Before getting into the story: If you donot wish to understand, will make fun, just lowk click off. I wont be telling the name of the book, or names of people, videos mentioned for privacy reasons for them and myself. Please do not go hunting for said book, video or persons mentioned for your sake. Do not make my foolish mistake.
Also, I have posted this in the recovery forum because I wish to find some solutions to deal with what is going inside.
Context that will help you, or feel free to skip ahead: I am born to a household where the parents are emotionally neglectful, not understanding of me and invalidating. I have always been a curious person, this being one of the best and worst qualities of mine. I had been into mysteries, the impossible, the absurd. This led me to a strange rabbit hole of watching 'art' that would lead one to become depressed, traumatized, or lead to killing themselves. Started searching up things like: songs that makes one mad, gore, suicidal letters, suicide attempts. Yet, I was still not satisfied. Probably, because my10 year old brain was being damaged, and changed my brain chemistry a bit. Nevertheless, I started my search, the search to find something deeply disgusting, traumatizing. Something, so child me could feel something. I have realized now that some part of this, was me starting to go numb, hence the journey. I became deeply obsessed and fascinated to find a thing that could emotionally destroy a human. My target landed on books because I was already an avid reader, and I figured what was better than pure raw unfiiltered emotions crammed into words.
The actual story now:
One day, I am just scrolling on youtube, just an 11 year old doomscrolling when I find a video from a youtuber that says something along the lines of: The most disturbing and depressing piece of art I have ever read. Curious and stupidly, I click on the video and watch it. Mentioned in the video, is a semi autobiographical book who wrote it and killed himself shortly after. This premise draws me into it, almost with a primal desire of sorts that still lingers to this day. The book talks about a person and how they became an alien in the society, fearing humans to a depressing degree. Humans had committed vile things to the narrator, and it is his story of how he will cope with all of it. Doesnt seem too depressing, I said. Let me see what the deal is all about, I said.
That night, child me downloads the book on her tablet and starts reading. Within a few hours, it is finished. Now, I donot know what happened immediately after but I do remember the consequences it bought with it. This book triggered my first depressive episode. And that was the day, when I remember I went truly numb. I related my story to the authors and how depressingly it matched. The only good thing the book did was inform me of what abuse I was going through and ignoring. The following days, as I went to middle school. all I could think about was either nothing or rushing suicidal thoughts. I had kept an art journal, that I am still trying to find, which contained my emotions and how I had expressed them. Small essays on virtue, God, loneliness, people and evil.
If there was only one word I could use to describe that period of my life, it would be: MISERY. I have broken or forgotten memories from that area, now that I try to remember them, I go into a state of numbness. I do remember experiencing depression, memory loss, suicidal ideation, concrete plans, immense hatred of myself and others, my first episode of dissociation, leaving religion, and the fear of humanity. I did not want to experience what had happened to the author and how humans had ruined their life for them. So, I started isolating myself.
I tell my therapist that I have attempted to catch the bus, but in reality, I went into a fit of rage and tried to pierce/slit my wrist with a pen, to avoid pain. Didnt work obviously.
It took me 2 to 3 weeks to leave the depressive state, 3 to 4 years to leave numbness and a lifetime to understand, come to terms with and accept what happened. After what happened, I dont know why, but I kept on going with the journey to find something even worse, find the next book, the next movie, the next piece of art. I used reddit to read all the books associated with the book that traumatized me, they didnot hit. Asked years for recommendations to give me the same feeling as that book did. Nothing came close.
So, I started writing it. For a year, all I focused on was writing a single piece of fiction that would make anybody that read it, get sent into a state of madness, anxiety and ultimately suicide. Thank God, I stopped soon enough because my perfectionism got into the way.
I have tried to understand why this happened, and maybe all it did was wake me up my reality. But I have been carrying the embarrasing guilt that after all the gore, porn, drugs and situations in my life, the only thing that managed to make me mad was a single book written by a depressed author. And worse, still my longing to find something that would trigger it all over again. Part of my main drive to still read books, is my drive to find something uncanny and disturbing. I know it is a rare story, and precisely so, I donot know how to vulnerable about this thing that destroyed my childhood. Last week, when I thought about processing it, I was immediately hit with problems with remembering the past and a state of numbness.
