I had a female cousin by whom I was bullied often. She'd often point at me, yell for everyone to hear that I was a serial killer, and then have her family pounce on me. It was a common theme in my childhood for me to get hurt just because some people made up enough stories about me. One story she shouted in order to get people to hurt me was that I was dangerous if I wasn't struck on the head. Unfortunately, it had already been long established in my family that I was a feral child; so if I were ever caught consuming violent media, I would be struck so that I would forget what violence they thought I would imitate. The worst thing that could happen was that they would pull out a knife. No matter how much I protested, they would just not believe me. If I were ever caught speaking articulately, they would think that I was going to hurt them; I couldn't really be myself in the house, just at school. In any case, my cousin also kept trying to make it look like I was the serial killer she kept saying I was, so that my family would have enough of a reason to hurt me. She kept beating me up in order to get me to say what she wanted me to say, and to do what she wanted me to do, in order to make it look like she was right all along. She also brainwashed people, including me, into believing her stories. She didn't really want to be wrong; or maybe she just liked the control. While she was shopping for a wedding dress with my mother, my cousin asked her to break my head as a wedding gift. She manipulated my mother into hurting me by getting me to say that I wanted to move abroad; since my moving away was the very last thing that my mother wanted, my vocalizing it would tempt my mother into making sure that I didn't have any thoughts of leaving her. She also kept spreading rumors about my desire to push people down the stairs; she kept trying to make that rumor look true. If I tried to push her down the stairs as she told me to, she would hurt me and make it look like she was just acting out of self-defense. She also teased me about random stuff she thought I did; like flexing my jaw, or laughing petulantly, or overall being a nuisance. She kept trying to anger me, hoping that I'd attack her and she'd get to hurt me fatally and have an alibi for it.
My mother also bullied me. In my elementary days, she threatened me with a knife so that I would take care of her. She made me put on her pants afterwards. She put on my shorts afterwards. I was numb that entire day. I could barely process what was going on around me in school. I wasn't allowed to have any friends, since she'd just attack them if I was ever caught hanging around anyone, male or female. I never really felt safe, ever; I always had to assume that she was everywhere I went. I wasn't allowed to have love interests, which should be a given. If I was ever caught either watching cartoons or playing video games with women in them, she'd shriek like crazy and take out the knife to make me pay attention to her; she'd get jealous, thinking that I thought the cartoon women were real. If I were ever paying too much attention to my video games in general, she'd go berserk anyway, since I wasn't paying enough attention to her. After doctor appointments, she would always ask if I had any relations; she'd sniff me a lot, worried and obsessed. She teased me a lot about possibly being homosexual. I couldn't really go around the women's undergarments sections of departments stores she'd take me to; she would attack me. She would make it a point to never listen to me so that I'd call her "Mom" over again; she liked the sound of her 'role' being validated. She never paid attention to me.
I didn't have any means of escape. I lived on an island with just one exit point, which the less friendly members of my family would intercept me at. As a child, I couldn't really get away. My grandfolks wouldn't relocate me off the island despite what was happening; they liked Hawaii too much. I had two aunts on my mother's side, but one of them had gone mad because of her narcissistic son; she sort of confused me with him. The other aunt was the mother of the female cousin who bullied me, so it was hard to make contact with the former. And even if she did want to save me, she had already built a life for herself in Hawaii. It was why I hated the damned state so much. It was paradise to many, but hell for me. I didn't really have anyone who could up and leave with me in tow.
Eventually, I lost my memory of what had happened. I continued to live with my family for years after some incident in middle school that caused me to lose my memory. After that incident, I just couldn't remember any of the bad stuff anymore. I was just gone; I certainly didn't feel safe remembering anything with my family around to subdue me in case it occurred to them that I wanted revenge on them. They were really scared that my memory would come back; they would attack me if there were any signs. For years, I would have to suppress my memory. For years, I would have to hurt myself whenever I was on the verge of remembering something incriminating about them; it was a form of conditioning. I wouldn't start remembering any of this until years later, when I finally moved out of that madhouse I used to be imprisoned in. I had always felt imprisoned on that island; now I know why. I had always felt hesitant about telling the truth, and about being myself; I now know why. Remembering hurts; but it also affords me closure. The saddest part about all these memories trickling in is that I'm not even sure if all this even happened. I might be anguishing over nothing at all, just figments of my imagination. I'm panicking like mad these days; I don't know how much of my intelligence has been lost as a result of these things that may or may not have happened. If they did happen, then it's just too much for me to remember how I only got hurt in order to validate the stories that my family made up about me; it's too much for me to remember how selfish, violent, arrogant, and assuming they were. I'm feeling sickened these days; I'm feeling less sane, too. Whenever I remember something, I can't help but be shocked at how I had forgotten it; I then try to relive it over again in order to remember more about the event; I then spend the day trying to remember how it ended; it is never usually good. I have to wonder if the closure is really worth the trouble sometimes. Maybe it is, sometimes; but not all the time. All things in moderation, maybe? I don't know; maybe I'm just having trouble accepting this as a permanent part of my life, while not wanting it to be permanent. I'm trying to live my life. But my flashbacks cause me to dissociate and lose focus easily, out of either distress, curiosity, or need for closure. The quality of my life suffers as a result of a combination of my refusal to distract myself, and the intensity of the trauma that I am reliving.
Number VI:
Larxene.
The Organization's Not-That-Geezer's-Heart-Tank.