Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,618
When I was around 7 years old, I went to school one day with a bruise on my leg. A member of staff noticed it and asked me how it happened. I told them the truth—my mother had hit me with a wooden pole. Social services got involved, and I was sent to the hospital to be examined. But in the end, nothing really changed. She was let off with just a warning.
Three years later, when I was 10, it happened again. I had gotten into a fight with my brother, and my mother snapped. She attacked me with a wooden pole, hitting me across the face. The blow cut open the left side of my face. She never took me to the hospital, never checked if I needed stitches. I still carry the scar to this day—a permanent reminder of the pain, the fear, and the complete lack of care.
That scar isn't just skin-deep. It's a mark of the failure of those who were meant to protect me—both in my family and in the system.
When I was 12 years old, my sister and her boyfriend were giving me drugs—weed. That same year, I dropped out of school and started smoking cigarettes. I never left school with any qualifications, and from that point on, my future felt like it was slipping away before it had even begun.
When I was 12, I went to live with my dad. Every day, I'd go to school, sign in for registration, and then walk straight out the front gates. Me and my friends would put our dinner money together to buy cheap cigarettes. Back then, a pack of 20 only cost £3. We'd sell them for 50p each at school to make a bit of money.
With what we made, we'd usually go buy weed or hash. Then we'd head back to my dad's house. He was always out at work, so the place was empty. We'd sit around playing PlayStation, getting high. That was my life—day after day, from 12 years old until I was 16.
No one ever stopped us. No one ever asked where I was or what I was doing. School didn't check. My dad didn't notice—or didn't care. I wasn't guided or protected. I was just drifting through those years, numb, stoned, and slowly disappearing from anything that resembled a future.
I had one girlfriend in my lifetime, from when I was 16 to 18 years old. Now, at 38, that was the only relationship I have ever had. It was a brief glimpse into what life could have been, but it only made the loneliness that followed even harder to bear.
Losing something that made life bearable—whether it's love, friendship, stability, or even just a sense of purpose—can make going back to loneliness feel unbearable. Even if you're technically in the same place you started, it doesn't feel the same because you've now experienced something better. That contrast between "what was" and "what is" can be devastating.
When I was 18, after my relationship ended, I had a mental breakdown. The sadness and loneliness were unbearable. I truly believed that no one would ever love me again. That overwhelming pain and isolation led to me being diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Both my parents never took me to the dentist. As a result, I suffered from dental problems that could have been prevented with basic care. This neglect was just another reminder that my well-being was never a priority to them.
When I was 18 years old, I was having a house party with a few friends. We were drinking beer and listening to music—just me, two other lads who were brothers, and a girl I liked. When she arrived, she gave me a long hug, and as the night went on, we drank, smoked cigarettes, and enjoyed the moment. Eventually, she and I went down to my bedroom and got into bed together.
Half an hour later, there was a knock at my front door. One of the brothers told me his brother was in a fight and asked if I could help. I went upstairs to tell the girl, and she urged me to go help. On my way out, I grabbed a wooden pole, thinking I might need it. Halfway to the fight, I got sick from all the drinking. When we arrived, I saw that my friend had picked a fight with an old man. To my shock, he took the wooden pole from me and used it to attack the man.
The police arrived and arrested him, taking the wooden pole as evidence. A few minutes later, as I was walking home, the police stopped us, asked if the weapon was mine, and when I said yes, they arrested me. Despite not being the one who committed the crime, I was sentenced to four months in jail. That night not only destroyed my future but also ruined my one chance at another relationship. While in jail, I found out I had 22 cavities, further proving how neglected I had been growing up.
When i was 18 me and my brother were in the back garden when we had some friends around. Anyway, a fight broke out between my brother and some friends, and I went rushing in. I ran into one of the lads, forcing him to fall to the ground, but as we did, he pulled me under him and landed on my left shoulder, dislocating it. Ever since, it has dislocated about 10 times now.
When I was in my early 20s, I took a paracetamol overdose, leading to a trip to the hospital. The next morning, I was violently sick—the kind of sick with blood in it. I had damaged my stomach lining, and now I have to drink milk all the time to settle my belly. I can't drink alcohol without being sick.
I wanted to share a bit about an experience I've had that has had a lasting impact on me. When I was 30, I suffered a brain injury and developed tinnitus in both ears. The damage stemmed from using large headphones and constantly listening to drum and bass music at high volumes. Over time, I began to hear creaking and cracking in my ears, a constant reminder of the harm caused.
