"That's the question I've been asked hundreds of times in my life. Doesn't matter what I tried to answer it was always wrong to them.
'Do you have to always destroy everything?'
'Why can't you behave?'
'Can't you see all are scared of you? Why can't you be normal?'
How I should know? Stop making me angry. Then I probably can behave. Then I can be normal.
I was about eight years old when it hit me the first time. No matter how I tried to act like others in my class, I was definitely different. If all the adults were saying so too, it must be so. Being so used to people avoid me I remember I was always alone. There was only one adult in every foster home who was talking to me. No, have to talk to me. Like a daily thirty minute sitting what was a must to avoid me isolating. Was thirty minute a day enough to avoid such?
Once again I had lost to it in class. Usually everything was okay when I was in school, since I really liked studying. Concentrating on learning and problem solving kept my mind stable. That time someone probably said something 'wrong' or took something 'mine' so I snapped. They emptied the room and called the guards.
My hands were bloody. I had wear myself out. First time ever my mind was so calm I couldn't feel anything. That feeling I wanted back.
That's when I learn to cut myself. When they found that out, they started to lock me in my room, every night.
'He is dangerous. He fights all the time.'
'He comes home from school bloody. He is a nuisance.'
'It's the matter of time when he attacks someone here.'
I wasn't fighting. No one dared to approach me so how I even could have. I cut myself because nothing else was easing my mind.
They moved me out a little after that. New house. New school. Said everything would be different. They were here to help me. Help how? Nothing ever changed.
It became a repeat. Everytime they moved me I moved along with the words of warning. Worst was to hear they 'should lock me in at nights'. So before they would start avoiding me I avoid them first. To fill the empty time around me I started to gather things I liked in my room. Anything was fine. As long as I 'liked' it, I should cherish it.
One day I came from school and they had cleaned my room. Took everything away. That was also the last hour I was in that house. The person who said he throw my things away because 'they were disgusting' had it comming. The first time ever I actually attacked someone. And damn did it feel good.
Cops came. Handcuffed they took me away. The next hours I heard people around me discussing what to do with me. Where to take me. That didn't matter to me. I already knew what was comming. A new place. New people. Repeat. A fucking repeat.
They gave me room. I tried to make it comfy and fill it full of stuff. They moved me again when I became 'too much to handle'. I had to give up what I had collected once again.
I repeat it all. Over and over again. Until I couldn't take it anymore. If I would lose everything I tried desperately have, then I will not want anything. The room became a prison. I didn't want to stay in.
I went back to the same school I was in two years earlier. There were kids who remembered me.
'You are that freak! Palenne! You can fight, right?'
That was new. Some were willingly speaking to me. Not avoiding. Not scaring me.
Around that time was the first time I run away from my foster home. First I start spending my time out. Until I didn't go back at all. Didn't go to school either. I hang up with gang members all around the city. Mostly fighting since there was always something going on. I was good at it. These people respect what I had, what I could do, unlike the normal people around me.
But someone always found me. Cops. Social workers.
'I can't stand this anymore. We want him out.'
I had finally found something to fill my empty hours and once again they were trying to take it away from me.
I was ready to fight back. I don't need a room to be locked in. I don't need people who are just waiting me to snap. Nothing would change here anyway. I would fight back.
But my last foster father was very different. He was an old man on his sixties. I remember sitting inside the waiting room, as I always did when someone would come to pick me up, once again. He introduced himself and I went with him. This was how my circle always start. New house. New people.
But the place where he took me was not the usual institution or big house full of other home changers. It was an apartment building on the other side of the city I just moved out from. There was a small apartment we went in. A comfy living area with kitchen level. Bed. Small table. Small balcony, or more like a door out with railing. Two other doors, one to the bathroom and one for the wardrobe.
This didn't feel right. Something was very wrong. I was very alert at the time, since the situation was odd.
'I would like to make a deal with you.'
My last foster father became the first person ever who actually asked me how we should make this all work, instead just throwing me in the room and saying to stay there.
'I know there are some issues we need to work out. But everything doesn't need to be done right away. We will take our time. And learn to express your feelings more controllable.'
'There is no way you to live with others without making you uncomfortable, so I will let you live here alone. Exchange, I need you to be honest with me. You take responsibility of your own daily routines'
'According to your papers, you are actually a very smart student, but learning in huge groups might be too much for you. So we will start home schooling, I can teach you. You keep on with your studies as we see fitting and you are free to meet your friends in your free time. Eventually you can start your normal school scheduled.'
'Here's the deal. I offer you all this. No locks. You take responsibility of your own life, right here and now. Exchange, you let me take you to meet someone who might help us figure out why you act as you do. We both know it's abnormal among people. Let's not act any differently.'
I made a deal, not just with him, but with myself too. I would give anything if someone just told me what was wrong with me. Ever since that day I lived alone. That apartment became my own. The place I had the right to decide where everything would go. No one was taking anything away. No one was moving me out.
Under a week and I have stopped cutting. I didn't feel the need to gather stuffs in when all I need was right there. The control. More like, I liked to keep it simple. My apartment became a place to calm myself.
