there are three wolves inside of me. one wants me to write the demon book in nanowrimo, the second wants me to write Andromeda in nanowrimo, and the third wants me to write Kaz Brekker, The Allomancer in nanowrimo.
I was in college before I stopped trembling everytime my father raised his voice. He could be shouting at a business associate over the phone and I'd be quaking in a corner somewhere. I didn't need a psychiatrist to tell me that witnessing my father beating on my mother like she was a Mexican piñata would have a profound effect on me.
Years later, when I asked my mom about the beatings and reminded her about the only one I ever actually saw, she said it was that very day she made up her mind to leave my father. That day, something inside her said that if she didn't leave, someone was going to end up dead, and she was pretty sure it would be her. But by the time she made her decision, the damage had already been done to me. I'd been programmed to accept abuse as part of my life.
I remember a point during my experimentation with mind altering psychedelics where my mind just gave out, sudden flashes of bright colors moved in from the corners of my eyes before things became difficult to comprehend. I was probably out for a good few minutes before I snapped back into a coherent state, noticing I had broken in to a sudden cold sweat.
It's funny to look back at now and laugh about the whole situation, but it's a little scary thinking about that state of incoherence and how I don't remember any of it. This piece is more or less a way for me to cope or recall this feeling based on my own experience.
If you are someone in a similar situation that I was in at that time, do take care and don't overdo it. It's fun to play in the sandbox but you'll quickly realize its a desert out there.
What did childhood actually provide us with, apart from the trauma that we now see as dreams and wake up drenched in cold sweat and shivers down our spine during hot summer afternoons...