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Something that interests me greatly in literature is the notion of the "Other." That which is not the norm and perhaps frightening for that very reason - In some cases black people, in others, women. The "Other" can be represented as aliens, elves or high school goths, as far as I am concerned, and basically it is just a form of "Not-Me."

Except that, I usually feel like it IS me.

There's a story that I would like to tell the world, but I can't do it. I have worked hard to purge the worst memories from my mind, and every time one happens to resurface, I fall apart a little. I need to pull back and recover, and try to forget again, but it is so hard. One part of me is desperate to give some sort of meaning to what I had to live through - almost didn't live through - but at the same time I'm terribly afraid that in telling about it, it will destroy me.

I have a good life now, a fiancée, a job, hopes for the future, two cats and my own apartment, my own economy. I'm fine, and I don't want to risk it.

But the thought, the knowledge, that every day, thousands of little children out there suffer just like I did - it tears me apart. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change, unless someone does something. Maybe I could be that someone, if I could just tell my story to the right person, in the right way, but how am I supposed to do that? I can't even think about it without crying.

The pain never truly goes away. It only takes for someone to mention my "Otherness" for me to lapse into a contemplative mood that spawns writing such as this: Pretentious, scattered, angsty. All in a sort of desperate attempt to distance the feelings and memories that resurface from myself, and at the same time help me to understand my own mind. That I am posting this here, where almost anyone can find this text and read it, must be interpreted as some sort of cry for help.

I keep crying out for help, just like then, even though I know, just like then, that there is no help to be had.

I was bullied from the age of two. For roughly fifteen years of my life, I lived in my own personal war zone. The first time i contemplated suicide, I was ten years old. If my family hadn't been so loving and so good to me, I would not have had the strength to go on - I wouldn't be here. And yet, I have never told them what they meant to me, because in telling them that, I need to tell them the truth of all those years, I need to let them know how I suffered - and I can't do that. I love them too much. Even now, I am typing this here where I am fairly certain that none of my family will ever find it - my cry for help does not extend to them; they have done enough, so much more than enough, but still not quite enough. Not enough for me, for my peace of mind.

Did you know that trying to stay neutral, to blend into your surroundings and pass under everyone's radar is actually an entire science unto itself? I spent years perfecting it - or well, not perfect it. It can never be perfect, if they want to attack you, they will attack you no matter what you wear or how you act.

Studying theater in high school really helped me get over my fear of being noticed, but nothing can take away my sense of not belonging anywhere, except with my family. My "Otherness." And that's why I dress the way I do, talk the way I do and do the things I do - maybe, if I mark myself as "Other" right away, those who don't like that about me can back off beforehand, and won't be so upset with me when they inevitably find out.

I don't fit in, and I never will - mostly because I just can't identify myself as "Not-Other." I guess you really can't teach an old dog new tricks after all.