Fourteen: The Other Side of Someone Story

By Totus Wright

I had always heard of our family curse. I didnt believe in such a thing, of course, but the previous generation had been highly influenced by it. The curse was this: our family would be extremely healthy for yearsno sudden deaths, tragedies, or health troubles. But then, quite unexpectedly, someone would die, and this first death would herald a series of others.

At times laugh-out-loud and funny and at times heartbreaking, Fourteen: The Other Side of Someone Story is the story of a young man struggling with grief, addiction, and online harassment. It is a journey through drug use and depression, an unsentimental portrait of a family placed under immense pressure, and a window to our modern world in which social media has so quickly changed all the rules.

Hilarious, terrible, and beautiful by turns, Fourteen: The Other Side of Someone Story is an autobiography of a different kind, capturing the fears and dilemmas of a generation more connected than ever before but also more vulnerable for the very same reasons. From the surfing breaks of Bali to sleeping under bridges in London, the story deals unflinchingly with death, trolling, loneliness, and the difficulties of finding love in our online age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543408980

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Copyright © 2018 by Totus Wright.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2018905420

ISBN:                Hardcover                  978-1-5434-0900-0

                          Softcover                     978-1-5434-0899-7

                          eBook                          978-1-5434-0898-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/13/2018

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CONTENTS

I   Introduction

OLISIPO

1       Mysterious Night Rituals

2       Defining Moments of Toddlerhood

3       Brotherly Love

CALE

4       My Grandmother’s House: Lion Domain

5       Working on My Social Skills

6       Tales Of Mischief

7       Preparatory School: Realm of Mere Mortals

8       Cultivating My Inner Bully

9       High School Sweetheart

10     Harmful Substance Abuse

11     Ultimate Night Ritual

12     Dodging Toxic Raindrops

13     Seriously Involved Again

14     Realm of the Mere Mortal

15     Upside Down

16     Dry Gunpowder

OLISIPO AGAIN

17     Slightly Charming Tango

18     Passport Exchange

ASIA

19     Bucket List Achievement

OLISIPO YET AGAIN

20     Seeking Closure

21     A Double-Edged Sword

LONDON

22     Queen’s Landing

23     A Chapter Everyone Should Skip

24     Enlightening Solitude

25     Playing a Very Delicate Game

OLISIPO ONE LAST TIME

26     Two Steps Backward

27     Job-Hopping

28     The Short Tale Of Mr. Father

29     Bitter Warrior Tales

30     Rules And Regulations

31     Caring Is a Full-Time Job

SYDNEY

32     Down but Also Under

33     Some Sexual Fun

34     A Meaningful Bond

SINGAPORE, SAN FRANCISCO, LOS ANGELES

35     The Daily Life of a Foreign Male

36     Turning Online into Off-Line

37     Cruising In Cassandra’s Headquarters

IN TRANSIT

38     Existential Thoughts No One Should Have

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I   INTRODUCTION

This book came to me in a curious manner. I’d never dreamed of writing one, and I hadn’t ever written any diaries or journals before. It was my many trips around the world and the people I met along the way that helped me gather enough material to finally put pen to paper.

I’ve always wondered what has driven people to write about their own life, sharing intimate moments with complete strangers. Now years later, here I am, writing down my own experiences. What makes this book particularly exciting and mysterious is that my life has long remained a secret, full of hidden gems and treasures; it has never crossed my mind to open it up for someone else to read.

However, because of some deeply personal encounters and certain ideas about my existence and professional life, the idea of writing a book crept up on me. This year, it became my only focus for the better part of seven months.

I warn you up front that nothing of significance comes of my adventures; I have never achieved greatness in any way or made any major social or humanitarian contributions. I don’t have children, I’ve never married, and I can’t imagine this changing in the foreseeable future. Some attractive women have come into my life recently, but I have my mind set on making my way to the United States before any distraction can keep me from that goal. (To be clear, I don’t see women as distractions, but I do get very distracted by them.)

But—curious, ironic, and somewhat unpredictable—the story of my life does demonstrate a very different and original ideology. And at the heart of this story are the difficulties I have always faced socially and the strategies I have used to overcome them. From my earliest days as a child to my life now as a young man in my thirties, I have become my strategies. As a result, most of this book concerns my terrible social problems and how I have triumphed over them—along with the curious attention I have received from fighting my many battles and the impact social media has had on these victories.

