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The Problem is Me

Book By: Paigem
Flash fiction



“Close your eyes and imagine (If you can) having no conscience, no feeling of guilt or remorse. Can you do it? Of course you can’t. A conscience is natural for people to have, you do something cruel or nasty and you feel bad for it; that’s just the way things work."


For fifteen year old Damon Henderson, life has never been a walk in the park. Being thrown from mental hospital to mental hospital since the age of seven wasn't really the normal childhood.


Being kicked out of the fifth asylum in eight years, Damon is nearing the end of his endurance which could end disastrously for anyone close enough to witness it, even himself.


Swearing to himself that this is the very last time he’s ever going to have to take the walk of shame through the corridors of patients, he decides this is his last shot at ‘recovering’.


And if it doesn't work this time, he’s not going to be dropped into another nut house; even if his life has to pay the price.


After all, how can you save someone from themselves?


Submitted:Aug 27, 2014    Reads: 7    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


I think if I had to pinpoint one thing that I've learnt to understand as I got older is that there really is two sides to every story; and every single person.

And I say every single person because I mean every single person; I'm not just talking about people whose glasses are half empty instead of half full.

I really don't know how to define normal or how anyone can have the audacity to tell anyone whether they're normal or not. It makes me sick to my stomach when an unnecessary member of society comes along and locks people up because they don't think 'normally'

From my experience, the people I have observed in the many hospitals I have been thrown into have come across a whole lot smarter than the brainless morons who try and 'help us recover' or 'fix us' I mean, recover from what? our own thoughts?

Notice I said hospitals instead of asylums or mental institutes, I think it has a nicer ring to it. If someone was to ask me where I was and I said "In a mental institution." they would probably gasp and label me as the insane kid. But if I said "I was in hospital." I'd get sympathy and maybe a few gifts.

That's the annoying thing about mental illnesses, if we were physically ill we'd get given balloons and ice cream; but if the damage isn't visible then it obviously isn't there.

We're not all raving lunatics who are curled up in a ball rocking and throffing from the mouth like Lady Gaga in most of her music videos, the majority of us look completely normal.

There I go with the normal thing again; sometimes I think I'm just as bad as the people in white coats who dragged me here.

Anyway, enough about my 'outrageous' views on society as my mother would say.

Talking of my mother, if it wasn't for that self-absorbed bitch I wouldn't be in this mess. I wouldn't have been carted from mental hospital to mental hospital because I made the therapists there want to go home and slit their own wrists. I would have continued life as a normal seven year old boy and probably wouldn't be half as screwed up as I am now.

To show you how far my hatred towards her goes; if I were trapped in a room with her and Perez Hilton and conveniently had a gun with two bullets in; I'd shoot her twice. And I really fucking hate Perez Hilton.

I think it was towards the end of summer in 2007 when I first got taken (dragged) to the doctors to have a full psychiatric evaluation. I vaguely remember kicking and screaming the entire place down when my mother got me by my collar and basically threw me around the waiting room.

You're probably wondering what triggered my mom to take such drastic precautions, right? Did he try and kill his brother? Burn down his school? Put the hamster in the microwave?

No, I just laughed at my father's funeral.

Now I don't mean a nervous laugh either, I burst out into full hysterics when they drew the curtains for the final time. Sick, I know

My mother played it off as me being so distraught I couldn't think straight, earing me the pleasure of family members I didn't even know existed coming up to me and hugging me.

The rest of the day was a blur to me, the only thing I remember was a sharp slap up the face and multiple plates being thrown when I got home.

When my mom explained the funeral incident to the doctor, he looked as if he could have slapped me. I was kind of hoping he did, just for how much trouble he'd get in if he did.

Within the blink of an eye I was diagnosed with ADD and carted off to the 'children's facility'.

The reason I find that name particularly annoying is that it's just another way of saying 'The place to dump the children you can't handle.'

I was soon assigned to a room which was completely white with bolted shut probably bulletproof windows so none of the kids can take the leap of faith instead of taking their meds. I remember when I first got there that jumping from the fifth floor and making sure I landed on my head actually sounded more appealing than being drugged up on Lithium.

