when i was very young, grade 2, i stole the picture of a girl i liked off the teachers desk after picture day. it was a stupid thing to do, i tried to keep it as long as i could, but i felt guilty in the sense that i was somehow cheating whenever i looked at it. i was sure no one would like someone as mean as me, but some innate sense of loneliness and self loathing wanted to hold on to something at least. she was in my class again the year after and i crumpled her picture because i couldnt handle seeing her in the same class as me every day while knowing i had this childish little secret about her. it was like a fleck of dirt i couldnt wipe off my mind, and it just made me hate myself more than anything else. \”why did i do this? why am i keeping this? why am i so weird? she wouldnt want me to have this.\”

i vaguely remember debating asking my father about it, i never did. at that age he never really said much to me anyway, and my small questions were usually ignored like that. it was how i judged what was important and what wasnt, mostly things that didnt involve money or work in some way wasnt… i figured he would just think i was a coward, like i did. there was never really any point in asking him questions. i dont know why i didnt ask my mom, i guess i thought i wasnt important enough anymore, or that maybe that i didnt want my mom to pity me about a girl i liked. my mom had my father to deal with in any case.

i remember, she slept in my room with me a lot then. it was never said, but it was always sort of understood that whenever she did it was because my dad was drinking, probably she was scared. i think when she thought i was asleep, she would slowly hold me and cry silently with my head tucked under her chin, eventually i could feel the dampness of her tears through my hair and on my scalp. i wanted to cry too a lot of the times, but i never did, because she never really wanted me to see her like that, so do my best to pretend to be asleep… i guess i thought it was what she wanted, what would be the best thing to do for her. i think back now and i realize it was probably impossible that she thought i was actually asleep. both of us were just pretending for the sake of each other i guess.

i started bullying people in grade 3, simple things at first. id call people names, punch them if i felt like they were trying to make me feel bad in some way… a lot of times they werent. id push people into puddles and throw mud at their faces. i pushed a kids face into a decaying old bee nest once and i kept pulling him down while he tried to get up and run away so he couldnt do anything. id pick fights with kids in the playgrounds after school and make fun of them, to the point that if they saw me theyd all immediately get off the playground and walk home. it felt horrible, but at the same time i liked it. around town id steal things from the stores and smash car windows, getting caught more than once and just running off over fences. the rcmp came to the house once early on because of it, and i guess my father had to pay for a fine. i knew what was happening, i was re-reading one of my donated comic books and i stopped and quietly put it away and sat on my bed and waited for him. what was the point in doing anything else? he didnt yell or anything, he just burst in smacked me on the head with his palm 3 times and when i tried to move to get away he raised his palm again and i froze. he stopped, and instead made a restrained fist and held it in front of my face, \”dont do that again.\” then he left the room and slammed the door before i let my eyes open fully again.

sometime not long after, i was walking around during recess at school and one of the more well liked kids on the swing set said something along the lines of \”why the long face\”, and i guess i didnt like his tone, i grabbed his foot mid swing and pull him off of it and he hit the sand loudly on his back, and even though i knew it hurt and i felt regret immediately, i still jumped on top of him and started hitting him, before some older kids grabbed me and threw my onto the grass, i got up to start swinging at them too but a teacher ran over. some of the days of the week at school i did my work alone locked in with a teacher in what they called the PR \’personal reflection\’ room – always as a punishment for something or another that i did – other kids always peeked in the door window and ducked away when they saw me see them. i always thought the name was childish, like \’time out\’, as if i didnt understand what i was doing, like i was an idiot… but i didnt understand and i was. but, there was no \’personal reflection\’ about it, the point was to sit in a room in the silence, isolated from the rest of the school with an adult who didnt want to be there with some brat that thinks hes tough and that not caring about anything is even tougher. i sat in a room in the quiet, maybe with a few other fuck ups as bad or worse than me, make fun of teachers and other kids, tell stories about how mean we were to make the other kids laugh… and thats how bad kids make friends with each other, and do more bad shit.

