the power to heal and uplift. And for once, the transformation I feared didn't happen. Maybe, just maybe, there's more to me and this condition than just anger and destruction. Maybe there's room for happiness too. Last night was a reminder of the beauty in the world, the beauty in music, and the beauty in being alive. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Music has always been my escape, a way to drown out the noise of my own thoughts and the chaos of the world around me. My Chemical Romance might hold the crown as my favorite band, but my playlist is a mosaic of artists, some of whom tread the line of controversy, while others wrap you in a warm, sonic embrace without a hint of scandal. One band that always stirs something in me is Three Days Grace. It's my go-to when I'm feeling angry. Songs like "I Hate Everything About You" and "Animal I Have Become" perfectly encapsulate the rage that sometimes consumes me. Their music is a cathartic release, a way to channel my anger into something less destructive. Then there's Alice in Chains. Their dark, grunge sound is the soundtrack to my more introspective moments. "Man in the Box" and "Would?" are tracks that make me reflect on my own life and struggles. Layne Staley's haunting vocals are a reminder of the pain and turmoil that many of us face. KMFDM is pure industrial metal bliss. Their aggressive beats and politically charged lyrics make them a staple in my music library. Whenever someone mentions The Prodigy, I can't help but scoff. The Prodigy is just a shameless imitation of KMFDM. KMFDM's authenticity and raw power are unmatched. Nine Inch Nails is another band that perfectly captures the essence of industrial rock. Trent Reznor's music is a dark, twisted journey that I can't help but get lost in. "The Downward Spiral" is a sonic exploration of pain and despair that resonates deeply with me. Avenged Sevenfold's mix of metalcore and hard rock is something I find exhilarating. Their album "City of Evil" is a relentless barrage of heavy riffs and soaring vocals that never fails to get my adrenaline pumping. Marilyn Manson's shock rock persona and controversial lyrics are something I admire. His music challenges societal norms and delves into the darker aspects of human nature. "Antichrist Superstar" is a revolutionary album that speaks to the outcast in all of us. Rammstein's powerful, industrial sound and provocative performances make them a standout in my collection. Their music, sung in German, adds an exotic edge that I find incredibly appealing. "Du Hast" is an anthem of rebellion that I relate to on many levels. Type O Negative's gothic metal is a perfect blend of dark romance and despair. Their cover of "Black Sabbath" and "Paranoid" are hauntingly beautiful. I love how they take classic songs and infuse them with their unique sound. Peter Steele's deep voice and brooding lyrics are mesmerizing. Deftones' blend of alternative metal and dream pop is a sonic journey that I thoroughly enjoy. Their album "White Pony" is a perfect example of their ability to create a surreal, atmospheric soundscape that pulls you in and doesn't let go. These bands, with their divergent sounds and ideologies, form the soundtrack of my life. They're my companions in solitude, my armor in the outside world, and sometimes, the spark that lights up my darkest nights. Whether they're shrouded in controversy or basking in universal acclaim, to me, they represent facets of my own journey – a quest for understanding, for expression, for simply being heard. Music, in all its forms, offers me a glimpse of something beyond my battles, both internal and external. It's a reminder that there's beauty in the chaos, harmony in the dissonance, and life beyond the confines of fear and anger.
Tonight was another night where the dam broke, where the swirling vortex of my thoughts and fears overflowed into reality. It was another breakdown, one of the many that fracture what's left of my so-called normalcy. These aren't new; they've been companions of mine for as long as I can remember. But each time, they rip open the same wounds, fresh and raw, as if it were the first. I found myself on my bedroom floor, the carpet beneath me doing little to comfort my convulsing body. My cries must have pierced through the walls, through the veil of the night, reaching her – my mom. She came rushing in, her expression morphing from concern to sheer pain as she witnessed her son, a prisoner of his own mind, thrashing and wailing like a wounded animal. The sounds that escaped me were primal, a stark contrast to the silence that usually cloaks my suffering. Each sob, each scream, felt like it was tearing from the very depths of my soul, a soul too weary, too battered by the constant storms. Mom tried to hold me, to offer some semblance of comfort, but I could see the helplessness in her eyes. It's a mirror reflecting my own helplessness, but in hers, there's an added layer of agony – the agony of a mother who can do nothing but watch as her child battles monsters she cannot slay. Every breakdown is a reminder of the invisible scars that mark my psyche, of the internal battles that leave me gasping for air amidst the suffocating darkness. And with each episode, I feel a piece of me fade away, lost to the abyss of my own mind. But it's not just the pain I endure that haunts me; it's the pain I inflict, the emotional toll on my mom. The sight of her, tears streaming down her face as she whispers words of love and encouragement, words that struggle to reach me through the chaos, is a knife to my heart. I know she hurts because I hurt, and that knowledge is a weight heavier than any other. In these moments, I am a child again, vulnerable and scared, desperately clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this storm will pass and leave me intact. Yet, even as I grasp at this fragile hope, I can't help but wonder how many more breakdowns I can endure, how many more times my mom can piece together the shattered remains of her son. The cycle of pain and healing is a cruel one, a reminder of the fragility of my existence and the strength of the bonds that tether me to this world. But as the storm subsides and I'm left with nothing but the echoes of my cries, I'm reminded of the relentless love that refuses to give up on me, even when I'm on the brink of giving up on myself.