I can still remember my roommate, an eight year old bipolar kid named Scotty. I can't for the life of me remember his last name though. When I got there he didn't really speak to me, giving the occasional grunt in response to my questions and thinking he was being sly watching me out of the corner of his eye. Eventually he started to talk to me and we got along pretty good.

Now don't go thinking that Scotty and I were friends because we weren't. We were buddies, but far from friends.

This was one of my longest stays of all the places I've been taken to, I was there for about eighteen months I think it was. Don't quote me on it though.

I eventually got removed from the facility a few months prior to my ninth birthday when I literally made my therapist want to kill herself. I think at this point they kind of noticed that there might be something else up with me than just ADD.

I liked the hospital I was at, it was home to me and when I was told to pack my things I was just confused. I was eight years old; I didn't know what I'd done wrong.

And honestly, the next six years are a complete blur of mental hospitals, medication, frustration and bad music.

So now the real question is what ever happened to that sweet little boy who could do no wrong? Well, my friend; Life is what happened to that little boy.

Society took that innocence and twisted it to the way they liked it, leaving me with nothing but hatred and the urge to destroy.

I've always hated telling people the basics about me, it's so weird. I just never know what to say; I can't just say "Oh hey, my names Damon and I'm a sociopath!" can I?

To save me the pain of hopelessly explaining what goes on in my mind I'd like you to do something for me.

Close your eyes and imagine (If you can) having no conscience, no feeling of guilt or remorse. Can you do it? Of course you can't. A conscience is natural for people to have, you do something cruel or nasty and you feel bad for it; that's just the way things work.

Not for me, of course.

Now before you go looking up the definition of a sociopath or someone with Anti-Social Personality Disorder, let me explain.

Sociopaths are publically thought to be cold, heartless, sadistic people. Not capable of loving anything other than themselves and manipulating others into doing their dirty work. And I'm sorry but if you truly believe that then you're just being manipulated by society and doctors, not us.

Granted, we have cold and possibly calculating personalities. But most sociopaths only do things when triggered.

Growing up no one ever really knew or suspected anything was wrong with me, not even I did. I'd grown up reasonably normal; I used to play with the neighbourhood kids after school and at ridiculously early times on weekends.

It wasn't until I got to about ten that I started to be questioned about my emotions; if I feel bad for others, if I regret doing things etc. Of course, it got me thinking. I remember being given a sheet of paper to fill out which asked questions like "Do you feel empathy towards others?" I didn't know what half of these words meant so I had a nurse go through it with me.

Turns out, I had never ever felt bad for anything I did.

About four months later I got told I had sociopathic tendencies. This didn't faze me, I didn't even know what a sociopath was let alone what the word tendencies meant; it was like giving Lil Wayne a book on algebra.

A few weeks ago I got a hold of my medical record whilst the Nurse was off looking for the doctor. Yes, you guessed right; I was being placed into yet another coo-coos nest. Interestingly it turns out I've been diagnosed with Anti-Social Personality Disorder, ADD and suicidal tendencies. That surprised me more than when Chris Brown hit Rhianna.

Seriously, if you can't detect the sarcasm there then you've misunderstood.

It also says and I quote; "Damon has spiralled downhill since I last reviewed him, showing little to no interest in conversations and seems to appear distant." I laughed when I read it, believe me.

I seem distant because I simply don't want to speak to anyone, so I don't. I'll talk when it suits me and no other time.

Oh, and about the suicidal thing. I'm not a whiny fifteen year old who claims to be suicidal because my mom wouldn't buy me a new IPhone. In all honestly, I haven't seen my mom since I was eleven maybe twelve at a push. I may have accidentally made a suicide joke to one of my therapists and got put on suicide watch for three days.

He asked me what my views on this place were and I said it made me want to blow my brains onto the wall. Yeah, he didn't take it so well.

So now this brings me to today, I got transferred from the last hospital to this one because of some psychotic bitch who tried to tell the nurses that I threatened to kill her.

Bullshit, I threatened to kill her and her family.

I've been here about three hours and I already want to kill at least three people.

My name is Damon Henderson, I'm a fifteen year old sociopath and this is how I intend to someday be the hero of someone's story; and if no one else's, my own.





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