Banished From Humanity, Mike [most motivational books .txt] 📗

I pleaded with him. “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!”
He stared down at me with such acrimony that I couldn’t help but plea with more devotion, a plea that’s call went unanswered but not unheard.
“Shut up, you sniveling little ass,” he commanded. “I don’t want your apologies; I want you dead.”
These words came in such a way that I was caught off guard. I had never imagined that a friend once so loyal and peaceful could turn from me in an incomprehensible instant. Saddened by such loss, I retreated into myself further, never seeking love again, but always having its taunting nature loom over me like the odious vengeance that I seemed to inspire. This simple note provoked the rage in others that transferred to me their true feelings, unadorned and pure.
I would dwell on my mistakes for hours at a time, refusing to accept that no one was perfect. In my eyes, everyone but myself was perfect, and I was despised because of my weakness. I desperately strived to obtain that sense of perfection, if not for love and admiration, then for a sense of self-worth. My ultimate goal began to daunt me, the desire to be needed, even wanted, by another. How could anyone want someone as tarnished as me? All kindness that I received, every compliment, became a lie, a conspiracy in my perspective. In that way, I began to search for all of the flaws within myself and soon compliments became insults, as I believed that people were teasing me, or being sarcastic when responding positively towards me. I became fanatically devoted to finding these imperfections, creating a self-image of a rather disturbing nature. Darkness loomed over me, the eyes of the damned waiting, watching.
My graded essay was returned to me. I scanned the areas with comments on them, managing to overlook the ones that stated positive features and instead eying the highlighted mistakes wearily. As I reached the final portion of the essay, I found a list of all the positive attributes in my essay. I ignored these, moving on to the final accumulated score. My heart sank; I received far below what I had hoped for. My final score was 183 out of 200. I had obtained an A, but yet, I was dissatisfied. I sat, my body growing numb, tears crawling down my face. The English teacher, baffled by my sudden loss of control, sauntered over to me, her face full of pseudo-concern.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, worriedly. “Why are you crying?”
My answer came out garbled as I muttered, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Not understanding what I had said, she repeated, with a slight urgency in her voice, “What’s wrong?”
This attention bothered me, and I frantically desired its abrupt end. I mustered up enough of my emotional control and regained my composure. I smiled up at her, wiping the tears away hastily, and replied with insincere assurance, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m alright, just a slight mental breakdown.” She smiled, satisfied by this answer, this lie, and returned to her desk. All was forgotten, and no one inquired why I had cut marks on my arm, for no one knew; no one cared. Ninth grade proceeded, and still I had no name.
Then arose an abrupt turning point in my rapidly decaying life. Unfortunately for me, this turning point caused my life to deteriorate even more, and at a higher intensity. My mother, sick of my constant feud with Depression, drove me, unaware of where I was going, to a hospital. Befuddled by my mother’s actions, I just sat in the car, waiting.
“Get out of the car,” she barked rather cruelly.
“Why?” I asked.
My question went unanswered, as it always does, and I was left to wonder. Confused, I slowly and cautiously rose from my seat, my eyes darting everywhere for some sort of hint that would sate my curiosity, fear, and rising suspicion. When gazing at my surroundings came to no avail, my intrigue led me to follow my conniving mother, though I was still tensed for a sudden attack. No one assaulted me, and I went in to the hospital a little more than afraid. Were they going to try and fix me?
I found my mother speaking in a low tone to the lady at the front desk, which was windowed off so that no one could infect her. She nodded, handing my mother some paperwork, and told me to have a seat. Trembling, I trudged across the miniscule space to a vacant chair. Across from me there sat a diminutive eight-year-old girl with her mother. The girl was bleeding from a head injury, and looked to be in a great deal of pain. I gazed at her with sorrow radiating from my eyes; I could not help but feel the pain she was forced to endure. Why was I here? I had no injury, no emergency, no threat to my life. Yet I failed to overlook what my mother saw as a liability: I was my own threat. For approximately forever, I sat there, demented, suicidal thoughts swarming around my brain, chocking my consciousness. When the lady at the front desk finally called me back to the office behind a wooden door situated the left of me, I rose weakly to my feet, shaking with panic, all the while stifling the compelling urge to sprint back outside, to the cold, sweet aroma of freedom. The very essence of my soul abandoning me as I entered, I trailed behind my mother, envisioning her being slaughtered repetitively, her blood being drained from her writhing body, her carcass withering away into sheer stench, a retched stench, the stench of what she truly was, a foul beast endowed with the manipulative powers of a Venus Flytrap, her sugary words and alluring charisma leading others to her cause, a malicious cause.