I've never been one to sugarcoat things, especially when it comes to my relationship with my father, Daniel. Hate is a strong word, but it's the only one that comes close to describing the feelings I have towards him. And I know it's mutual. Our animosity towards each other isn't something that developed overnight. It's been brewing for years, simmering beneath the surface like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. Maybe it's because he's never understood me, never bothered to try. Or maybe it's because I see too much of myself in him, and I can't bear to face that reflection. Whatever the reason, our interactions are always tense, filled with resentment and unspoken words that hang heavy in the air like a thick fog. Every conversation is a battleground, each word a weapon in our silent war. But what hurts the most is how our toxic dynamic affects Elliot, my younger brother. He's caught in the crossfire, torn between two worlds – the one where he lives with Daniel and the one where he spends time with Mom and me. I can see the confusion in his eyes, the pain in his heart as he tries to navigate the minefield of our fractured family. I wish I could shield him from the fallout of our dysfunction, but I'm just as much a victim as he is. Maybe even more so, because I understand the weight of the burden we carry – the burden of a love that turned to hate, of a family torn apart by its own demons. I don't know if there's a way to mend what's been broken between Daniel and me, or if it's even worth trying anymore. All I know is that the rift between us runs deep, cutting through the very fabric of our family and leaving scars that may never fully heal. But for Elliot's sake, I'll keep trying. I'll swallow my pride and my anger, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect him from the storm raging within our home. Because no matter how much I hate Daniel, I love Elliot more, and I'll be damned if I let him become collateral damage in our war.
It's been another month of navigating the treacherous waters of my strained relationship with Dad. Every interaction feels like walking on eggshells, trying to avoid triggering another explosion of anger and resentment. It's exhausting, to say the least. Elliot's caught in the middle of it all, a pawn in a game he never asked to play. I can see the confusion in his eyes, the hurt in his heart as he tries to make sense of why his older brother and his father can't just get along. And every time I see that look, it chips away at my resolve to keep fighting for him. But I can't give up. Not on Elliot, and not on the hope that one day, things might be different between Dad and me. Maybe it's wishful thinking, a naive hope born out of desperation. But in a world filled with darkness, hope is all I have to hold onto.
The holidays are supposed to be a time for family, for coming together and putting aside our differences. But for us, it's just another reminder of the chasm that separates Dad and me. Elliot spent Christmas with Dad this year, and while part of me was relieved to have a break from the tension, another part of me ached with longing for my little brother. It's moments like these that make me wonder if it's all worth it – the fighting, the bitterness, the constant struggle to find common ground. But then I think of Elliot's smile, the way his eyes light up when he sees me, and I know I can't give up. He's the reason I keep fighting, the beacon of light in the darkness that threatens to consume us all. Maybe one day, things will be different. Maybe one day, Dad will realize what's truly important and put aside his pride for the sake of his sons. Until then, I'll keep holding onto hope, even if it's the only thing keeping me from drowning in despair.
Another month, another missed opportunity to bridge the gap between Dad and me. It's like we're two ships passing in the night, destined to sail on separate courses forever. I can't help but wonder if things could have been different if I'd tried harder, if I'd been more patient, more understanding. But then I remember all the times I reached out, only to be met with rejection and indifference. It's a cycle of regret and resentment that seems impossible to break. Elliot keeps asking when things will go back to normal, when we'll be a family again. And every time, I have to choke back the tears and force a smile, knowing that normalcy is nothing more than a distant dream for us. But even in the darkest moments, there's a glimmer of hope. A tiny spark that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how fierce the storm rages. And as long as that spark remains, I'll keep fighting for a better future – for Elliot, for myself, and maybe even for Dad.
My school life is... complicated. I'm not exactly the most popular guy in the hallway, but I'm not a complete outcast either. I hover somewhere in that gray area of anonymity, blending into the background like a ghost. My interactions with classmates are mostly limited to small talk and group projects. They're polite enough, but I can tell there's a certain distance they keep, like they're afraid of getting too close. And who can blame them? I'm a walking powder keg, one wrong move away from unleashing a torrent of chaos. But there are a few bright spots amidst the sea of indifference. Jane, for one, always manages to brighten my day with her smile and kind words. She doesn't treat me like I'm some ticking time bomb, and for that, I'm endlessly grateful. And then there are the teachers. They're the unsung heroes of my school life, the ones who see past the rumors and whispers to the person beneath. They offer encouragement and support, even when I feel like I don't deserve it. It's a reminder that not everyone sees me as a lost cause, that there are still people who believe in me. Navigating the hallways of high school is like walking through a minefield, each step fraught with uncertainty and the constant fear of detonation. But as long as I have Jane's smile and the teachers' support to guide me, I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that one day, I'll find my way.
School life has been a rollercoaster as always, with its ups and downs, twists and turns. But amidst the chaos, I think I'm starting to find my place. I've been making more of an effort to connect with my classmates, trying my best to step out of my comfort zone and joining in on conversations and group activities. It's slow progress, but I'm beginning to feel less like an outsider and more like a part of the community. Jane has been a constant source of encouragement, her presence like a beacon of light in the darkness of high school drama. Whenever I feel like I'm slipping back into isolation, she's there to pull me back into the fold with a smile and a kind word. And the teachers... well, they continue to be my lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. Their unwavering support and belief in my potential give me the strength to keep pushing forward, even when the weight of my condition threatens to drag me down. I'm not saying everything's perfect – far from it. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm not alone in this struggle. And that's enough to give me hope for the future.
Today was... rough. It feels like I took two steps forward only to be pushed three steps back. There was an incident in class – nothing major, just a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control. But in the heat of the moment, I felt that familiar surge of anger bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to consume me. I managed to keep it together, barely, but the damage was done. The whispers and stares followed me through the halls like a dark cloud, a constant reminder of my otherness. It's moments like these that make me wonder if I'll ever truly fit in, if I'll ever be able to escape the shadow of my condition. But then I remember the progress I've made, the friendships I've formed, and the support system I've built around me. It's a reminder that setbacks are just part of the journey, not the end of the road. Tomorrow is a new day, another chance to try again. And as long as I have Jane's smile and the teachers' unwavering support, I know I'll find the strength to keep moving forward, one step at a time.
