My name is Petra, I’m 28, and I’m a sociopath. I was born to Judith and Hubert Jones in Minnesota in 1986. When I was four, my mother left my father because he was abusing both of us. We lived in a trailer park in Detroit for four years, my mother teaching me everything she knew, and I began school there. When I was eight, however, he found us and shot my mother dead. He pleaded self defense, threatening to have me put into foster care (which he had told me lies about to scare me) if I didn’t back him up. I felt as if I was betraying Mom’s memory, but I was a kid and I was scared. So he was given full custody of me, and then Hell began. He took me back to Minnesota, induced amnesia in me with electric shocks and head injuries, then told me lies so I would stay with him. He told me I was a bad child who deserved to be punished, and that I had to hurt myself if I wanted to keep the bad things inside me. He gave me a different name to the one Mom had given me when I was born (he called me Molly), told me Mom had dumped me with him right after I was born and then died, told me I was retarded, and made up reasons for all his abuse, all of which, in my state, I believed. I lost a lot of skills, like literacy, as well. He created a clean slate and then shat all over it. He made sure I never re-learned to read or write, so he had control over me, and ensured to never teach me to count anything, so I couldn’t use money or the phone. He would beat and rape me daily, in new ways every time, and sometimes he would starve me or force feed me until I threw up.


When I was nine, I broke. I developed DID, and all my alters were very different. Many would harm me, some allowed Dad to fuck them, quite a few tried to kill me or themselves, some existed to please him, and some were babies that he would grow angry at and abuse. He abused me beyond anything I can ever describe, and I developed ASPD that same year. I integrated out of spite, and grew to hate everyone and everything.


When I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I caught several buses and hitchhiked until I got to LA, and there I attempted suicide. The overdose caused temporary amnesia in me, and I ended up living on the streets for two years with no name, no age, and no real identity. My alters came back, but I didn’t know what was going on, all I knew was I was losing time, and sometimes I was hurt without knowing why. It turned out some of them had gotten me a job as a hooker, and one or two of them liked pain so they were letting guys (and girls) beat the shit out of them to get off. They’d spend the money on drugs, booze, and clothes, occasionally food, but always very expensive stuff that didn’t last. They hated me, for whatever reason. My memories returned when I saw Dad on the street one day right after switching back to myself. I ran as fast as I could, but he caught me and beat me until my legs were both broken. He then took me to the hospital and told the police that my alters’ pimp had done it, and told them about the DID. I was put in a psych ward and given medication I didn’t need. I was given antipsychotics, sleep aids, anti-anxieties, antidepressants, mood stablizers, and God knows what else, and they made me sick. They released me after six months, because an alter that didn’t hate me had forced control for a couple weeks and acted the way they wanted me to act, the way that told them I was cured. She went home and flushed all the medication down the toilet, and never took it again. Dad found out about her, though, and forced me at knifepoint to integrate again. They never came back. By this point I was lonely, scared, and mad at the world. I was angry at Mom for leaving me, I was angry at and scared of Dad because of what he’d done to me, I was angry at myself for getting rid of the only person I didn’t hate, and I was angry at the idiots who had believed Dad’s lies. I developed binge eating disorder, and gained way too much weight.


When I was twenty, Dad got me pregnant. He forced me to get an abortion, and beat me senseless when I cried. I ran away again not long after that, and attempted suicide again. This time the shock of everything put me into a fugue state. Apparently I freaked out at suddenly being somewhere I didn’t recognize, with no identity, and started beating the crap out of people to try and alleviate my rage. I was brought into police custody, where they interrogated me, but soon found I truly didn’t know who I was, and couldn’t read, write, or count. I was put into therapy, where they tried hypnosis to see if they could work out what was going on. It worked. Three sessions in, all my memories came back, even the ones Dad had removed. I filed charges against him, and he was sentenced to death row. I never saw him again. They diagnosed me with Binge Eating Disorder, Atypical Anorexia, ASPD, and Borderline Personality Disorder.


I was released from the care facility I was in way too early, and was forced to live on the streets for another four years, with only basic literacy and numeracy under my belt. I had stopped speaking by that point, because it made people leave me alone, and I hated everyone. I wanted to die, and attempted suicide several times. Each time, just as I was reaching the end, I would begin to hallucinate, and I would see two angels standing by me, both arguing about whether it would be cruel to save me, and always deciding to save me. They were always the same two, a man and a woman, about my age. The man was about six foot tall, and quite slender, with messy silver hair, dark blue eyes, pale skin, and leathery blue-black batlike wings. I remember thinking he was very pretty, but looked as if he had recently died, his nailbeds were too pale and he had dark circles under his eyes. His clothing was always casual, and sometimes I would notice scars on his wrists, and one on his temple. He spoke with a midwest accent. The woman was about 5 foot 1, and quite curvy, with neatly bobbed blood red hair, electric blue eyes, and cocoa-brown skin. She was beautiful, but also looked as if she had recently died, if you looked past the makeup. Her clothing was always pretty and semi-casual, and her wrists were covered in scars on both sides. She spoke with a Nevada accent. I never told anyone about them, because I didn’t want to go back to the psych ward.


For the next four years, I went from town to town, and picked up various jobs, all of which I would be fired from when they realized what a bitch I was, or when I refused to speak. I changed my appearance often, cutting and dyeing my hair and changing my makeup style and clothing so I couldn’t be traced. I landed in the overnight cells more than once, and the police never knew who I was, because I looked so different to how I used to by that point. I never spoke to them or anyone else and would quietly sit in my cell and either sleep or hurt myself, or occasionally meditate, though sometimes I would attempt to hurt or kill myself.


I came to Compound Mind on the 7th of May, and have been adjusting to the stability. I’ve quickly gotten used to not needing money, and food being there when I need it, and have turned my room into a self-sufficient flat so I don’t need to see anyone. My door is always locked, so I’m on my own. I meditate a lot, trying to find the alter that got me out of the psych ward, but I can’t find her. I think she and my mom would be the only people I don’t outright hate if they came back. Then maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely and depressed. I have nightmares about Dad escaping and coming to find me, because I know he hasn’t been executed yet, and there’s a chance he’ll be pardoned. I think things are settling down though, and maybe they’ll improve. I don’t know yet.


The only reason I’ve done this is people have gotten into the habit here of writing introductions for themselves, and I felt like making mine public.


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