Category: Short stories

  • My Childhood Home(Some other thoughts)

    My Childhood Home(Some other thoughts)

    My Home

    I grew up in a house that was built in the 1840’s. (Just as a quick reminder, the time frame was around when Abraham Lincoln was alive) It was originally the first church built in the town. At some point was changed into a hotel. It was only one story, with a basement. The basement ceiling was constructed by the original logs that built the house. Just whole trees with the bark still intact.

    Our house used a well, because of the coal mining in the area from years prior, the ground had shifted poisoning the water supply. Making it impossible to drink. So our house was equipped with tanks in the basement that filtrated the water, so it was able to at least shower in. As a child, I spent some time staring at the brown resemblance of water that came up from the well. It had lead, iron, and bacteria in the water. The color was close the burnt coffee that sat on the burner too long, with a ting of red. My dad would spend time concocting caustic soda in a plastic tub to filtrate the water.

    Our neighbors wells would dry up in the summer time, because the wells weren’t deep enough. Sometimes, I felt fortunate that we at least had water. Spent time helping my neighbor with a wheel barrow with empty gallon jugs and carrying them to a fresh spring in the woods. Helping carry them back to her house. I was roughly eleven years old at the time. At age ten, for some reason our house had no water again. My dad had to dig up the well. I helped him pull it out of the ground. We went days without water. I spent staying up early into the morning outside with him, trying to help him whenever possible.

    Sometimes, I realize why I drank soda so much. Because it was the only thing that was ok to drink. Almost all of my teeth had fillings in them by the time I was ten because of cavity issues related to the water. Also, probably from drinking so much soda. Even now I struggle getting myself to drink soda. Some memories: I.just.hate. Do you ever have a memory so bad that your body just rejects whatever item was there at the time? Mine is coke. The smell, the taste. It reminds me of my childhood. I can’t stand it. I tried to drink it again a few weeks ago. I took one sip, and my head just involuntarily was shaking no. It brings me back to these memories of my childhood. I guess they are unresolved. People mention drinking soda has a happy memory from their childhood. Mine.does.not.

    Some people miss their childhood home. They would go back in a second. I feel a slight contempt? I wish I could have fond memories of my childhood home. There were some good memories there, but they get clouded by traumatic ones. But isn’t that all of life I suppose?

  • Sensory Issues

    Sensory Issues


    With my not so (new thoughts) of being autistic. I know that this affects almost all aspects of my life. No diagnose for thirty years for myself and my siblings, have almost hit an unbearable conundrum. In my self-diagnosis I try to reevaluate my surroundings, which I do quite a bit. Documenting my real life experiences and what is like is the only way I might be able to break-through the idiocy of my life. Maybe find normalcy. (Most likely doubtful) Slight trigger warning for anyone that is sensitive.


    As a child and even a baby, I realized I cried a lot more than a neuro-typical child. I would throw ‘tantrums’ and intentionally try to hurt myself when everything felt like too much. The whole world feels like the sensation of knives jabbing into my skin. When someone embraces me for a hug. Well…hugs were basically my kryptonite. The sensation on my skin of not being able to get away, is unbearable. I would scream and kick and push away when someone tried to hug me. I would even do it to my own mom. This is not socially acceptable. Why is everyone giving them all the time when it feels so hurtful to me? Why am I forced to hug people that I don’t want to? Why is the sensation on the top of my skin unbearable?

    In my attempts of trying to function in this world, I would feel parts of me breaking. Because, that is how this world runs. As a child, I did my best to observe what was going on around me. In that way, I succeeded too much. Even I don’t know who I am anymore. Desensitized to the whole world. Trapped inside my mind. I fooled everyone, and even myself. I was afraid the world knew who I truly was, they would hate me. Because I would see it all the time as a child. When I would be forced to do something that physically would cause me harm. It would still happen continually, and repeatedly. Even when I would either non-verbally or verbally communicate it hurts me. Over time when I would try to communicate it hurts me, and no one listens. It ultimately results in a meltdown.


    My meltdowns have been less and less over time. But I think I just have masked it all so much that I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t think I ever did. My meltdowns are uncontrollable. They almost feel like a seizure. When someone has a seizure you have to wait it out until its down. My hands aren’t mind, and I don’t know what they are doing anymore. I’m screaming, I am hitting myself in the head. I am not a harm to anyone but myself. I feel alone, and no one understand me. The weight feels so unbearable. It honestly feels like if the big bang was a sensation, it is happening in my mind.
    Yet again, here I am. I am misdiagnosed. I am over dramatic. I am making things up. I am fake. Yet everyone around me acts like everything is normal. It is not normal. It will never be normal to me. Meltdowns leave me exhausted, and even more desensitized than before. As a teenager began to self-harm to cope. Because if I am feeling pain continually, and I finally come down. I have to feel something again.