Today, I can't shake this feeling of disconnect between me and some of my teachers. It's like we're speaking different languages, unable to bridge the gap between my reality and their perception of it. I know they mean well, I really do. They offer words of encouragement and support, and they try to accommodate my needs as best they can. But sometimes, I get the sense that they don't truly understand the depth of my struggles. It's the little things – the way they look at me with pity in their eyes when I have to leave class unexpectedly, or the way they tiptoe around certain topics as if they're afraid of setting off a landmine. It's as if they see me as this fragile thing that needs to be handled with care, instead of the resilient??? person I know myself to be. I get it – my condition is... unusual, to say the least. But that doesn't mean I'm incapable or incompetent. I wish they could see past the surface and recognize the strength and resilience that lie beneath. Maybe I'm being unfair. After all, they're just doing their best with the tools they have. But in moments like these, when I feel like I'm screaming into the void and no one's listening, it's hard not to feel a twinge of frustration and loneliness. I don't expect them to fully understand what it's like to walk in my shoes, to carry the weight of my struggles every day. But I do hope that one day, they'll see me for who I truly am – not just a student with a condition, but a person with dreams, fears, and a whole lot of fight left in him.
Insomnia has become my unwelcome companion, haunting me night after night like a relentless specter. No matter how tired I am, sleep eludes me, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. It's as if my mind refuses to shut off, replaying every worry and fear on an endless loop. The dark circles under my eyes have become a permanent fixture, a visual reminder of my nightly battles with sleep. I try everything – warm milk, soothing music, even counting sheep – but nothing seems to quiet the storm raging inside my head. And as the days stretch into weeks, I can feel the toll it's taking on my body. I'm tired, bone tired, but I soldier on, too afraid to close my eyes and face the demons lurking in the shadows of my mind.
Anorexia has sunk its claws into me, stealing away my appetite and leaving me a mere shadow of my former self. Each meal is a battle, each bite a struggle against the gnawing emptiness that threatens to consume me from within. The medicine I take to calm my nerves only exacerbates the problem, robbing me of my hunger and numbing my taste buds to the point where food holds no appeal. It's a vicious cycle, this dance of starvation and medication, each feeding into the other until I'm left hollow and frail. I can see the changes in my appearance, little by little. My once vibrant complexion has paled to a sickly shade of gray, and my clothes hang off my emaciated frame like drapes on a window. But even as I wither away, I can't seem to shake the grip of the monster that holds me captive. I know I need to break free from this downward spiral, to reclaim control over my body and my life. But with each passing day, it feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating me in a prison of my own making. I just hope I have the strength to find my way out before it's too late.
Today was one of those days where my struggles were on full display for the world to see, like an open wound that refuses to heal. My insomnia and anorexia have been wearing me down, chipping away at the facade of normalcy I've been desperately trying to maintain. I stumbled into class this morning, my eyes heavy with exhaustion and my stomach gnawing at me with hunger pains. It didn't take long for a couple of my classmates and even one of my teachers to notice something was off. Their concerned glances and hesitant inquiries only added to the weight of my burdens. "Max, are you okay?" they asked, their voices laced with genuine worry. But instead of opening up and letting them in, I did what I've become all too accustomed to doing – I lied. "Yeah, I'm fine," I stupidly replied with a weak smile, hoping they wouldn't see through the facade. "Just a little tired, that's all." It was a lie, of course. A blatant falsehood to hide the truth of my struggles, to shield them from the reality of my pain. But in that moment, it felt easier to pretend than to expose the raw vulnerability lurking beneath the surface. As I watched their expressions shift from concern to acceptance, a pang of guilt gnawed at my insides. They were only trying to help, to offer a lifeline in a sea of darkness. And yet, I pushed them away, building walls instead of bridges. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to burden them with my troubles. They have their own lives, their own struggles to contend with. I can't expect them to understand what it's like to walk in my shoes, to carry the weight of my burdens every day. So for now, I'll continue to wear this mask of normalcy, hiding the truth behind a facade of lies and half-truths. It's not ideal, but it's the only way I know how to survive in a world that refuses to see past the surface... God I feel horrible.
Today was a rollercoaster, but there was one constant that kept me anchored—Mom's sweet nicknames for me. She has this knack, you know, for making the gloomiest days seem a bit brighter with just a few words. "How's my Sunshine today?" she greeted me this morning, her voice warm and caring, cutting through the fog of my usual morning dread. There's something about being called "Sunshine" that feels so ironically comforting, considering the storm that's usually brewing inside me. It's as if she's speaking to a part of me that's buried deep beneath layers of turmoil, a reminder of brighter days, both past and hopefully future. These nicknames, "Sunshine," "Starlight," "My Bright Day," they're like a balm to my often weary soul. In her eyes, I see a hope for me that I sometimes find hard to muster for myself. She sees beyond the shadows, beyond the struggles, and for a moment, I can see it too—this version of myself that's unburdened, free, truly a source of light. But with every term of endearment, there's this pang of guilt. It feels like I'm living a double life—one where I'm her "Sunshine," and another where I'm a tempest, dark and brooding. It's as if these nicknames belong to someone else, someone I should be but can't seem to find my way back to. Despite these feelings, I can't help but cling to the warmth these words bring. In her voice, there's no judgment, no disappointment, just pure, unconditional love. It's a reminder that no matter how stormy it gets, there's always a place for me where I'm more than my struggles, more than my fears—a place where I'm simply her son, her "Sunshine." So, for now, I'll hold onto these nicknames, let them be a light in the darkness. Maybe one day, I'll feel like I truly embody them again. Until then, they're a sweet echo of hope, a gentle nudge towards the light.