as the years went on i only got worse, i started demeaning anyone that spoke to me, it was easy to figure out what they were insecure about and thats what i would go for, in the most horrible way, using every cutting word i could. i fought all the time for petty things, like the way someone looked at me, or an insult i thought they mightve made. id walk down the hall and kick people into their open lockers, more than a few getting cut to some degree on the metal sides, i would do it jsut because, why not? i was quick to hit someone, a kid from another class sat in my desk to talk to his friend and when i came in to sit down i flipped the whole thing with him in it just to make a point. \”dont sit in MY desk.\” i made a teacher cry when one morning i told her in different ways how much of a pushover she was, even though she was actually really nice. another one too that was trying to understand more in my home life, probably to see if she could help, and i actively laughed in her face, meanly, mockingly. one of teachers had a son i bullied regularly, but i pretty much bullied everyone. she sat with me and tried to understand what id been doing and where it was coming from, she said she knew my mom growing up, i refused to say anything the whole time once i knew that. just eyed the wall, putting on the biggest \’fuck you\’ face i could, like she wasnt worth looking at. she teared up just before letting me go, and that caught me off guard, but made a point not to react. i slowed down after that, i remember that specifically. it wasnt as deliberate anymore, being mean to people, it was more impulsive when it did happen, but i started to leave people alone if they left me alone. by the time i was in highschool it was just sort of understood that i wasnt going to be anyones friend, and nobody talked to me and i didnt talk to them, except for once in a while and only just a few words, and almost always spiteful, sarcastic, and mocking on my part. a girl sat next to me and said i looked lonely in an empathetic tone, i told her straight faced in harsh monotone cruelty, \”maybe thats the point,\” like i was telling her \’go fuck yourself\’…which i half debated saying in a splite second, but, i actually did appreciate her saying anything to me at all…i wanted to be scary to people so they would leave me alone, but no small part of me was sadly regretful when she did, and i apparently got what i wanted

i talked to my mom on the phone sometimes when she was away. she didnt want me to come to her place, and a fearful, denying part of me didnt want to go either, even though i desperately wanted to at the same time. it was just sort of understood again – we pretend for each other – i didnt want to see her like that, she didnt want me to see her, and secretly i didnt want her to see me either, i was just getting into my addictions, but i knew she wasnt dumb and that it wasnt much of a secret anyway. i was on something most of the time then, mostly it was codeine, but i smoked a lot of weed and did cocaine as well almost wherever i want, i worked as a cart boy at the grocery store near the end of high school, and i still lived with my father, just as a necessity… he had more money, and even with the shitty way he talked to me or flat out ignored me, for whatever reason he maintained his obligation to take care of me. in school my grades started horrible and i was retaking classes i failed the year before, somewhere inside i had already planned to drop out. on the phone i told her how hard i was working. all the initiatives ive been taking. all the things i had planned for myself, i was going to get out and i was going become something we could both be proud of. i was working harder than ever before on school, my grades were getting better, and all the teachers were telling me about the opportunities i had. she liked to hear it, i think. she sounded happy, and thats all i wanted, even if i felt that same fleck of dirt again. shed tell me she was getting better after the divorce with my dad, the world didnt feel so bad and everyone around her was nice and attentive, she rarely wanted for anything and one of her friends visited her everyday and they went for walks in the park nearby her apartment. its a nice thought, and at the time it made me happy to hear, a part of me knew it couldnt be true, she always sounded worse, not better. i dont like to think about how much of it mightve been true or not. we were both pretending for each others sake again. she met someone, and she was happy-ish, he drank but he wasnt violent. she didnt talk to me as much, she was going to start a family… at a point i lost contact with her, and then i made a point not to try to find it, because shed be better off without me. its like i havent aged a day. i still hate my father and whish hed have died when i was much much younger, and i still hate myself for not being able to protect my mother, and the failure ive been since.

\”personal reflection\”, hmm? after a point, reminiscing about the same old story feels like it happened to someone else entirely, and yet thats me. that will always be me.

why is it so hard to change who you are? the scars are a part of me, i never learned to control them. i just…react

a failure, a degenerate, a bully, who said no, \”id rather you go fuck yourself\” to life…

and now, friend, we try to dig ourselves out of a 30-year-old hole…and i wonder why im swallowing so much dirt.