Although not a ‘child of technology’ per se, I grew up during its revolution. Cell phones and the Internet only came into existence in my early teens and had since significantly influenced my life—from my first dial-up connection right through to widespread social media applications. I consider myself a member of a generation which has been defined by technology and how we experience it socially.

Most of the stories which follow are anything but ordinary. My life has been full of conflict and adversity. At a very young age, I moved from the south of Lusitania to the north of the country. As a result, I became known as ‘O Mouro’ (the Moor), the most ancient of Lusitanian enemies. By the time I returned to the south again years later, the reverse had happened. Meanwhile, some unexpected deaths and a series of amazing trips overseas changed the course of my life.

But these pages are largely filled with lighter shenanigans and what I hope are more entertaining events. I have gone from being a bully to being bullied. I have later turned from a devil into an angel and then gone back to being a devil. The many rumors circulating around me have even transformed a heterosexual teen into a homosexual one, or so people have believed.

The last thing I will say to you is this: If you are interested in reading a unique story filled with weird ideas, strange battles, and many unexpected events, then this may be the book for you. If you enjoy reading about the deep thoughts formed during a master’s degree and the consequence these particular studies had on some outlandish romantic endeavors, then you may enjoy it even more. But I again warn you, by the time you reach the last page, you may be as confused about everything as I am.

OLISIPO

1     MYSTERIOUS NIGHT RITUALS

1

One of my earliest memories is now ridiculously funny—though it wasn’t at the time, of course. I was about 4 or 5. I can’t remember which exactly—but it’s been scientifically proved that all your memories before you turn 4 aren’t real anyway. Suffice to say that, at this point in time, I was only a freaking baby, still sleeping in my parents’ room.

I woke up one night with an urgent need to poop. Like any baby, holding in that need is almost impossible—you poop anywhere regardless. So there I was, lying in my bed, enjoying the baby shit I was taking. I had defecated thousands of times before then, but this moment turned out to be more critical than all the others … because I wasn’t wearing a diaper. This is probably the main argument for this being my first true memory because, come on, nobody imagines themselves being a baby defecating in their bed without a diaper.

The psychological consequences of this moment were atrocious. No other moment destroyed my childhood as this one did. Yes, I’m aware that I did it to myself. I take full responsibility for what happened.

While pooping, I was lying down, looking up at the ceiling. I was feeling relatively peaceful. But then I chose to move, and I realized that my shit remained where I had expelled it. Oh no, I must have thought (in baby terms). As soon as I realized that the turd was still there with me, I panicked. My reaction was just like someone who had woken up in the wilderness, only to find a rattlesnake ready to bite them. I tried to jump up and scream for my life, but then I realized I was just a baby. My instinct was to leap out of the crib and set fire to it, but yet again, I was only a freaking baby. My only other option was to wake up my mom and dad, who were sleeping nearby, and get them to clean my bed. But after weighing up the pros and cons, I decided that this wouldn’t be a good move.

Yes, people, I took one for the team at only 4 or 5 years of age. Let me tell you, you don’t see this kind of heroic stuff often. The tale of a broken warrior (and angel of sorts) is about to start.

The hours after that decision were unforgettable: lying there by myself, alone, counting down the minutes using whatever frame of reference I had at the time, until that ferocious turd—lying right in the middle of my bed—attacked me as any rattlesnake would eventually. Abandoned in a corner of the crib I lay, facing this awful scenario, until my caretakers finally woke up.

I can’t recall anything from those forsaken hours, just a blank in my mind. I do remember the moment when my mother finally grabbed that dangerous rattlesnake by the head—only then was I able to say how sorry I was. Imagine a 4-or 5-year-old so broken at such a young age. I could’ve asked for cookies and milk, but I chose to apologize for being a baby instead.

My other memories are not as funny, but there is still an interesting link between them. They are all memories related to waking up as if, subconsciously, sleeping is something that happens to me just before any major crisis. I’m not sure how much time have passed between my first memory and this next one or even the order in which they have happened, but these memories are very important in defining the baby version of me.