I met with my foster father daily, outside. We created routines to control my varying feelings. If someone would have teach me such a simple thing years ago, my life would have been so much easier. The constant feeling of anger become more easier to handle and ignore. Even if I couldn't stop the pulses appearing every now and then, when I was about to lose it I could at least be ready for it.
The appointment with my first head doctor clarify the reasons of my unintentional behavior. Brain activity abnormal. Clear abnormity, anger management issues. Finally someone told me there was a rational reason for all this. There really was something I've been fighting against all these years and finally someone agreed with me, believed me. I wasn't totally crazy.
But that was all that doctor could help me with; just gave me an answer what it was. There was no way to fix it after all. The unwanted impulses may calm down or totally vanish when the period of my teen years would end. If not, there was always the option of medication to help deal the issues. At that point I thought everything would turn to better. I knew what was wrong with me. Eventually I would learn to fix it.
Year later I sat inside the drunk tank, once again handcuffed. I heard later they needed four men to hold me down. Two were in the hospital.
That's when everything started to go wrong.
The more I tried to silent the anger I felt the more wrong choices I found. I tried all.
Legal medication. It mute it all. I couldn't feel a thing. I start cutting again but I couldn't feel anything from it. When I stopped taking my doses, the drop was too much to handle.
So I start to drink. Any kind of alcohol would do, as long as I didn't need to feel so numb all the time. It helped. At first. I could sleep. Milder drinks made me relaxed and I actually could not feel so angry all the time. But clears like vodka had an opposite effect. That shit took every drop of my self-control away. I was taking everything with it I could possible find. Every single time that happened I found myself in the middle of new troubles.
After three attempted suicide I went so deep my foster father finally took me to rehab. Week tied up and I could take a hold of reality again. But that only took me back to where I started. Nothing helped after all. I was angry all the time. Just like before.
I was amazed my foster father was still willing to meet and talk to me, after all what my crazy attitude has made him deal. Little by little I went back to my routines. I stopped using drugs and alcohol. Didn't touch medications either. I could only control my anger by simple mind. That was how I had always done it. Ignoring. Hoping that would be enough.
It was. Until I witnessed attempt raping in the middle of the night on my way home. There was yelling. Man hit a woman and pushed her down. Yells of help abate the more man kept hitting, ripping her clothes.
I'm not so sure what finally made me move there. All I could think was I didn't like to see what I saw. After I kicked the man three or four times I guess I lost it. Anger took the best of me. I remember thinking the man in front of me was nothing but a nuisance and should just disappear. Wasn't that how everyone think? Nuisances like me should just vanish.
When he had stopped struggling back and was lying on the ground unmoved, bloody face smashed so badly he was now unrecognizable, I realized man was a long dead. This might be the most serious thing I've ever done. What would come from this? That was pretty much all I thought when I got up and just walked away. My foster father will be so disappointed. Again.
I prepared myself. When someone would come and arrest me I should just go calmly. I had killed someone and needed to be punished. That was how world works. I should plan what to say to the old man.
What it's like to go to prison? I had no idea.
They should give me a private cell or my roommate might be the next to die. At least I should warn them.
I grow sick of waiting and just went to school the next morning. I met my foster father and spend my day routinely while waiting police to come.
The second day came. The third.
No one came. No one ever came.
A week later I walk through the same path. I was coming from the same direction and thought there was no reason me to avoid the place. The body wasn't there anymore. In daylight I realized the place was actually near the busy road. It wasn't so isolated area so of course someone have found it.
Why I was still walking free? Didn't anyone see me then? Should I turn myself in? Guestions like these start to fill my head. Again, one week pass and no one had come to arrest me.
The more I waited the more irritated I was. Then one evening I laught all my frustration out. Fine, don't come ever. My mind was so calm back then I didn't really even care what I had done. Murder or what, at least one bastard get what he deserved.
That calm didn't last long. My foster father died just a few months after that. I was so focused to my own shit I didn't even know that old man had cancer spreading in him.
That was my first regret ever. Three years knowing that man and I never end up saying a single word of thanks to him and now he was gone. Even after his dead he still support me, by willing his apartment to me. He even left me some money I could use when I turn eighteen.
Still I couldn't feel a thing. The only person in the whole world who ever believed in me and not a single drop of tears over him. I only felt the usual anger what my own feelings of guiltiness left behind. I hope at least man could rest in peace even when I never told him how grateful I was from all he had done for me.
Now I was totally alone again. Soon turning to eighteen and becoming an adult in the eyes of law and I still having no idea what to do with this cursed life of mine.
Half a year passed. I wanted to end honorable what I started with the old man and actually managed to end my school with good grades. Kiho. He was a member of one of the gangs I used to hang out with. My only true friend. When my school was over he asked what I would do next. I jokingly said I would become a police officer since the current ones were all so outdated and doing their jobs poorly, letting rascals like us run around freely.
Of course, he laught.
I also told him I would take him with me, when I would become a pro. Who would be better catching bad guys than bad guys themselfs.
Five years later we were both in."