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Ask Anonymously - Self-ConceptGot something to say about mental illness?
I don't know if bullies' claims of my obnoxiousness are true, but I've certainly become full of opinions lately... And more confident to voice them. Contrary to being detrimental or derogatory, my endeavors seek to help those with self-esteem (or lack thereof) issues as well as the myriad of others with what I consider to be full appreciation from me which my six years of endurance with psychosis can account for. But where focus of deficit is apparent, I think that more crucially should people be concerned about positives in life. We all have different standards so we shouldn't undermine anything positive about ourselves/others. There is no more or lesser exemplary case... Further to this, I want to make clear that victims who suffer aren't the only victims of said suffering: the bullie
Quakes The only thing telling me I wasn’t dead was the hand that reached into the cage and caressed my sun-burnt skin. Cool droplets of rain kissed my back as I lay face down on the hard ground. With every breath I sucked up more dirt; my throat was painfully dry and my chest ached to collapse. But I didn’t have the energy to sit, or even roll my head to the side.
“What’s wrong with that one? Why is he taking up an entire pen?” The voice was rough and agitated but I couldn’t bring myself to look up.
“He’s sick, sir.” A pause. “He drank from a river on the way over. I didn’t want him to but he was wea--”
“You let them drink downstream?” There was a sharp sound like wood against skin, accompanied by a yelp. “Are you going to give me back what I paid for them? Are you?”
I don't want you to go“Come here.”
Grandfather’s voice grumbled through the walls. I couldn’t see him, but I could tell that he was standing at the end of the hall where my wing linked to the main house. I wished I could seal it off and be alone, but Grandfather wouldn’t give me the key.
“I said come here.”
I knew my hesitation would only make him angrier but I couldn’t move. My body anchored to the chair and images of Grandfather’s face flashed in my eyes; his squinting eyes, red cheeks glazed with sweat, and the bulging vein that pulsed in his neck.
Grandfather towered in the doorframe, glaring at me with tarmac eyes that reminded me of all the times I’ve fallen in the park. I’d limp over to where the parents sat with the other injured children, nursing their cuts, wiping the tears off their cheeks. Grandfather never took me to the park; he told me to go alone.
“I saw you.”
He clenched his hands into tight ba