I was having my first ever nightmare, and it was a terrifying one. I still have this dream engraved in my mind twenty-four years later. It was a very lucid dream involving an extremely loud and terrifying bear. I’m sure I was too young to even know what a bear was, but still, I saw it: a noisy, angry, wild animal—a concept I couldn’t possibly have at such a young age. In this dream, I was looking for someone to save me—looking everywhere—until I realized that there beside me, keen to help out, was that very same turd I had defecated just a few days before.

Yes. Imagine! There was no one to save me. In the dream, I was trying to hide, running from room to room until I eventually found a staircase on the top floor in some place that felt like home but at the same time was not. Again, it was interesting how I could imagine my house with a staircase at such a young age. For some reason, fear perhaps, I chose to run down the stairs. Halfway down, I looked back up and saw my mother also running away from the same angry bear. Holding her hand was my brother Numbnuts, both of them running in my direction and trying to reach me. In the dream, I could also see the bear’s terrifying silhouette rapidly coming closer when, all of a sudden, I woke up.

I lay there, that frightening dream gradually fading away as I started to become aware of my surroundings. I realized that I was hearing a deafening sound similar to a bear roaring. There I was in real life, in the same crib—with no rattlesnake beside me this time but with this bear still chasing me. Completely panicking, I got up, only to realize that the thunderous noise that I thought sounded similar to a roar—an angry bear chasing after me, Numbnuts, and my mother—was nothing more than my father snoring like a wild animal.

The moments that followed didn’t help much. Entirely oblivious to my surroundings and very scared, I stood in my crib, rocking back and forth, until I eventually fell back asleep. Although this memory remains, I see it more as an omen now for events which have only made sense much later on in life.

I will tell you one last sleep-related tale. This one is different to the others, although it is similar in that I again woke from sleep to find myself in an awkward position, having to rationalize it with only the mind of a 4-year-old.

What happened was that I woke up in kindergarten, disoriented and confused. Darkness was all around me, and while trying to figure out where I was, I decided to check out my surroundings from the crib, only to realize that I was in a room packed with many other sleeping babies. This was a scene similar to the one in The Matrix when Neo wakes up to find himself in a very nasty place. I was Neo at that point; the feeling I had was just as terrifying.

Thinking over my available choices (either crying very loudly or running for my life), I chose the latter option, which I was amazingly capable of performing. I managed to jump out of the crib without dying. As soon as I ran out of that darkness, I began to realize that I was actually in my kindergarten, a very familiar place. This did not stop me from running out of that room. I ran as far as I could, until I finally met Crybaby, my other brother, at recess in our school. Curiously enough, I remember nothing after I found him as if the sight of his ugly face somehow ruined my ability to keep memories from being stored in my brain.

It is strange that these are my earliest memories. Although I can’t be completely sure of it, I don’t think I can remember anything before this. These are the memories that I’d like to offer you, dear reader, as an opening to this book, setting the tone and foreshadowing what is to come later in my life. These moments don’t define me, and I have been possibly too young to have had my character seriously affected by them. However, they represent the life struggles to come very well.

2     DEFINING MOMENTS OF TODDLERHOOD

2

Some time passed before this next episode. For whatever reason, I was crying my eyes out as my parents stood over me. I can still remember my father’s comments vividly as if this moment ignited all the memories related to it—‘This freaking baby, just throw it in the trash’—except … well, no, the actual conversation went as follows:

As a very gifted baby, I already understood English. When I heard this, I realized my father was right—I already wanted to get on with the chocolate bit. But proud warrior that I was, I stood my ground and pretended to cry a bit longer before commencing to eat chocolate.

This was a defining moment for me. I had found a way to best my siblings by pretending and showing off. Suddenly, I no longer needed to be like other kids; my focus had shifted to getting another chocolate fix. This is a skill that I have developed thoroughly over time into a beautiful tune. Years have passed, and that talent is still present—however, chocolate is no longer the focus.

The next story I’ll tell you is one I actually have no memory of. I wasn’t even conscious of it until some years later when someone decided to let me know what went wrong with me while growing up. The story went that I was being carried playfully on Numbnuts’ shoulders, and at the sight of such bliss, Crybaby reacted quite emotionally. Here, it’s important for you to know that I’m the third of four brothers; I have two elder brothers and one younger one. My younger brother was not yet born at the time of this event.

In any case, jealousy took hold of Crybaby, manifesting itself in a terrible attitude toward us both. The little sucker was a very jealous child by then, an emotional flaw he only overcame many years later when he finally understood the pointlessness of such resentment. Unluckily for me, this change came a little too late as the following event had already occurred: Jealousy took hold of him, and instead of asking us nicely to swap places, he decided instead to push Numbnuts from behind. As a result, we both fell to the ground. I was the most serious victim of this accident and was knocked unconscious.

Later at the hospital, my family were told that, luckily, it was nothing more severe than a concussion. After spending some hours blacked out, I finally woke up and felt life coming back to me once again.

As soon as I regained control of my lower limbs, I decided to jump up and race over to an older man, a patient hospitalized in a bed just next to mine. This is the story I’m told: The minute I could move again, I had at once set off. I had fallen unconscious while having fun, and now still in the same state of mind, I turned all my energies to my hospital bedfellow, the cadaveric and dying old man lying next to me. I hope he passed away remembering me as the last person who made him smile.

The point of this story is that my mother says, after being knocked unconscious, I did not come back the same toddler. I was a slightly different one: on the outside, still a bright, sweet kid but severely damaged on the inside. This might explain the number of bad decisions I have since made.

By now, you might have realized I’m trying to make excuses for my lack of discerning mental capabilities. But I’m sure that the event I’ve just described has significantly influenced the following one.

My childhood was very funny in many senses but also damaged me in many ways. A little while after the previous event, I was on my bed goofing around, jumping, and screaming. Usually, I should have continued to do this until I eventually became tired of it, expended all my energies, and moved on to a more relaxed activity. However, I liked the disturbance I was creating very much and decided to turn the fun up a notch.

Upon laying eyes on a pack of cotton swabs, I realized the endless playful possibilities they represented and had a marvelous idea. I promptly grabbed a pair and stuck one in each ear. My happiness must have increased significantly—the joy must have been supernatural—because, a few seconds later, I somehow missed my footing and fell sideways across the bed. Yes, dear reader, what you are imagining actually happened. One of the cotton swabs slid all the way into my ear canal, reaching depths unknown.

The agony! The torture! There I was, a mentally disabled child, moments before death, screaming my eyes out. Apparently, my parental agents came running at the sound, worried and understandably scared. Their first automatic reaction was to blame this event on Crybaby. ‘What have you done this time, you little Crybaby?’ screamed my father.

Somehow, still in excruciating pain, I managed to explain the situation in baby terms. ‘Well, good sir—you who also happen to be my progenitor—I, in fact, find myself in this painful situation by my own design. Yes, it was I who took the liberty to do this to my infant self. My jealous sibling had no hand in this event.’

The moments which followed were terrifying. My mother realized she had two options: call the police, the ambulance, the fire department, and the military or just play it cool and take matters into her own hands before I bled to death. Choosing the latter, the cold-blooded lady gently pulled the cotton swab all the way out of my brain. Salvation had been easy to achieve.

Throughout this episode, I only cried my entire tear glands out and maybe bits of my stomach too. Nevertheless, as soon as I felt free from that burden, I got up, probably got a fix of chocolate, defecated without any diaper, and then continued on with my usual life. The bleeding had stopped; I was ready. My father and I persuaded my mother that we didn’t need to go to the hospital, and as a result, I’d been half deaf in one ear ever since. Quite helpful this was in one sense—already brain damaged and lacking the hearing capabilities of an average person, this very nicely added another flaw to my overall personality, which I happily exhibited throughout my life.

As I’m running through these early childhood events, certain games come to mind that I think might have theoretically shaped my character. I’m uncertain whether these events have influenced me greatly. I don’t scientifically hold any proof of this, except the evidence that I’m not Freud, though I do have a historical record of my life that suggests I’m right—which ultimately shows that I am, in fact, terminally ill.

I’m attempting to share some insightful moments that will tie up with what I tell you later on. As if in a historical time line, these connections not only reinforce the overall plot but also attest to how choices and attitudes when we are young ultimately influence the development of our character. These choices tend to repeat themselves unconsciously as a reflection of the meaningful events and experiences which have taken place throughout our lives.

