I👩🦱 was diagnosed as a crazy person but i try and hide it | Please🙏 Share This Story 🎧| My Daily Animated Life Stories
Update: 2023-08-17
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All my life, I've always been that kid. The one who is always different from the rest. The one who stays away from people. The one who never really has any friends. So, maybe I was a psychopath from the very start. I don't know. Or maybe I suffered trauma when my father died in that car accident. But however it started, I was always strange, even as a young girl.
My father died in a car accident when I was 5-years-old. I remember going to this funeral. I remember my mother crying. I remember seeing his body in the coffin. He looked so ghostly white. And I think something clicked in my head. I think something changed.
Or maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe my father's death had nothing to do with my illness. Maybe I was a psychopath all along. I have no clue. But from that point on, my symptoms and psychopathic tendencies amplified.
When I was younger, I wrote this book. This book on how to kill people. I picked up my crayon and drew all sorts of weapons and methods, like knives, and rope, and pushing people off of cliffs. I would then organize these methods into the most effective, and least effective. I called it the "How To Kill People" book. I was 6 at the time.
I showed my mom. Of course, she was mortified. She couldn't believe a 6-year-old girl could make something like this. But she dismissed it as some weird phase, and we didn't address it.
When I was 7, I did something to a kid in my class at school that I wasn't proud of. It may or maynot have involved my hand stuffed in his jaw. I was painting a picture of a flower, when he came over and spilt all of his paint on me. I didn't know whether he did it on purpose or not, but I calmly stood up, and casually left a bruise on his face. The teacher soon separated us, but I was sent home for "inappropriate behaviour". My mother told me off, and grounded me for two weeks.
When I was 8, my mother told me off for not cleaning my room. So, when she was out getting the groceries, I went into her closet and picked up all her clothes. I carefully picked out all the ones I knew she loved, and then I brought them into the garden. And I buried them.
My mother cried when I got home.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"You told me off." I said.
"But this isn't right. You shouldn't be acting this way."
I remained silent.
But it didn't really bother me. I knew people were telling me what I had done was wrong, but I didn't see it that way. If I was being completely honest, I felt happy when I did those things.
All my life, I've always been that kid. The one who is always different from the rest. The one who stays away from people. The one who never really has any friends. So, maybe I was a psychopath from the very start. I don't know. Or maybe I suffered trauma when my father died in that car accident. But however it started, I was always strange, even as a young girl.
My father died in a car accident when I was 5-years-old. I remember going to this funeral. I remember my mother crying. I remember seeing his body in the coffin. He looked so ghostly white. And I think something clicked in my head. I think something changed.
Or maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe my father's death had nothing to do with my illness. Maybe I was a psychopath all along. I have no clue. But from that point on, my symptoms and psychopathic tendencies amplified.
When I was younger, I wrote this book. This book on how to kill people. I picked up my crayon and drew all sorts of weapons and methods, like knives, and rope, and pushing people off of cliffs. I would then organize these methods into the most effective, and least effective. I called it the "How To Kill People" book. I was 6 at the time.
I showed my mom. Of course, she was mortified. She couldn't believe a 6-year-old girl could make something like this. But she dismissed it as some weird phase, and we didn't address it.
When I was 7, I did something to a kid in my class at school that I wasn't proud of. It may or maynot have involved my hand stuffed in his jaw. I was painting a picture of a flower, when he came over and spilt all of his paint on me. I didn't know whether he did it on purpose or not, but I calmly stood up, and casually left a bruise on his face. The teacher soon separated us, but I was sent home for "inappropriate behaviour". My mother told me off, and grounded me for two weeks.
When I was 8, my mother told me off for not cleaning my room. So, when she was out getting the groceries, I went into her closet and picked up all her clothes. I carefully picked out all the ones I knew she loved, and then I brought them into the garden. And I buried them.
My mother cried when I got home.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"You told me off." I said.
"But this isn't right. You shouldn't be acting this way."
I remained silent.
But it didn't really bother me. I knew people were telling me what I had done was wrong, but I didn't see it that way. If I was being completely honest, I felt happy when I did those things.
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