Today, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of frustration and embarrassment—school accommodations. Not my choice, but my mom's, born out of love and concern, no doubt, but still not my choice. The school's been tiptoeing around me, and I hate it. I hate feeling like "the sensitive kid," the one who needs special treatment just to get through the day. It’s like wearing a giant neon sign that screams "fragile," making me stick out even more in a place where I already feel like an outsider. I understand where my mom is coming from, I really do. She sees the struggle, the late nights, the anxiety that eats at me, and she wants to help. But this—extra time on tests, permission to leave the classroom when it gets too much, a counselor on speed dial—it all just highlights how different I am. It's like putting a spotlight on my struggles, inviting more stares, more whispers, more isolation. Expressing this to her—or anyone, really—feels impossible. How do you tell the person who's fighting your corner that their form of help feels more like a hindrance? That her protection feels more like a prison? I'm caught between gratitude for having someone who cares so much and resentment for being seen as so inherently broken that I need these accommodations to survive. It's not that I don't need help; some days, I'm desperately clinging to these very accommodations to make it through. But it's the visibility, the marked difference, that chafes. I crave normalcy, to blend into the background, not to be the subject of a well-intentioned but painfully spotlighting "special plan." I want to face my battles head-on, feel the sting of my struggles and overcome them on my own terms. Maybe that's pride, or maybe it's a desire for a sense of achievement that doesn't feel tinted by pity or special treatment. I want to conquer my mountains, not be airlifted to the summit. So here I am, typing away in you, dear computer, because these words can't find another home. They're trapped within these pages, much like I'm trapped within this web of accommodations I never asked for. Maybe one day, I'll find the courage to voice these thoughts out loud. Until then, I'll keep fighting my battles, both visible and invisible, in search of a middle ground where help doesn't feel like a highlighter over my flaws.
Lately, I've been toying with an idea, one that's as daunting as it is appealing. The notion of buying a black, leather trenchcoat has been swirling in my head for a while now. In my mind, it's more than just a piece of clothing; it's a statement, a shield of sorts that could project an image of strength, maybe even instill a bit of fear in Jordan and his cronies. But here's the catch – as much as the idea thrills me, it's not without its complications. First and foremost, there's Mom. I can already picture her reaction, the worry etched deep in her furrowed brows, questioning where she went wrong. You see I usually wear black or dark clothing 'cause it's who I am on the inside but she has a tendency to insist on bright, unassuming clothes, thinking they reflect a more positive outlook. But a trenchcoat, especially a black, leather one, would undoubtedly send her into a frenzy of concern, possibly even prompting a household intervention. She'd likely scour my search history just to be safe, convinced I've fallen into some dark corner of the internet, when really, I'm just trying to find my place in a world that seems determined to keep me in the shadows. Then there's the reaction from school to consider. I can almost hear the whispers in the hallways, see the sideways glances from teachers and classmates alike. A trenchcoat like that carries certain connotations, ones that don't exactly scream "approachable." Instead of asserting my independence or deterring bullies, I might just end up alienating myself further, becoming the subject of school-wide scrutiny or, worse, fear. The teachers might get concerned that I'm planning something horrible and unforgiveable and pull me out of class because of it. My classmates would call me names behind my back and generally look at me differently, be worried around me. It's like wearing a sign that says 'stay away,' when all I want is to feel seen, understood, accepted for who I am. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that this trenchcoat, this symbol of defiance I'm considering, could very well turn into a cage. Instead of freeing me from the torment and the labels, it might just slap on a new one, painting me as someone I'm not, someone to be wary of. It's a strange thing, clothing. How a simple change of fabric can alter perceptions so drastically. But at the end of the day, I suppose my battle isn't really with Jordan or the image I project; it's with myself, with finding the courage to stand tall without the need for armor, be it physical or metaphorical. So, for now, the trenchcoat remains a figment of my imagination, a fleeting thought of rebellion that'll stay tucked away in the pages of this diary. Maybe one day, I'll find my armor in something less tangible, less divisive. Until then, I'll keep fighting my battles, one day at a time, trenchcoat or not.
Today, the weight of the world feels heavier than ever. It's like I'm drowning in a sea of darkness, struggling to find a lifeline, a sliver of light to guide me out of this abyss. Depression has become my unwanted companion, a constant shadow lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness. Some days, it's manageable, like a dull ache in the background of my mind. But other days, like today, it consumes me whole, swallowing me up in its suffocating embrace. Loneliness is another beast altogether. It's not just the absence of company, but the absence of connection, of understanding. Even surrounded by people, I can't shake this overwhelming sense of isolation, like I'm trapped in a bubble, watching the world pass me by from behind a thick pane of glass. It's a strange paradox, really – feeling so hollow and yet so full of pain. Every smile feels like a facade, every laugh a desperate attempt to drown out the deafening silence echoing in my chest. And the worst part? It's not something I can just snap out of, no matter how much I wish I could. I know I'm not alone in this struggle, that there are others out there who understand what it's like to navigate the labyrinth of depression and loneliness. But in moments like this, it's hard to hold onto that knowledge, to believe that there's light at the end of this seemingly endless tunnel. So, here I am, pouring my heart out to these empty pages, hoping that somehow, someway, they'll serve as a beacon of hope in the darkness. Maybe one day, I'll look back on these words and see how far I've come, how I've managed to emerge from the depths stronger, wiser, more resilient. But for now, I'll take solace in the simple act of putting words into screen, of giving voice to the silent screams echoing in the recesses of my mind. Because even in the darkest of nights, there's always a flicker of light, a glimmer of hope, waiting to be discovered.
Today was one of those days I dread the most – a visit to Dad's house. It's not that I don't love Elliot, my sweet little brother; it's just that being in the same room as Dad sends shivers down my spine, brings back memories I'd rather keep buried. But Elliot... he's worth it. He's this bright spot in my otherwise bleak existence, a beacon of innocence and joy that I can't help but be drawn to. I'd do anything to protect him, even if it means facing my own demons head-on. When I say I protect Elliot from myself, I don't mean I've ever laid a hand on him. God, no. I'd sooner cut off my own arm than hurt him in any way. No, what I mean is... my condition. My rampages. The thought of Elliot witnessing one of my episodes, of being caught in the crossfire of my uncontrollable rage... it's a nightmare I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. So, I go to Dad's house, plaster on a fake smile, and play the role of the dutiful son, all the while keeping a careful eye on Elliot, making sure he's safe, protected from the storm brewing inside me. But being there, in that house filled with memories of pain and resentment, it's like walking on eggshells. Dad's gaze follows me like a hawk, his disapproving scowl a constant reminder of everything I've done wrong in his eyes. And try as I might to connect with him, to bridge the chasm that's formed between us, it feels like an insurmountable task. But then there's Elliot. His laughter, his innocence, his unwavering love – it's like a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink of despair. In his eyes, I see hope, a glimmer of possibility that maybe, just maybe, things can be different. So, I'll continue to visit Dad's house, to endure the uncomfortable silences and the judgmental stares, all for the chance to spend time with Elliot. Because no matter how strained my relationship with Dad may be, the love I have for my little brother outweighs it all.
