Dumanyx
New Member
- Aug 22, 2025
- 2
For most of my life, I was a jester. I couldn't learn, I couldn't work, but I could get people to laugh at me. So it only made sense that my only worth was bringing enjoyment to others at the expense of my humiliation.
Consequently, I was help back in the first grade, as my grandmother did not consider me mature enough to enter second grade.
And then my grandmother kicked my parents out following an argument. We moved out of state to live in an ages-old house owned by my mother's surrogate uncle.
The school we enrolled in was not the greatest, I don't remember learning anything outside of proper finger placement on the keyboard from computer class. Then again, I never actually tried to learn anything.
Eventually, we enrolled in an online school due to many lice outbreaks in the school. I learned even less from that online school.
We moved back into my grandmother's house and got enrolled back into the school I left. I was still a bad student and hated school. So my parents had me transferred, thinking that would help me.
It didn't. I still shut down and would hide under the desk during class. I did science and music classes, but nothing else.
Then I moved into middle school and did the same nothing for my entire first year. Then COVID came, and I spent my 7th year at home, I wasn't doing a lot of work, but I would occasionally do some work.
But, something awoke inside me. I don't know if it was puberty or some desire to become better, but I started to care the slightest bit about my education.
When we returned to school for 8th grade, I was a pretty good student in most of my classes. Except for math.
High School blurs together for me. I always struggled with neurodivergence and mental illness in some fashion, but it was really amplified by the constant yammering about credits, college, clubs, honors, AP, SAT, ACT.
I was a pretty decent student, apparently. I had mostly A's throughout my first three years (I am entering my final year this coming week), but I never felt like I understand anything. Just that I was getting through by bullshitting everything and getting lucky.
I attempted suicide several times throughout those first three years. While still being celebrated by my family and praised by the staff. I took pill combinations that I hoped would kill me. I tried to starve to death. I tried to cut any vein or artery possible, but my lack of joy makes pain much worse.
In the last few months of my Junior year, the school searched me and found my journal. They read it and were disturbed. I couldn't blame them, the pages with dotted or splattered with blood and filled with scribbles of misanthropy and suicidality.
They suspended me, had me jump though a bunch of hoops, but never let me return to the only place I felt gave me worth. I was on light Lexapro, then greater doses of Lexapro, and then I waned off of Lexapro to switch to Wellbutrin and then much greater doses of Wellbutrin.
Everything feels the same, I still feel hopeless, worthless, and suicidal. But my therapist, my school, and my family think I seem better because I subconsciously mask myself the second I leave my room.
Now I am going into my Senior year, with:
No plans for higher education, but no way to escape my family forcing it onto me.
A schedule full of AP classes because I didn't want to seem less intelligent to my counsellor while making my schedule.
A thoughtless brain that couldn't even tell you the answer to the most basic multiplication or division problems without several minutes of thought.
I don't think I will make it through this year. I won't kill myself, not because I don't want to, but because my preservation instinct remains intact despite my struggles.
Maybe it will be broken by December and I can make some red snow.
Maybe it won't.
I'm sorry if this was poorly written. I have not practiced writing in a bit, and I made this on a whim. It also felt awkward to register for an account but do nothing with it.
Regardless, thank you for reading. I hope you are able to be better and do better, than I can.
Consequently, I was help back in the first grade, as my grandmother did not consider me mature enough to enter second grade.
And then my grandmother kicked my parents out following an argument. We moved out of state to live in an ages-old house owned by my mother's surrogate uncle.
The school we enrolled in was not the greatest, I don't remember learning anything outside of proper finger placement on the keyboard from computer class. Then again, I never actually tried to learn anything.
Eventually, we enrolled in an online school due to many lice outbreaks in the school. I learned even less from that online school.
We moved back into my grandmother's house and got enrolled back into the school I left. I was still a bad student and hated school. So my parents had me transferred, thinking that would help me.
It didn't. I still shut down and would hide under the desk during class. I did science and music classes, but nothing else.
Then I moved into middle school and did the same nothing for my entire first year. Then COVID came, and I spent my 7th year at home, I wasn't doing a lot of work, but I would occasionally do some work.
But, something awoke inside me. I don't know if it was puberty or some desire to become better, but I started to care the slightest bit about my education.
When we returned to school for 8th grade, I was a pretty good student in most of my classes. Except for math.
High School blurs together for me. I always struggled with neurodivergence and mental illness in some fashion, but it was really amplified by the constant yammering about credits, college, clubs, honors, AP, SAT, ACT.
I was a pretty decent student, apparently. I had mostly A's throughout my first three years (I am entering my final year this coming week), but I never felt like I understand anything. Just that I was getting through by bullshitting everything and getting lucky.
I attempted suicide several times throughout those first three years. While still being celebrated by my family and praised by the staff. I took pill combinations that I hoped would kill me. I tried to starve to death. I tried to cut any vein or artery possible, but my lack of joy makes pain much worse.
In the last few months of my Junior year, the school searched me and found my journal. They read it and were disturbed. I couldn't blame them, the pages with dotted or splattered with blood and filled with scribbles of misanthropy and suicidality.
They suspended me, had me jump though a bunch of hoops, but never let me return to the only place I felt gave me worth. I was on light Lexapro, then greater doses of Lexapro, and then I waned off of Lexapro to switch to Wellbutrin and then much greater doses of Wellbutrin.
Everything feels the same, I still feel hopeless, worthless, and suicidal. But my therapist, my school, and my family think I seem better because I subconsciously mask myself the second I leave my room.
Now I am going into my Senior year, with:
No plans for higher education, but no way to escape my family forcing it onto me.
A schedule full of AP classes because I didn't want to seem less intelligent to my counsellor while making my schedule.
A thoughtless brain that couldn't even tell you the answer to the most basic multiplication or division problems without several minutes of thought.
I don't think I will make it through this year. I won't kill myself, not because I don't want to, but because my preservation instinct remains intact despite my struggles.
Maybe it will be broken by December and I can make some red snow.
Maybe it won't.
I'm sorry if this was poorly written. I have not practiced writing in a bit, and I made this on a whim. It also felt awkward to register for an account but do nothing with it.
Regardless, thank you for reading. I hope you are able to be better and do better, than I can.
