18.07.2016 by Anhedoniac
When I was a boy, I remember being extremely sensitive to everything - literally everything. I'm not sure why, I suppose I was just naturally sensitive to everything. When I was 6 years old, my older brother had been doing such evil things to my mom, such as stealing from her for drugs. It eventually got to the point where I felt like I needed to kill him. Usually, when people say they're feeling murderous, they mean it in a facetious or figurative way, but I actually felt this urge to carry out a plan to kill him. Now, at 6 years old, I didn't have very much of my book-smarts yet, but I was certainly gifted as far as separating reality from my dreams and wants. I knew I couldn't kill him, because even then I knew that murder was illegal and morally wrong. Instead, I decided to think of something I could use to sort of 'torture' him. The first thing I could think of was to kill an animal of his, as he had many pets. So, when he wasn't home, I took his young kitten and beat it to death. I hid it behind a small tree in the backyard so that no one would find it lying out in the open. Also, if I were to be asked about it, I could say that it could have been a different animal. I don't understand why it didn't and still wouldn't tip my moral compass to kill an innocent animal, and neither did my mother. As smart I was about hiding the animal in a place that made it look like a predator might have taken it, I still had a small amount of blood on my pants. I even changed my shirt and washed my hands, but I didn't really check for blood on my pants. I tried to tell her that I cut my leg, but she didn't really buy it. A few weeks rolled around, and my mother sent me to a psychologist to discuss why I did this. She figured that no sane person would kill an animal for no reason. The psychologist asked me a bunch of weird questions, even including a lot that had little or nothing to do with the situation. She'd ask me about what kind of music I liked, how often I lied, or even what time I went to bed. Almost a year later, I found myself being taken to some mental institute. My mother actually had me committed for killing a kitten, which I still find ridiculous in every way. Either way, there I was. I was taken to a section of the asylum that had boys with anti-social tendencies. My mother didn't understand the complexity of my situation, but I was still sent there. There was this boy named Jason, and we kind of ended up being friends. Jason had a serious case of sociopathy, which is what my psychologist thought that I had. It's hard to have friends in a mental health unit, considering how they usually keep each person in a different room. At this time I was almost 8, and yet, I was being treated the same way a 30 year old meth addict would be treated. At night, I'd be strapped down after having some kind of psychological evaluation. I spent 5 months in this hospital before they released me. They eventually found out that nothing was really wrong with me, and sent me home due to overcrowding. It's good, because I really didn't deserve to be there. About 3 months after I was released, my aunt was driving me to school like she did every day before I was sent to the hospital. Some man in a Volvo must have been drunk off his ass, because he hit us head-on. Glass shattered everywhere, and both mine and my aunt's faces were completely covered in deep gashes from the glass. However, my aunt's throat was also cut by this glass. It wasn't in my nature to panic, so I looked at her. I watched her carotid artery making small spurts of blood. I then started to panic. I freaked out so bad, doctors had to restrain me like half an hour after all had been said and done. After I stopped freaking out, I lay still. I stared at the ceiling of this hospital, as the surgeon stitched my face back together. Oddly enough, I didn't really lose much blood from the incident. I did, however, suffer deep cuts from glass on my forehead, nose, and left cheek. After healing, I went back to live with my mother, who always asked me why I didn't ever want to do anything. Like, I never cared for going out and doing things. I didn't hate it, I just didn't really care. The same thing happened at school. This went on for 4 more years, when I finally thought that I should start pretending emotion. I didn't really have any emotion at all. I didn't have urges, I didn't go out of my way to do things, I didn't have any motivation to do anything except to get good grades. I thought that if I didn't pretend, I'd get sent back to the asylum. I'm now 16 years old, and I still pretend that I have emotion. I fake it good, too. I've gotten so much practice doing this, and I haven't had anyone ask about why I'm so different for several years. 8 years after the accident, I still don't really have emotion. Like, I never feel depressed/happy, angry/pleased, or confused. There's only one instance of emotion that I can think of that I feel, and that's when I'm with this person named Hannah. I don't feel like writing about that right now, but if you want to hear about that, you can go to my Tumblr blog at www.tumblr.com/blog/alexithymiaandanhedonia, which goes into detail about that. I want to serve as a kind of a helper to those of you who want answers concerning Alexithymia/Anhedonia.
If you want to contact me, please go to LorenzoDiGhiberti@gmail.com or just talk to me through my Tumblr blog, which, again, is www.tumblr.com/blog/alexithymiaandanhedonia
You could also just let me know if you like these stories on my life experiences so that I can write more of those for you, as well.
My goal is to prevent people from developing this in the first place, be better at faking their feelings, or help people gain emotion.
Good luck, everybody.