Elliot never fails to put a smile on my face, even on the darkest of days. His innocent admiration for me is like a ray of sunshine cutting through the storm clouds that constantly hover over my life. He's always looking up to me, telling me how cool I look in my black clothes and how he wishes he could dress like me. It's both heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. Heartwarming because his admiration is genuine, his love for me unwavering. Heartbreaking because he doesn't know the truth, the darkness that lurks beneath the surface of my cool facade. I wish I could tell him the truth, explain to him why I can't always be the big brother he admires so much. But I can't bring myself to shatter his innocence, to burden him with the weight of my struggles. So instead, I smile and play along, pretending to be the cool big brother he believes me to be. But every lie, every moment of deception weighs heavily on my conscience. I hate myself for deceiving him, for keeping him in the dark about the truth of who I really am. And yet, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting him from the pain and fear that comes with knowing the truth. Elliot is my world, my reason for fighting through the darkness that threatens to consume me. I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, even if it means sacrificing my own peace of mind. Because in the end, his happiness is worth more to me than anything else in this world.
Another day, another transformation. It's like a vicious cycle, a never-ending nightmare that I can't seem to wake up from. The anger boils inside me, a raging inferno threatening to consume everything in its path. And then, just like that, it happens – the transformation. It's a sensation unlike anything I've ever experienced, like my body is being torn apart from the inside out. The pain is excruciating, unbearable, but somehow, I manage to push through it, to surrender to the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. And then, in an instant, it's over. I stand there, trembling and exhausted, my body aching from the strain of the transformation. The world around me is a blur, a hazy memory of the chaos that just unfolded. But even as I try to make sense of it all, there's a part of me that remains trapped in the darkness, unable to break free from its suffocating grasp. The aftermath of my rage is always the hardest part to bear. The guilt and shame wash over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me in their depths. I look around at the destruction I've caused, the lives I've shattered, and I can't help but feel like a monster, a creature of darkness masquerading as a human being. But amidst the wreckage, there's a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light in the darkness. I see Mom's face, her eyes filled with love and concern, reaching out to me with a hand of forgiveness. And I see Elliot, my sweet little brother, his innocent smile a beacon of hope in a world gone mad. It's in these moments, when the dust has settled and the rage has subsided, that I find the strength to carry on. To pick up the pieces of my shattered existence and rebuild, brick by brick, until I find myself standing tall once again. But until that day comes, I'll continue to fight, to wrestle with the darkness that threatens to consume me. Because no matter how dark the night may seem, there's always a glimmer of light waiting to guide me home.
Elliot is my saving grace, my beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness. His laughter is like music to my ears, a melody that soothes my weary soul. I can't help but smile whenever I'm in his presence, my heart swelling with love and gratitude for this precious gift in my life. He may not fully understand the struggles I face, the battles I fight every day to keep my inner demons at bay, but that doesn't stop him from loving me unconditionally. His innocence is a reminder of all that is good in this world, a light in the darkness that threatens to consume me. I would do anything to protect him, to shield him from the pain and suffering that I've endured. He deserves nothing less than a life filled with love and happiness, and I'll move heaven and earth to ensure that he gets it. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lost or alone, I look into his eyes and see a reflection of myself – a reminder of the person I once was, before the darkness took hold. And in those moments, I find the strength to keep fighting, to push through the pain and the despair, because I know that he's counting on me. Elliot is more than just my little brother; he's my reason for living, my guiding light in a world consumed by shadows. And for that, I'll be forever grateful.
I can't shake this heavy feeling in my chest, this gnawing sense of guilt that threatens to consume me whole. Elliot... does he know? Does he see the toll that my insomnia and anorexia have taken on me, both physically and mentally? The thought alone is suffocating, like a weight pressing down on my chest, crushing me beneath its relentless force. If he does know, if he's seen the dark circles under my eyes, the way my clothes hang off my emaciated frame, it must be devastating for him. To see his big brother, the person he idolizes more than anyone else in the world, wasting away before his very eyes... it's a thought too painful to bear. I can't even begin to imagine the fear and confusion he must feel, the questions that must plague his innocent mind. Does he blame himself? Does he think he's somehow responsible for my suffering? The mere thought of it breaks my heart into a million jagged pieces. I wish I could shield him from the truth, spare him from the pain of knowing what I go through every single day. But I know that's not possible, that the truth has a way of revealing itself, no matter how hard we try to hide it. And so, I sit here, tears streaming down my face as I type these words, the weight of my silence pressing down on me like a vice. I want to reach out to him, to reassure him that everything will be okay, but the words catch in my throat, suffocated by the weight of my guilt. I'm sorry, Elliot. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you, for the burden I've placed on your young shoulders. I wish I could be the brother you deserve, the one who protects you from harm instead of being the cause of it. But until that day comes, I'll continue to fight, to push through the darkness that threatens to consume me, if not for myself, then for you. Because you are my light in the darkness, my reason for living, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means bearing this burden alone.
