Preface: I'm fine now, really. It just helps to talk about it sometimes. You can read it if you want but most people will find it disturbing.
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I was psychologically abused as a child. I entered puberty when I was ~6. I was highly gifted and developed asynchronously. I led myself to believe that I did not have an empathic response because every attempt I made to improve my situation backfired. I believe that this greatly exacerbated my Asperger's as while I never lost the desire to be normal (nominal works better here, actually) I did lose hope that I would ever achieve it.
I was home schooled until I was 12, then tossed back into the 6th grade public school system so I could learn social skills. I was simultaneously sent to an unethical shrink who would betray my confidence, allow my parents to custom order medication to what effect they wanted. (another one of their patients ultimately murdered this shrink's partner, which shut down their practice in the resulting investigation) The one time he tried to help me by telling my parents that I had Asperger's they were outraged I went cold turkey off the myriad of medicines he prescribed me (whose dosages changed weekly, and I never took consistently in the first place; which resulted in insomnia, depression, and hallucinations).
I was routinely sexually abused by a female pedophile eleven years my senior when I was 14 and 15, until she found someone even more f****d up then me to be her toy. I disassociated what was happening so that while I was with her I had one mindset and set of memories, and at home and school I had another set of memories and thoughts. Some were made up, but mostly they were one whole split in two. Fortunately the events that followed, and her suddenly 'dumping' me resulted in this disassociation itself being repressed and evaporating.
By the time I was 14 I hated my life so much that I would, as soon as I got home from school, curl onto my bed and focus all the hatred I had. I believed, and still believe, that murder is suicide, and suicide is murder. I couldn't find a way to commit both, though either would have been fine with me at that point. I began to spend more time curled into a ball, focusing every negative emotion, every repressed memory into limitless, omni-directed malice. I started to do it instead of sleeping, as I was put on Adderal. I hallucinated from sleep deprivation too, and for a while I thought the stabbing pain I felt in my gut was imaginary too. Soon it became apparent that I was getting very sick. I believe to this day that the horrible disease that occurred with this was a psychosomatic response. That I had, in essence, opened the floodgates to a disease my body may have been predisposed to, but else wise never have succumbed to.
I started hemorrhaging internally and kept vomiting blood in varying amounts about every hour. I didn't tell anyone because I was just going to let whatever was wrong with me just kill me because I didn't see the use of being healthy in a sick world. I couldn't bring myself to murder anyone, even someone I hated as much as me, but I could force myself into an apathy so strong that I would allow my own body to consume itself. In that way I planned to die without having to pull the trigger, so to speak. I viewed it as a blessing.
Eleven months later, I was in excruciating pain every moment of my life, but I used flattened affect to hide it. I couldn't sleep more then 3 hours a night, I was skeletally gaunt (6'4" and 110 lbs), my entire body was jaundiced, my hair had fallen out (I "shaved" it) and I knew Id be dead soon. No one suspected a thing.
I tried walking up stairs to go to my class one day, but I was too weak to do it. When I tried to force myself, I got up a few stairs before my body stopped working. The world blurred and I collapsed backwards. I could feel my brain asphyxiating and I fought to stay conscious, so I could know what death was like. I stayed awake, even when I crashed onto my head and started bleeding, spilling what precious blood my body still had left in it.
Someone screamed when they saw that my blood was no longer red. In the last month it had turned brown, and recently developed odd fibrous clumps in it (similar in structure to phlem). I laughed but all I could manage was 'heh'. I was taken to the nurse, I tried to fight it but it took everything I had to stay awake. I didn't want to die in my sleep. I passed out anyways.
I woke up in the hospital. They started to take a blood sample, but immediately stopped when they saw my blood. It wasn't long after that they realized I had been bleeding out of both ends, and that I would occasionally make shallow cuts on my chest or arms to watch the blood seep out of me. I was not in a hurry, I was so emotionally numb that the pain couldn't touch me. My only solace was the inevitability of death.
I didn't fight them when they tried to treat me. I knew that that would only result in me being tied down and later institutionalized. I feared that more then living, which I feared more then death. Two weeks later of intensive treatment and transfusions they felt confident enough to draw a single unit of blood to test. My blood iron level came back at 3/4 of the level that should have put me in a coma, and just above what should have killed me. To this day no one is quite sure how I survived.
They diagnosed me, treated me more, in different ways. I was on an all clear liquid diet for a long time. A link with my immune system was suspected and I was put on a dangerously powerful immune suppressant, that can cause immediate anaphylaxis in even small doses. I was one of the lucky ones that never did have that reaction, though. Once my stamina was up they put me on high dose cortical steroids and let me eat regular food (with strict restrictions on everything but quantity). I gained about 80 lbs the first week, and 60 the next.
It took me over a year to get well enough to go back to school, and then I only went because it was the only thing I could do to break the boredom of staying at home. I went to college, flunked out, moved away, got a job, got fired, moved back home, and finally started to get my life under control.
Ive sense built a successful scholastic and work history. I'm now 22 and Ive never fully gotten better. I still hurt constantly and hemorrhage internally, but its not as bad as it used to be and I manage. I have scar tissue on several organs, but now my worst days are a hundred fold better then my best used to be. I don't hope to die, and I have even found, for the first time in my life, true happiness in the last year or so. I'm still lonely sometimes, but I have good friends who understand and care for me (and when need be, tolerate me).
Last edited by Death_of_Pathos on 02 Dec 2008, 11:12 pm, edited 2 times in total.
01 Dec 2008, 6:08 pm
i feel sorry for stuff happened to u don't really know much what to say other then just dont give up! 