I used to be a programmer, but since the injury, I've found it nearly impossible to concentrate on programming anymore. I also believe that my use of weed played a role in amplifying the damage to my ears and brain, as the pleasurable effects while high likely contributed to me pushing my limits.
Three years later, when I was 10, it happened again. I had gotten into a fight with my brother, and my mother snapped. She attacked me with a wooden pole, hitting me across the face. The blow cut open the left side of my face. She never took me to the hospital, never checked if I needed stitches. I still carry the scar to this day—a permanent reminder of the pain, the fear, and the complete lack of care.
That scar isn't just skin-deep. It's a mark of the failure of those who were meant to protect me—both in my family and in the system.
When I was 12 years old, my sister and her boyfriend were giving me drugs—weed. That same year, I dropped out of school and started smoking cigarettes. I never left school with any qualifications, and from that point on, my future felt like it was slipping away before it had even begun.
When I was 12, I went to live with my dad. Every day, I'd go to school, sign in for registration, and then walk straight out the front gates. Me and my friends would put our dinner money together to buy cheap cigarettes. Back then, a pack of 20 only cost £3. We'd sell them for 50p each at school to make a bit of money.
With what we made, we'd usually go buy weed or hash. Then we'd head back to my dad's house. He was always out at work, so the place was empty. We'd sit around playing PlayStation, getting high. That was my life—day after day, from 12 years old until I was 16.
No one ever stopped us. No one ever asked where I was or what I was doing. School didn't check. My dad didn't notice—or didn't care. I wasn't guided or protected. I was just drifting through those years, numb, stoned, and slowly disappearing from anything that resembled a future.
I had one girlfriend in my lifetime, from when I was 16 to 18 years old. Now, at 38, that was the only relationship I have ever had. It was a brief glimpse into what life could have been, but it only made the loneliness that followed even harder to bear.
Losing something that made life bearable—whether it's love, friendship, stability, or even just a sense of purpose—can make going back to loneliness feel unbearable. Even if you're technically in the same place you started, it doesn't feel the same because you've now experienced something better. That contrast between "what was" and "what is" can be devastating.
When I was 18, after my relationship ended, I had a mental breakdown. The sadness and loneliness were unbearable. I truly believed that no one would ever love me again. That overwhelming pain and isolation led to me being diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Both my parents never took me to the dentist. As a result, I suffered from dental problems that could have been prevented with basic care. This neglect was just another reminder that my well-being was never a priority to them.
When I was 18 years old, I was having a house party with a few friends. We were drinking beer and listening to music—just me, two other lads who were brothers, and a girl I liked. When she arrived, she gave me a long hug, and as the night went on, we drank, smoked cigarettes, and enjoyed the moment. Eventually, she and I went down to my bedroom and got into bed together.
Half an hour later, there was a knock at my front door. One of the brothers told me his brother was in a fight and asked if I could help. I went upstairs to tell the girl, and she urged me to go help. On my way out, I grabbed a wooden pole, thinking I might need it. Halfway to the fight, I got sick from all the drinking. When we arrived, I saw that my friend had picked a fight with an old man. To my shock, he took the wooden pole from me and used it to attack the man.
The police arrived and arrested him, taking the wooden pole as evidence. A few minutes later, as I was walking home, the police stopped us, asked if the weapon was mine, and when I said yes, they arrested me. Despite not being the one who committed the crime, I was sentenced to four months in jail. That night not only destroyed my future but also ruined my one chance at another relationship. While in jail, I found out I had 22 cavities, further proving how neglected I had been growing up.
When i was 18 me and my brother were in the back garden when we had some friends around. Anyway, a fight broke out between my brother and some friends, and I went rushing in. I ran into one of the lads, forcing him to fall to the ground, but as we did, he pulled me under him and landed on my left shoulder, dislocating it. Ever since, it has dislocated about 10 times now.
When I was in my early 20s, I took a paracetamol overdose, leading to a trip to the hospital. The next morning, I was violently sick—the kind of sick with blood in it. I had damaged my stomach lining, and now I have to drink milk all the time to settle my belly. I can't drink alcohol without being sick.
I wanted to share a bit about an experience I've had that has had a lasting impact on me. When I was 30, I suffered a brain injury and developed tinnitus in both ears. The damage stemmed from using large headphones and constantly listening to drum and bass music at high volumes. Over time, I began to hear creaking and cracking in my ears, a constant reminder of the harm caused.
I used to be a programmer, but since the injury, I've found it nearly impossible to concentrate on programming anymore. I also believe that my use of weed played a role in amplifying the damage to my ears and brain, as the pleasurable effects while high likely contributed to me pushing my limits.
Last edited:
