Blarobbarg

Blarobbarg historia de la vida, la tercera parte de un número!

My first two years with New Dad were fanfreakingtastic. I thought about using an actual word in the English language, but I couldn’t think of one that summed up my feelings. So, fanfreakingtastic it is. He actually invested in his new children. Spent time with us. Held us. Wrestled with us. Loved us. Fanfreakingtastic is really the only option I’ve got here.

But by the time I was twelve I was beginning to sink into a miasma of hopelessness. The coming of teenagerhood was the coming of understanding. I began to think about my past with a more critical eye as I realized that growing up terrified of your crazy alcoholic father is not a “normal” childhood. I thought often about my short life and what it was, what it meant, who I was in the world. In the midst of these introspective journeys, I discovered pornography. Unsurprisingly, I was hooked immediately. What twelve your old boy, with hormones raging and certain feelings emerging, wouldn’t be? My parents had foolishly decided to put a computer in my room, and I spent many curious hours studying this new “sex” thing. And it really was study. I had always been, and still am, a very analytical person. This was just another new experience to examine.

Soon, my porn preoccupation became a porn addiction. Every waking moment that I could get to my computer, I was busy surfing away on the internet, looking for something new to turn me on. Now, I know a lot of people around here enjoy porn. I’m not judging anyone. But for me, this was a serious obsession. It was, however, just the side effect of my actual issues. I was continuing to spelunk into the depths of misery and depression. I was quite good at acting, and passed myself off as cheerful, but anyone with half a brain could tell that something was wrong with me. I avoided anyone who tried to befriend me, holed myself up in my cave as much as I could, and was a quiet loner until I had one of my occasional emotional breakdowns, in which I would completely blow up on anyone and everyone around me. I hated myself. I was dangerously apathetic to my physical well being. I began injuring myself out of self-loathing. I was fantasizing the many ways I could die, and thought how wonderful the reactions of others would be. They would be mortified! They would be so sad! It would be great! This continued for several years, without any real change, except that I was able to hide how I felt with more ease as I matured.

I knew that my lust for porn was an issue, but foolishly, I thought that it was my addiction that was causing my problems, and not the other way around. After a few years, I began to work on a sort of sexual binge-and-purge. I would fight the temptation for days, weeks, and once or twice, months. And then, all of a sudden, I would fall right back down the rabbit hole and spend an entire night, or several nights, or a week, watching as much as humanly possible. Then I would punish myself, wallow in hatred and self-pity for a while, and start the cycle over again.

But then, at fifteen, a sound pierced the deafening, lonely silence that was my life. METAL.

I came into metal in a somewhat different way that most. Up until this point in my life I really didn’t listen to much music. I would turn on the classic rock station every once in a while, sure, but it didn’t mean anything to me. It didn’t seem worth it. As far as I could tell, everything in a genre pretty much sounded the same. Why bother exploring music if it’s all just cookie-cutter copies of one another?

My little brothers, however, listened to a lot of music. Mostly metal. I couldn’t stand it. I could tolerate softer fare like Ozzy or Van Halen, but when they turned on Megadeth I would just leave the room.

Then, one day, I had to do some chores. I was in one of those rare moods where I wanted to listen to music, but didn’t have my iPod (filled with a few classic, soft, and pop rock songs) on me. I borrowed one of my brother’s and looked around. Out of curiosity I turned on Metallica’s classic album, Ride The Lightning. My life would be changed forever.



For some reason, in that thirty minutes of doing chores, listening to one of the best damn thrash metal albums ever to be released, it all clicked with me. I was an angry, angry kid and this was angry, angry music. It was perfect. Soon, I had listened to Metallica’s entire discography. With some help from my little brothers I soon moved on to Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Megadeth, and Motorhead. For a long time, those few bands were pretty much all I would listen to. Metal was therapy for me. It was the sound of my emotional state. Pissed the hell off. I was still miserable after I discovered these furious noises, but slightly less so. It might not have made much of a difference, but when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, every step the other way is a step in the right direction.

Next up, Part 4. Into the light.

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