Today's school trip to Science World was both exhilarating and heartbreaking. On one hand, I was surrounded by the wonders of science, immersed in a world of discovery and innovation. But on the other hand, it opened up old wounds, reminding me of a time when my love for space and science fiction burned brightly, untainted by the darkness that now engulfs me. As I wandered through the exhibits, my classmates buzzing with excitement around me, I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the days when the stars held endless possibilities, when the cosmos was my playground. But now, those dreams feel like distant memories, overshadowed by the neverending fog of depression that clouds my mind. It's a bittersweet realization, to see how far I've strayed from the path I once walked so eagerly. But even amidst the pain and the sadness, there's a glimmer of hope, a reminder that it's never too late to rediscover the wonder that once filled my heart. So, as I navigate through this journey called life, I'll hold onto that glimmer of hope, clinging to the belief that one day, I'll find my way back to the stars, back to the dreams that once lit up the night sky. Until then, I'll cherish the memories of today's trip, both the joy and the sorrow, knowing that each step forward brings me closer to finding myself once again.
I'm writing this entry from the confines of my bedroom, isolated from the world outside by walls that feel like they're closing in on me. The echoes of my latest rampage still reverberate in my mind, a haunting reminder of the darkness that lurks within me. Guilt, shame, paranoia – they gnaw at my insides, twisting and turning like a serpent coiled around my heart. I know I've caused destruction, hurt innocent people in my blind rage, and the weight of that knowledge is suffocating. But amidst the darkness, there's a flicker of light, a beacon of hope in the form of my mother, Emily. She's always stood by me, offering unconditional love and support even in my darkest moments. And yet, there's a fear lingering in the back of my mind – the fear that one day, she'll reach her breaking point, that she'll cast me out into the cold, unforgiving world. I can't bear the thought of losing her, of losing the only anchor I have left in this sea of despair. And yet, I can't shake the paranoia that grips me, the fear that the government will come knocking on our door, ready to take me away to some dark, dank cell where I'll be locked away for the rest of my days. As I sit here, clad in nothing but torn black jeans that resemble makeshift knee-high shorts, I can't help but feel utterly alone. Where is my heart monitor, the one I always wear on my left wrist? It must have snapped during the transformation, lost amidst the chaos of my rampage. I'm adrift in a sea of uncertainty, lost in the darkness that threatens to consume me whole. But even as I writhe in the throes of despair, I cling to the hope that somehow, someway, I'll find my way back to the light.
You know sometimes I wonder if the school knows about my rampages as during a school trip to Gastown, our teacher mentioned in passing how "some big, green monster came in and ravaged parts of this beautiful part of our dear city." That comment made my blood run cold. It's a reminder that I'm not just hurting myself, but also the people around me – innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of my uncontrollable rage. Just the casual mention of my rampages, disguised as a simple anecdote, served as a stark reminder of the destruction I've caused, the lives I've shattered in my moments of uncontrollable rage. It's a reality I try to suppress, to bury deep beneath layers of guilt and shame, but it always manages to resurface when I least expect it. I wanted to scream, to shout out in protest, to make them understand the gravity of what had been said. But instead, I remained silent, my voice lost amidst the cacophony of noise around me. I've missed school on more than one occasion because of the aftermath of my rampages. The guilt and shame weigh heavily on my shoulders, making it hard to face my classmates and teachers. Instead, I hide away, pretending to be sick, lying to cover up the truth of why I wasn't in school that day. And when I do go to school, the bullying from Jordan McYoung and his gang only serves to fuel my anger. I try to escape to the bathroom to calm myself down, to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos raging inside me. But sometimes, the anger is too overwhelming, too suffocating, and I lose control. The holes in the walls and remains of my torn clothing and my snapped heart monitor I leave in the floor are a stark reminder of the monster that lurks within me, waiting to be unleashed at a moment's notice. And when I do transform, when I give in to the darkness that threatens to consume me, I rampage near the school, leaving destruction in my wake. I wish there was a way to stop it, to put an end to the cycle of violence and destruction that plagues my life. But until then, I'll continue to fight, to push through the darkness in the hopes of finding some semblance of peace on the other side.
I guess it's time to tell you that there was a time in my life when the darkness threatened to consume me whole, when my mind was a battleground and my soul was torn asunder by the relentless onslaught of despair and rage. It was a time when I was at the lowest point of my existence, when the demons within me clawed at my sanity, begging for release. I remember it like it was yesterday – the constant transformations, the rampages through the city, leaving destruction in my wake. Even when I was in my normal form, I was consumed by a rage so fierce it threatened to consume me from the inside out. I had thoughts – dark, unforgivable thoughts – of doing something so horrible, so irredeemable, that the mere mention of it sends shivers down my spine even now. I wanted to lash out at the world, to make it pay for the pain and suffering it had inflicted upon me. And then there was that moment – that final, desperate moment – when I tried to end it all. I was just fifteen years old, lost in a sea of despair with no hope of finding my way back to shore, I slit both of my wrists and downed a bottle of pills - and that's when my mom found me, lying on a pool of my own blood and drool - I could still hear her cries to this day. But somehow, someway, my mother pulled me back from the brink, saving me from a fate worse than death, she rushed me to the hospital and that's why I'm here now. Looking back on it now, I'm terrified of how close I came to becoming a mass murderer, to snuffing out the lives of innocent people in a fit of blind rage. It's a reality I can't escape, a truth that haunts me in the dead of night. I was consumed by thoughts of violence, of revenge against a world that had wronged me in ways I could scarcely comprehend. In my desperation, I sought out tools of destruction – a double-barrel shotgun, propane tanks – anything that would allow me to unleash the fury that burned within me. But then, just as I was about to cross that final threshold, to take that irreversible step into the abyss, she appeared – my mother, Emily. She caught me in the act, her eyes filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief at the sight before her. In that moment, everything came crashing down around me. The weight of my actions, the magnitude of what I was about to do – it all hit me like a megaton of bricks, leaving me reeling in its wake. I wanted to explain, to justify my actions, but the words caught in my throat, choked by the guilt and shame that threatened to consume me whole. And as she pulled me back from the brink, saving me from a fate worse than death, I realized just how close I had come to losing myself completely. But despite it all, despite the darkness that still threatens to consume me, I'm thankful. Thankful for my mother's unwavering love and support, for pulling me through those bleak moments and showing me that there is still light to be found in the darkest of places. And though I still struggle, though I still bear the scars – both physical and emotional – of my darkest hour, I'm grateful for the second chance I've been given, for the opportunity to make amends and find redemption in a world that once seemed so cold and unforgiving.
