I had a dream the other night. Everything was chaotic. All of my buddies were having fun. They all sat at a table and played with LEGO blocks together. There were toys everywhere. But that was only the first level. Serene and bliss. All of my high school and middle school teachers were roaming around on both floors. The second level had floating islands made of plastic and sand. People would rest, and those who would move would be scarred and scraped by the sand beneath them. If one was at ease, then it was perfect.

Then there was the negative level. The floor below the first. A basement of sorts. There were shower heads, and a few of my guy friends, all laughing and bathing in the showers. They were completely clothed, but were having fun nevertheless. I felt cold. And wet. And sick to my stomach. My old physical education teacher walked down and began to talk to the other guys. I could feel snot clogging my nose. I could taste blood.

I walked back to the first level. I spoke to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. “You’re not funny.” he says. “You try too hard to make me laugh, it’s obnoxious and stupid.” I later received similar responses from other friends of mine. The most hurtful thing they could do was roll their eyes, which many did.

I had known these people for years. I didn’t remember what I did wrong. I remembered images of my mom and my family, all looking down on me. Not allowing me to partake in supper. All of my teachers telling me “Okay” after I shared anything. Input wasn’t their concern. It was getting me to leave.

Two boys tried to play with me. They shot me with paint balls. They thought it was funny. I would have thought it was funny too, but I didn’t. I wanted to hurt them both. I felt adrenaline rushing through me. I could have bitten them hard. Tore their skin from their body. Chewed. Swallowed. And enjoyed it. I was missing that taste of blood and iron. I didn’t hurt them. I couldn’t. I took a razor I used to use to cut plastic model pieces out of the frames, and I cut vertically down into the top of my wrist. I pulled, and pulled as hard as I could, till I felt bone. It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. I saw the blood. It tasted like iron. I cut deeper even when there was nothing left to cut. My hand had gone limp. I kept pulling. I don’t know what I wanted to happen but I did. Nobody was looking at me. It’s more likely that nobody knew, but I made myself believe they didn’t care. I felt nothing anymore. I didn’t have the energy to scream. I only had the bit of energy left to keep cutting. The razor was through my arm entirely. I took a tendon into my teeth and pulled as hard as I could to just try to feel something again. It felt like a bee-sting. My arm hasn’t stopped hurting.