Method To The Madness; A Fraction of Me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

For those who want to know the True Me, this is for You. A fair warning, to all, I will say that what you see from Me, you most likely won't like. If you don't like it, then "Oh, Well". Life goes on, Day By Day. If you do, then good for you. You have my congratulations and commendation.

If you understand what I say, then "More Power To You". If you don't, then again, "Oh, Well". This is Me. Moral of My point, "To Each, His Own; Live and Let Live".

In any case, Enjoy... if you can.

Yes; I am well aware that I have an unorthodox writing style.
Yes; I know that people notice 'oddities' in my writing (“Mistakes”? I wouldn't go that far. For which there is due reason.)
Yes; I will say and admit with honesty, that I am a “strange” individual.

No; I don't really care.

“Why?” Simple. Because it's Me. I Am the way I Am, and frankly, for Whom I Am, I Am damn proud of it. Rarely do I ever write something that is not symbolic in meaning, whether it be to Me, alone, or to Others around Me. “Misuse of 'CAPS'” is not the phrase I would use, because it's not a “misuse”.

When we really think about writing, whether it be a story (novel or much shorter), or a poem, people no longer think about the actual MEANING behind it. They never stop to think “There Is A Reason This Person Writes The Way Her Or She Does”. Instead, they think of all the 'misspellings' that they see placed in various places among the plethora of lines or pages they read. Or they look at the use or letter placement, and judge solely by that “This Person Knows How To Spell” or “This Person Needs To Learn To Spell”.

But what people fail to realize is that though there may be mistakes in spelling or in grammar (which it does not matter Where you look/read nor Whose writing you read, you WILL find at least one, if not a dozen), but that matters very little, at times. It especially matters the least when you look at what it may mean to the person who writes it.
Now, I am not saying that I am guiltless of this. After all, when I was in high school, I specialized in virtually all things English and Literature-related. So as one can imagine, at a fairly early time, I ended up with quite an eye for almost any word. However, my mind does not stop here...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Over time, I have heard numerous people tell me “I Know Who You Really Are”. And each of these people has had their own view of me, which was only based upon their own perception of a mind they could not understand. I say this for one very good reason: None Of Them Really Knew Me. And to this day, no one really does, though I try to “show my colors” more often than most.
Some people, over the years, have come to call me “insane”, while others have come to call me other things (only one of which includes and entails a meaning of 'True insanity' so deep that it goes beyond any real capacity for description or definition), all of which have ranged all the way from “freak” to “utterly hopeless” and even farther, into the 'class' of “dementedly strange”. Some of these things I can't see or understand, while others seem to suit me so well that even I can barely describe it.

But let me give a little bit of My history, here, so that some may come to understand the REAL Me, instead of being subject to scotoma (The Mind Sees What It Chooses To See).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

From what I know, I was born a bastard child, to two of the most twisted families in the Northern hemisphere of the state of Minnesota; the “Land of The 10,000 Lakes”. I won't say my given name, nor will I use it, because I am that ashamed to carry it.
I was born with a “rather unique” gene in my blood, which my so-called “father” also possesses, yet in him, it still remains completely dormant. When I was three years old, I watched him make an attempt to kill the woman I knew as “mother”, and instead, he only caused her to have a blood vessel in her brain explode, which I would hope everyone knows what that is called. The point of it is that what I watched her endure that day, not even one in one hundred people were known, at that time, to be even remotely capable of surviving. To make it worse, she wasn't rendered aide until over an hour after it had happened. SHE was lucky to survive. I was the one of two sons who had to watch it happen. The reason for this, I honestly have no clue, even today. Given the room we were stuck in, there should have been no way for me to see it happen, since there was a wall and a door blocking any view.

That day, I lost my family; My mother, My half brother, My father. Since then, I have not known what it means to have a mother or a father. Or even a family, for that matter. I only know what it is to have the shell of what once was considered the idea of a lost concept.

When I was only four, I had already been initiated into something that frankly, no child should ever have to go through. My so-called “father” began to turn me, slowly, into something that has since become feared and loathed more than peoples' concept of the Devil, himself. Yet, to this day, he denies what he did to me. No; there was no sexual abuse. But the Hell I went through should have killed me, and I know with complete certainty, that no other person I have ever met would have survived it.
To begin with, I was forced outside, into the cold winters, with nothing more than a tank-top and cut off jeans as shorts. Nothing else. It was -50, on most of those days, and that is being generous for the “leniency” of mother nature and her vengeance in the months between January and March. Especially in the state of Minnesota, where the winter can become colder than -70, even without a wind chill.

By the time I was six years old, and two years after my 'grandfather' had found out what my “father” had been doing to me, thus initiated me into HIS idea of Military training, I experienced my first real taste of what most I know would consider an incident more terrifying than any horror movie can ever convey.
I was sitting in the graveyard, speaking to an old friend, which I often did, by this point. Being half Native American Indian, and taught to be open, and to follow my own path, I became more than Spiritual. The Spirit World, Energies, and Battle had already become fused together, within my blood. They had become part of me. Hell... they WERE Me, and I was All of Them. I had come to realize, already, that I was re-born, already into it all.
I still don't know what I had done to warrant what happened to me that day, but long before it was over, I was staring down the business end of a twelve Gage shotgun. Everything became a blur to me, from there, for awhile, and I won't say exactly what happened, because most people would choose not to believe it, simply because of their weak one-sided views (and yes; I said “weak”).
I had no idea what had happened, completely, because my “father” always said “question and argue with Everything but God”... that day, I found out just how wrong his words really were. I went back to the cemetery, to see what happened, and I found the groundskeeper tending to a yard that had been half-destroyed. Head stones had been all but demolished, and the stone cross that stood in the center looked like its side had been hit with a Side Winder missile. In front of it, the ground was reduced to a gargantuan crater. What befell to the ten men who had come there, to pay Me a visit, the day prior, I won't say. But I will say that I was more than just “confused”, or even “horrified”. At that time, there were no words that could possibly describe what I felt.