Today I decided to get close to my crush - Jane Parker, god I love her so much but anyways I attempted to get close and talk to her but my stupid fucking partial transformation ruined it and made my eyes and veins glow green like a glowstick - RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY CRUSH, I could see her shock and horror on her face as her eyes, wide with fear, reflected the monster I so desperately tried to hide from the world. In that moment, I was no longer Maxwell, her classmate with a hopeful heart. I was the freak, the anomaly, the thing to be feared and without a word, I turned and ran, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears louder than any words I might have said. The embarrassment washed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air and fighting back tears. I could only imagine what she must think of me, the weird kid who approached her only to run away without saying a word. The rest of the day was a blur, the shame of my failed attempt at normalcy casting a shadow over everything. I wanted to disappear, to sink into the ground and be swallowed up by the earth. I wish I could just be Maxwell, the guy who has a crush on Jane, and not the monster that lurks beneath, always waiting for the worst possible moment to reveal itself. But wishes, as I've learned, don't count for much in my world. This incident with Jane has only served to reinforce the walls I've built around myself, walls meant to protect others from the monster within. But as I sit here, typing this entry, I can't help but wonder if those same walls aren't also imprisoning me, keeping me from experiencing the very things that make life worth living as I wish I wasn't born like this, being able to turn into a monster or a human glowstick whenever I express negative or positive emotions or whenever my heart beats fuckin' fast... GOD I HATE MY FUCKING LIFE!
Today was an absolute nightmare, the kind that sticks to your skin, refusing to be shaken off. I'm surprised I'm even able to write this without my keyboard breaking underneath my hammering fingers, such is the level of my rage. And yet, here I am, somehow still in my own skin, not the monster's. How? I haven't the faintest idea. The day started off on the wrong foot and only spiraled from there. It was like every moment was tailor-made to test my limits. From the second I walked into school, it felt like I was the target of the day, the one everyone had agreed to torment. The whispers, the stares, the outright mocking—it was relentless. And then there was Jordan McYoung and his gang, ensuring that my day wasn't just bad but unbearable. They cornered me by the lockers, hurling insults and provocations, each word like a match to my already substantial fury. I could feel it then, the monster clawing its way to the surface, itching to break free and unleash havoc. But something strange happened—or rather, didn't happen. Despite the fury boiling in my veins, despite the overwhelming urge to transform and let the monster loose on them, I didn't. I remained painfully, furiously human. The rest of the day wasn't any better. Classes were a blur of anger and frustration, each ticking second a reminder of my simmering rage. Even the teachers seemed to be on edge around me, as if they could sense the storm brewing beneath my calm exterior. And now, here I am, typing this entry, my hand shaking with unspent rage. It's a curious feeling, being this angry and yet, not losing myself to the monster. It's as if all the anger and hatred have built a wall, keeping him at bay for now. But for how long? How long can I hold onto this fury without succumbing to the monster within? I'm furious, yes, but also deeply tired. Tired of the constant battle, both against others and against myself. Today has left me raw, exposed, and surprisingly, still me. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or terrified by that fact. But one thing is clear: I need to find a way to deal with this rage before it consumes me, monster or no monster. Because if today has shown me anything, it's that the real monster might just be the fury I hold inside, waiting for a chance to break free.
I can't take it anymore. I can't stand this fucking wretched world, this cesspool of misery and despair. Everywhere I turn, there's nothing but pain and suffering, a never-ending cycle of torment and anguish. And for what? For the sake of what twisted cosmic joke do I have to endure this agony day in and day out? School, that festering pit of vipers and vermin, where every word is a dagger and every glance a poison. I hate it. I hate the teachers who pretend to care, the classmates who mock and scorn, the bullies who revel in my torment. I hate them all with a burning passion that threatens to consume me whole. And my condition, this cursed affliction that haunts my every waking moment, like a shadow lurking in the depths of my soul. It's a monster, a beast that lies in wait, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. I despise it, with every fiber of my being, for robbing me of my humanity, for turning me into a freak, a monster, a thing to be feared and reviled. Life itself is a cruel fucking joke, a sick, twisted game played at my expense. What's the point of it all? Why bother struggling to survive in a world that's determined to crush me beneath its heel? There's no justice, no redemption, only endless suffering and despair. I feel myself spiraling, descending into the darkest depths of my own mind. The rage burns within me like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I want to lash out, to tear this world apart with my bare hands, to make them all pay for their sins against me. But even as I rage and seethe with hatred, a part of me knows that this darkness is consuming me, devouring me from the inside out. I'm losing myself, slipping further and further into the abyss with each passing day. And I don't know if I have the strength to claw my way back. So here I am, screaming into the void, pouring out my anger and my pain onto these pages. It's the only outlet I have left, the only way to keep the darkness at bay, if only for a little while. But I fear that even that will soon be taken from me, leaving me alone in the darkness, with nothing but my own twisted thoughts for company.
Mom. Where do I even start? Today, like many others, was a battle—a fight against the monster inside, a struggle to stay myself. And yet, amidst the chaos, there's always been one constant, one unwavering force: my mother. She's been my guardian, my protector, and my guide through the darkest of times. When I look back at everything she's done for me, everything she's sacrificed, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. She's faced judgment, fear, and isolation head-on, all for me. Her strength is unparalleled, fighting battles both visible and invisible, often without a word of complaint. It's not just the big things, the grand gestures of protection or the fierce battles for normalcy. It's the small moments, too—the quiet nights spent talking, the gentle reassurances when I can see the worry in her eyes, the way she smiles even when the world is against us. She believes in me, in the person I am beneath the rage and the transformations. Her belief is a beacon, guiding me back when I'm lost in the storm. I know it's not easy for her. The weight she carries, the fears she must have about what the next day—or the next transformation—might bring. And yet, she stands firm, a lighthouse amidst my tempests. How can I not be thankful for such love, such dedication? There are times when I feel like I don't deserve her, when the guilt and shame of my condition cloud my thoughts. But then, there she is, dispelling the darkness with her unwavering presence, reminding me that I'm not alone, that we're in this together. To say I'm thankful doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm alive because of her, in more ways than one. She's my anchor, my safe harbor, and no words can truly capture the depth of my gratitude and love for her. As I write this, I'm reminded of just how much she's shaped my life, my outlook, and my hopes for the future. She's taught me about resilience, about facing the darkness with courage and compassion. Because of her, I believe that even in the darkest of times, there's light to be found. With every ounce of my being, I am thankful for her. For her sacrifices, her love, and her belief in me. She is my mother, my hero, and my guiding light.
