All my life, I’ve been nothing but the outcast and freak in my community. Why? Simple. I am being myself. They tell me to be myself but they treat me as if I am an abomination to their perfect society. What makes me a freak in their eyes? What makes them think that I am nothing but a horrible creature that must be eradicated? There are many answers but I shall still tell them to you.

First answer is that I have always acted different than what I am. I remember when I was a preschooler I would always hang out with the boys instead of the girls. Despite that, I still wore dresses and skirts, like being pretty and have crushes on most of those boys but it never felt right to me. Deep down, I still think I am more of a boy than a girl.

When started elementary, I hanged out with girls, from kindergarten to 2nd grade. In 3rd grade I pretended to have crushes on boys because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. In 4th grade, the girls I called my friends drifted away and I started hanging out with boys again. But 5th grade changed me the most.

In 5th grade, I told one boy, who I thought was my friend, that I did not believe in God. Instead of seeing me as a friend, he saw me as a monster, a freak, an abomination. Afterwards everyone in that grade treated me differently. I remember they used to make their fingers into the shape of a cross, hoping that it would make me leave or at the very least disappear. Then everyone started bullying me. First it was religion, then it was about my hair, saying that it never looked brushed or cleaned, or on one occasion, people said I had lice. I felt alone, during that period. I would never go outside. I would never leave my room, I just sat in that room in the dark because I preferred darkness to the light, playing with my toys, talking to myself, and hating my life. Reminds of something my classmates asked. “If you hate your life, then why are you still alive?” Want to know the answer? I hate my life but I still have much to live for.

Middle school got better in a way. People seemed to just now ignore me, but a very few still bugged about my beliefs. But in 6th grade, I started reading books about myths and monsters. I would tell people about them but they just stared at me like I was crazy. In a way they thought I really was crazy, not for reading about monsters but for believing in them as well. Why do I believe in monsters but not God? I don’t know. In 7th and 8th grade, I still read stories like that, and people would keep on telling me they were not real.

Want to know what I like the most about the stories about monsters? The monsters themselves. I do not know why but I always found a type of kinship with those monsters. If they were bloodthirsty and murderous, I admired them for it. Those monsters embraced the dark nature within themselves instead of hiding it like we humans do. In the stories where they were hunted down by humans just for not being humans, I knew what they were feeling. The feeling that everyone hates you and wants you dead just because you are different. I know that feeling well.

In myths and fairy-tales I was drawn to the villains. In the Egyptian mythology I like Set, the god of chaos, who killed his brother for the throne of Egypt. In Norse mythology, I like Loki, the god of mischief, who was chained to a rock and has a snake constantly drip venom on his face til Ragnarok. In Greek mythology, I like Hades, god of the Underworld, who is often seen and treated as a villain, and Athena, goddess of wisdom, and in one particular myth, was never meant to exist.

With the monsters in those tales, I would always admire. I admire them because they don’t discriminate who they kill. I admire them because they give in to their bloodthirsty nature instead of trying to hide it like us humans. I pity them because they are always seen as villains. I pity them because people would rather they die and disappear. I love them because they are treated as I have been treated most of my life.

High school began last year, and I acquired a new interest. That interest is writing. When I started to write I felt happy, truly happy. But when I wrote the truth, I wrote how I feel. I wrote what I could never say because nobody would listen. But when people read what I wrote, they would become disgusted because what I write is not nice. It’s not pleasant. It’s not happy. What I write is full of sadness, full of ugliness, full of “evil”. Just because I write what’s on my mind.

And those are the answers. The answers to why I am considered an outcast. Now that you have read this what do you think? Am I just a freak that must be hidden or destroyed or am I another person in this world that has been treated unfairly because I am different? It’s your opinion, it is your choice. And I do not care what it is. For this is my choice, my decisions, and my life. And I am not going to change that.