This visceral experience is not merely a nightmare; it’s a brutal invasion of my subconscious, revealing a deeper truth about my existence. As I navigate the murky waters of my psyche, I’ve begun to suspect that the boundary between my dreams and reality is disturbingly porous. I discovered a chilling possibility: when I sleep, I seem to drift into an alternate world—a realm that tangibly influences the reality I inhabit when awake. This revelation casts a shadow over every waking moment, leaving me to question the very nature of my existence.
I never hated anyone, but there is a voice inside my head telling me to stop trying, to stop trying to make contact with people. Disappearing has become a hobby for me; I can happily live for months without any human interactions.
I’ve tried to search for what is wrong with me, but I found nothing definitive. Some sites suggested depression, loneliness, trauma… Lesson learned: never take off my headphones in public. If I forget my headphones at home or engage in an interaction, the voices will take over and do the job. What a miserable life.
I don’t remember my dad’s voice or his face, only in photographs. What I do remember is that night when we were having dinner together. I was a small child, going to bed like always, hoping that tomorrow I could watch some cartoons and ride my bicycle. Early in the morning, I heard screaming. I woke up to check what was going on.
It was my father, making weird noises while my mom tried to wake him up. Those sounds were heavy, the kind of noises that humans cannot describe. My dad was taken to the nearest hospital. Those sounds were death throes.
I saw tears, heard sharp, ear-piercing cries. My mother was beside herself, holding onto his hand as if her grip could pull him back from the brink. The ambulance lights flashed outside, casting an eerie glow through the curtains. They took him away, and I was left standing there, clutching my stuffed animal, not fully understanding what was happening but knowing that everything had changed.
Days turned into weeks, and my father never came home. The house was filled with a heavy silence, interrupted only by my mother’s quiet sobs at night. I learned to tiptoe around the house, not wanting to disturb her grief. I grew up with the absence of his presence, a void that nothing could fill.
As years passed, remembering my father was easier than forgetting him. I was chatting with my mom one day. She asked me if I had a girl and suggested it was time for me to find someone. We chatted about what makes a good woman and a good man. I interrupted her and asked:
“What kind of man was my father?”
She replied, “Your father was a good man, but he left me alone.”
I’ve read so many books describing pain and hate, but I never found mine there. To all the creatures that hurt my mom, to the objects that were hard on her skin, to the night that made her feel alone, to the heat that made her sweat, to the cold that made her shiver, and especially to myself for existing, I hate all of us.