The door slammed shut with a finality that rang in my ears, a finality that only I could sense, like the fly before the spider, like the mouse before the cat, one that shook me until the very bones in my body began to rattle, creating a morose tune that sounded much like the wail of a ghoul, a trapped incarnation that spoke in shadows, only to be suppressed by the light.
“So, what seems to be the problem?” the lady said, coaxing me in a falsely sweet voice. Though she addressed me, my mother was the one to answer, though I did not request for her assistance.
“My son,” she stated, in a slightly controlled, slightly shaking voice, “is a danger to himself and the rest of my family. He needs some kind of treatment.”
Turning to me, the lady spoke to me in a stern, now businesslike tone.
“Is this true? Are you having suicidal ideations?”
My impertinent mother interceded on her own behalf again, speaking harshly, “He needs to be locked away in a loony bin until he learns his place!”
The lady stared up at my intrepid, yet also foolish mother for a fraction of a second before turning back to meet my petrified gaze. She repeated the question.
Terrified to the point of paralysis, all I could do was nod my head slightly, in confirmation. Taking this small, almost undetectable gesture as evidence, she gave me a band. In the background, my mother held her head high, a smug expression on her face, as if she desired nothing more than a disturbed son to wreak devastation upon.
“Attach this band to your arm,” the lady ordered.
“Why?” I asked.
“It is an identification band. You will be here for a while.”
I straightened up from my semi-relaxed slump in the chair she had provided and hysterically began to ask a series of questions about why I had to be there and why I could not just go home.
She responded with a casual wave of her hand and the threat of restraint, and forced me into a hospital bed in an unoccupied room. I began pleading with my mother, but she would not even spare a glance in my direction, as if my very gaze was poison. Throughout this torture, there came needles, doctors, psychologists, and pain, pain that would never falter.
I was utterly humiliated, being transported via stretcher onto an ambulance, though I had received no injury. The ride was tiring, for I had not slept that night, and I knew that when I was released from this mental jail they were placing me in, I would have no hope of a normal life.
“Everyone goes through this sort of thing,” they all lied to me, except for my mother, who was the only person I could trust, bizarrely enough.
When I arrived at the new hospital, I could hardly breathe. The doors were all locked from the inside, and as I was being hauled in, I caught a glimpse of a mentally unstable kid launching himself at a doctor and trying ruthlessly to rip her hair from her head. I turned away, fearing what was to come. I was carried down a hallway of mental adults who could not function properly. One of them eyed me and mouthed the words “You are going to die”. I shrunk within my shell, shifting into my own horrid thoughts, a temporary relief from this Hell of which I was barred behind. For what seemed like eternity, I watched as they placed the key into the lock and rotated it, opening the door to my cell.
The door was thrust open, and I was flung into the room, a diminutive room, a colorless, odorless room, a room in which all dreams were immured within its confines. The world was a blur, and I never seemed to be there, as if I had created an illusion around myself, a nightmare that was released from its stable, one that galloped around in my skull aimlessly, only causing immense headaches, incurable headaches. My blood was poison, and the more prominent the unconquerable fear became, the faster my blood (the poison) pounded through my veins, destroying the immaculate image of who I imagined myself to be. For a week, or at least, what I thought to be a week, they kept me contained in the morbid hospital, completely isolated from civilization, where truly psychotic people poked and prodded at my mind, giving me various medications to try and extirpate the dreary Depression, attempting to postpone the unavoidable.
I emerged no more mentally puissant than before; in fact, I felt a lot more resilient to the bellicose nature of my mother, the betrayal formulating a deep desire to decapitate her, and each curse uttered in her direction rang with eternal conviction. Time progressed much more disastrously than before, leading to complete chaos in my feeble brain, a never ending pandemonium that reduced my mind to sludge.
The anger that I once possessed now returned to me, but not as it had done before. In my room, my sanctuary, I sat on the hard floor, overwhelmed by the immense burden on my soul and mind. My thoughts were a whirling vortex of self-hatred, defiance, and anger. I wanted it to end, suddenly and without feeling.
“God!” I wailed. “God, if you exist, please end this damned life of mine!” Fervently, I pleaded with God to smite my horrific body, my grotesque self, and reduce me to a pile of smoldering ash. Never did the wrath of God approach, my prayers becoming meaningless words uttered by a meaningless mutant. My own mother and father treated me with contempt and malice, hoping that one day I would simply cease to exist. I desecrated myself, turning my relentless rage to the blade, and soon my arm was unrecognizable amidst the scars. Every slash of the blade reminded me that I was powerless, an inane peasant in a world