Today, I find solace in the words of H.P. Lovecraft, a master of cosmic horror whose tales of the unknown and the unknowable resonate with the deepest recesses of my soul. His stories speak to a darkness that lurks within us all, a darkness that I have come to know all too well. Among my favorite Lovecraftian tales are "The Call of Cthulhu," "At the Mountains of Madness," and "The Shadow over Innsmouth." These stories, with their themes of cosmic insignificance and existential dread, strike a chord within me, reflecting the tumultuous depths of my own psyche. I often find myself drawn to Lovecraft's works when I'm feeling particularly lost or alone, seeking refuge in the eerie landscapes of his imagination. It's as if his stories offer a glimpse into the abyss that lies at the heart of my own being, a reminder that I am not alone in my darkness. Interestingly, I've come to realize that my love for Lovecraft may be intertwined with my passion for Quake, the video game that has become my refuge in times of distress. Perhaps it was Quake that introduced me to Lovecraft, with its eerie atmosphere and otherworldly creatures serving as a gateway to the horrors of the Lovecraftian mythos. Whatever the case may be, I am grateful for the solace that both Lovecraft and Quake provide me in my darkest moments. They remind me that even in the depths of despair, there is beauty to be found, if only one knows where to look.
Today, as I was lost in the world of my favorite bands and their music, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that seemed to linger in the air. It wasn't the usual noise of my own thoughts that troubled me but rather the weight of my mother's concerns pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. Emily, my well-meaning yet overprotective mother, has always had reservations about certain aspects of my music taste. She harbors a deep-seated fear that bands like KMFDM and Marilyn Manson could somehow lead me down a dangerous path, one that might echo the tragic events of the Columbine Massacre. Her worry isn't entirely unfounded. I can still recall the day she caught me in the act of buying a double-barrel shotgun and propane tanks, a chilling moment that still sends shivers down my spine. I was at the lowest point of my life, drowning in a sea of despair, and it seemed like violence was the only way to make the pain stop. But Emily, bless her soul, intervened just in time. She saw through the darkness that clouded my mind and pulled me back from the brink of disaster. Since then, she's kept a vigilant watch over me, monitoring my every move with a mixture of concern and fear. I can't blame her for being overprotective. After all, she's seen firsthand the devastating consequences of unchecked violence and hatred. But I wish she could understand that music, no matter how intense or controversial, isn't the root cause of such atrocities. For me, bands like KMFDM and Marilyn Manson are more than just music. They're a lifeline, a source of comfort and catharsis in a world that often feels cold and indifferent. Their lyrics speak to the struggles and pain that I've experienced firsthand, offering solace when I need it most. I know Emily means well, but her constant vigilance feels suffocating at times. I wish I could make her see that I'm not on the path to becoming a mass murderer, that I'm just a lost soul trying to find my way in a world that doesn't always make sense. Perhaps one day, she'll realize that music, like all art forms, is a reflection of the human experience – complex, messy, and sometimes, downright painful. And until then, I'll continue to cherish the bands that have helped me through my darkest hours, no matter how much they may scare my dear mother.
Today was another rough day. Mom had one of her moments again, reminding me for the hundredth time that Tiger is the "family's cat" and not just mine. I know she means well, but sometimes it feels like she's just looking for a reason to argue. I get it, though. Tiger was a Christmas gift for Elliot before everything fell apart. Before my condition tore us all to pieces. But honestly, it doesn't change the fact that Tiger and I share a special bond. I remember the first day we brought him home. He was so tiny, this little gray fluffball with piercing green eyes. I named him Tiger because, despite his small size, he had this fierce, adventurous spirit. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in him even back then. Mom's always on my case about how I'm slightly allergic to cats. She worries too much. Sure, I sneeze a bit and my eyes get itchy, but it's a small price to pay for having Tiger around. Besides, he's worth every sniffle and scratchy throat. There's something incredibly calming about his presence, especially on days when my temper feels like it's about to explode. Like today, for instance. I was working on a new Quake mod, trying to perfect this tricky bit of code, and nothing was going right. I could feel the anger building, that familiar green tinge creeping up my skin. But then, out of nowhere, Tiger jumped up on my desk, rubbing his head against my arm. It's like he knows when I need him the most. His purrs are like a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. Even when things get really bad and I lose control, Tiger never runs away. Not once. He stays close, his calm demeanor helping me pull myself back together. It's like he's my anchor, keeping me grounded when everything else is falling apart. Elliot might have been the reason we got Tiger, but in a way, he's become my lifeline. Mom doesn't see it, or maybe she just refuses to. But Tiger's more than just a pet to me. He's my friend, my confidant, the one constant in my chaotic world. And I guess, deep down, I hope that somehow, Elliot feels a bit of comfort knowing that Tiger is taking care of me in his own way. Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of one of my projects or lost in a game, I glance over at Tiger and wonder what he thinks of all this. Does he sense the turmoil inside me? Does he know how much I need him? Anyway, I better wrap this up. Mom's calling for dinner, and I can hear Tiger's soft paws padding across the floor, probably hoping for a bit of leftover chicken. He's more than just a cat; he's my hero, my constant companion in this mess of a life.