Of this, I knew I couldn't say a word to anyone. Least of all, my so-called “father”, whom I might add, was not only an abusive piece of trash, but also not exactly faithful to anyone, at all. He was also the least understanding of any person I have ever known in all my life (I had even told him, a year earlier, that I could see and speak to the Spirits of the Dead and Gone. He began cursing me out, calling me “F***ing Demon Spawn”, which frankly, at that time, he had no idea just how right he actually was, for the first time. But nowhere near for the reason or reasons that he thought he knew).

Fast-forwarding six years, I already knew that something about me wasn't “normal”. I was more different than anyone (even myself) could understand then, let alone imagine. I was walking the streets of my city of 'birth', with the young man, whom, to this day, I claim as My “Blood Brother”. We were walking along the Main Street of the city, and a man walked up behind us, holding the muzzle of a .44 Magnum to my back, pulling the trigger, and blowing half of my chest off. He shot me In The Back... simply because he didn't like the way I looked. He ran off, leaving my Blood Brother carrying me to the hospital, where they evidently said that I was “obviously not going to survive the night”. Yet they stitched me up, anyway.
I remained comatose for a week, awoke with bandages wrapped around my chest, and I had no idea where the Hell I was. So frankly, I was beyond enraged. I walked out of my designated room, tearing my bandages off, wondering where my clothes were, and I met my Blood Brother down the hall, to find out that he had already 'taken out' the man who'd shot me, while I was asleep. Still, none of the doctors can figure out ho I healed from something like that. “You should be dead” is what they kept telling me.

High school, at sixteen... I know what you are thinking “you were no different from any other teenager, buddy”. Well... if ever you have heard of the saying “Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover”, then that saying applies, here and now.

All throughout grade school and high school, I was bullied. Constantly. And obviously, the BS didn't stop, at the end of the school day. At “home”, I was treated like trash, since my 'grandfather' died when I was nine, and he was the only one who ever treated me like True Family, after my life had been turned into a nightmare. So losing him only added even further to the nightmare(s). In school, during each day, of every year, I was pushed around, beaten on, and pummeled like a punching bag, since I was never allowed to fight back. My school(s), my “father” and my 'grandfathers' codes forbade it, all for differing reasons.
My 'grandfather' forbade me from fighting, because he knew full well that he had taught me to be a True 'weapon'. Advanced Military, Survival, hand-to-hand and weapons combat training were not and still are not looked upon in a very kindly fashion, when looking at a child/teenager, who supposedly had “no life experience”.
My “father” forbade me from it for the reason that he believed I “didn't need to in the first place”.
My schools had forbidden any manner of self defense, for years, since before the Columbine 'incident'. A student was neither allowed to carry even a one inch pocket knife, nor even protect his or her own person from being murdered or raped. That's a little contradictory, if you ask Me.

It was late in m ninth grade, when I watched my only 'friends' at the time getting the living Heaven-knows-what beaten out of them. I could only stand where I was, frozen, as this happened. I finally saw one of my friends turn toward me, with her face black and blue and swollen to the point where she couldn't see, and I snapped. The next thing I knew, I was standing between my 'friends' and their aggressors, with an outstretched hand, and there seemed to be either a widening transparent wall or a vortex in the hallway, just in front of me. From what I was told, my eyes had turned as black as the night sky, and I evidently had the look on my face of a Demon from somewhere beyond the deepest pits of Hell. The lockers had been torn off the walls, and the walls were shredded like confetti, when I came out of it. Back then, I was known as a “Goth kid”, and that 'incident' had labeled me as the “Freak of the school”.
Later in that seasonal year, I watched one of my friends get raped, while I turned the corner of the alley, not far from the school. I ended up snapping, yet again, and nearly killed the young “man” doing it.

After that, I was seen more like a “monster” than anything.

As time went by, and I grew, I was seen more and more as a “monster”, by those around me. The only ones who held no fear or hatred toward me were the few 'friends' who still remained, at that time. More people my age started to refer to me with more derogatory instigation, including, yet never limited to “F***ing freak”, “the psychopath guy”... and eventually, a very distant cousin of mine began to spread a new 'nickname' for me: “The Cowboy From Hell”.
That 'nickname' began, out of the attire that I had already worn for a handful of years, because it was the only thing that I became comfortable in; A dark hat, a long leather trench coat, and a Victorian Era style of my 'regular' garments – and my “limitless” temper, which had a knack for getting the best of me and those around me.

Now, many years later, all this while not even really aging even by a day, I still look almost exactly the same as I did when I was fifteen. And still, I'm seen as either a “freak”, a “monster”, or worse, by those around me. The only few who don't seem to see me in the same “light” are those who seem t be able to actually see beyond the shell of my skin, and don't simply view what I say or what I do as a “guise” to hide myself.

I have always had a passion for Victorian Literature, and this is where most of my writing style comes from. I see things in a way that not many others I've ever met do. I see virtually every side to the same ordeal, and I see deeper into others than they can see into themselves. And I try to write as putting myself into the perspective of others. Hence, why I capitalize most words that are used in the First Person. And I write with the emotion that I can't feel; hence the reason for my 'apparently null' emotion.

I feel next to nothing. Being Empathic and Apathic, I've lost what little emotion I once had, in being around those who 'feel too much'. So I don't know how to feel emotion of my own, anymore.

Submitted: October 30, 2013

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