If you have any questions, do ask, because I may get some of the memories back from that time that will help me.
Also, I have posted this in the recovery forum because I wish to find some solutions to deal with what is going inside.
Context that will help you, or feel free to skip ahead: I am born to a household where the parents are emotionally neglectful, not understanding of me and invalidating. I have always been a curious person, this being one of the best and worst qualities of mine. I had been into mysteries, the impossible, the absurd. This led me to a strange rabbit hole of watching 'art' that would lead one to become depressed, traumatized, or lead to killing themselves. Started searching up things like: songs that makes one mad, gore, suicidal letters, suicide attempts. Yet, I was still not satisfied. Probably, because my10 year old brain was being damaged, and changed my brain chemistry a bit. Nevertheless, I started my search, the search to find something deeply disgusting, traumatizing. Something, so child me could feel something. I have realized now that some part of this, was me starting to go numb, hence the journey. I became deeply obsessed and fascinated to find a thing that could emotionally destroy a human. My target landed on books because I was already an avid reader, and I figured what was better than pure raw unfiiltered emotions crammed into words.
The actual story now:
One day, I am just scrolling on youtube, just an 11 year old doomscrolling when I find a video from a youtuber that says something along the lines of: The most disturbing and depressing piece of art I have ever read. Curious and stupidly, I click on the video and watch it. Mentioned in the video, is a semi autobiographical book who wrote it and killed himself shortly after. This premise draws me into it, almost with a primal desire of sorts that still lingers to this day. The book talks about a person and how they became an alien in the society, fearing humans to a depressing degree. Humans had committed vile things to the narrator, and it is his story of how he will cope with all of it. Doesnt seem too depressing, I said. Let me see what the deal is all about, I said.
That night, child me downloads the book on her tablet and starts reading. Within a few hours, it is finished. Now, I donot know what happened immediately after but I do remember the consequences it bought with it. This book triggered my first depressive episode. And that was the day, when I remember I went truly numb. I related my story to the authors and how depressingly it matched. The only good thing the book did was inform me of what abuse I was going through and ignoring. The following days, as I went to middle school. all I could think about was either nothing or rushing suicidal thoughts. I had kept an art journal, that I am still trying to find, which contained my emotions and how I had expressed them. Small essays on virtue, God, loneliness, people and evil.
If there was only one word I could use to describe that period of my life, it would be: MISERY. I have broken or forgotten memories from that area, now that I try to remember them, I go into a state of numbness. I do remember experiencing depression, memory loss, suicidal ideation, concrete plans, immense hatred of myself and others, my first episode of dissociation, leaving religion, and the fear of humanity. I did not want to experience what had happened to the author and how humans had ruined their life for them. So, I started isolating myself.
I tell my therapist that I have attempted to catch the bus, but in reality, I went into a fit of rage and tried to pierce/slit my wrist with a pen, to avoid pain. Didnt work obviously.
It took me 2 to 3 weeks to leave the depressive state, 3 to 4 years to leave numbness and a lifetime to understand, come to terms with and accept what happened. After what happened, I dont know why, but I kept on going with the journey to find something even worse, find the next book, the next movie, the next piece of art. I used reddit to read all the books associated with the book that traumatized me, they didnot hit. Asked years for recommendations to give me the same feeling as that book did. Nothing came close.
So, I started writing it. For a year, all I focused on was writing a single piece of fiction that would make anybody that read it, get sent into a state of madness, anxiety and ultimately suicide. Thank God, I stopped soon enough because my perfectionism got into the way.
I have tried to understand why this happened, and maybe all it did was wake me up my reality. But I have been carrying the embarrasing guilt that after all the gore, porn, drugs and situations in my life, the only thing that managed to make me mad was a single book written by a depressed author. And worse, still my longing to find something that would trigger it all over again. Part of my main drive to still read books, is my drive to find something uncanny and disturbing. I know it is a rare story, and precisely so, I donot know how to vulnerable about this thing that destroyed my childhood. Last week, when I thought about processing it, I was immediately hit with problems with remembering the past and a state of numbness.
If you have any questions, do ask, because I may get some of the memories back from that time that will help me.