3     BROTHERLY LOVE

3

The following stories depict my relationship with my brothers, specifically the jealous Crybaby I have already mentioned. He is only a couple of years older than I am but has consistently been twice as annoying.

My brothers and I always had lots of fun together. ‘A close pair we were while growing up’ as Yoda would say. All the games we played together ended at the expense of one another, followed by whining to our parents about what happened or (quite frequently) Crybaby storming off.

To further understand the levels of annoyance that emanated from this idiot of a human being, both I and Numbnuts often had to resort to pranks to put him in his place. The reason for this was how often he would tell on us to our mother about something stupid that had never even happened.

Fed up with this attitude, Numbnuts decided to stick duct tape all over our bedroom. At that point, the three of us slept together in the same room. Numbnuts’ idea was to attach entire strips of tape from the bed to the wardrobes and from the wardrobes to the windows, chairs, and anything that we could find along the way. In a matter of seconds, the entire room was impassable, filled with duct tape—there wasn’t any space to walk through it without gluing oneself to a strip.

As soon as we finished expending two rolls of duct tape on covering the entire room, Numbnuts closed the door, turned the lights off, and proceeded to call Crybaby into the room. ‘Hey, Crybaby, check this out. Quick, right now, run.’ As a result, Crybaby barged into the room, running at full speed into the total darkness inside. Numbnuts promptly closed the door behind him, scaring Crybaby so badly that he was unable to even make a sound and instead could only storm around, banging against everything in his way. The sound of furniture flying, duct tape strips breaking, and Numbnuts laughing was so intense that I stopped breathing for several seconds until I could actually laugh myself.

Then silence fell; there was no noise whatsoever. Upon turning on the lights, the sight that greeted us was catastrophic—resulting in more laughter and tears. The best moment of my life! I can still, to this day, remember it vividly, the sight of which was nothing short of hilarious. I laughed so much that I eventually ended up pissing myself because, as soon as the light went on, there he was, the utter crybaby, pale white and frozen to the spot. Unable to speak, cry, or scream for a few seconds, he stood there in shock, exhibiting a very artsy patch of urine which ran dramatically down his pants. Not just a few drops either—I’m talking about a very thick shape taking form as if a river of wetness were tumbling wildly toward the floor. A child could only see a handgun in that wet shape on his pants, a revolver of some kind with a very well-defined cylinder. While Crybaby stood there urinating, he looked like Clint Eastwood in some American Western, ready to fire his pee gun packed with kidney-stone bullets.

With eyes closed, I rolled on the floor, unable to stop laughing. In the days that followed, I often asked Crybaby about his golden gun, if he still had it, or if he had it hidden in his pants. I’m sure this was the moment the quarrel started that was to last for many years.

Everything escalated after that, the point of no return being the day Crybaby lost his front teeth. As always, a sissy by definition and a crybaby by choice, he tried to involve my mother in everything, especially his missing teeth. He behaved as if a death sentence were about to be executed. No one was allowed to pull Crybaby’s teeth out or even touch them. Only barely attached to his gums, rotten, and swinging as crazily as leaves in the wind, he held on to them like precious jewels. No money or promises of treats could stop this stubborn guy who happened to be my brother. And all the time, he was crying in self-pity, ‘Oh, Lord, why me? Baby teeth that hurt so much.’

After hours of this act, my parents gave up, and we retreated to our room so that we could carry on playing. At that point in my childhood, I was utterly obsessed with a particular tennis ball, always playing with it and throwing it against the walls, the windows, the furniture, Crybaby; and occasionally, that ball would bounce back.

That day seemed a good one to swing the ball right at Crybaby, especially after the dramatic lengthy display of attachment to his falling-out teeth. Any day was good for taking a swing at him, but that day seemed an especially appealing one. I had my back turned and was facing the wall, bouncing the ball off it. Curious, I looked back at Crybaby through my legs, struck by a sudden idea, and I took a chance at it. Crybaby was doing something silly as usual. I pointed my arm at him, targeting him precisely, and unleashed a low swing in his direction. I aimed for his body, which at that point was facing away from me. However, when the ball hit Crybaby, he had already turned to face me—either that little turd was fast or the ball had traveled very slowly. Upon impact, his front teeth, the same ones he held on to so carefully and which were just begging to fall out, flew out of his mouth, spraying blood everywhere as if a massacre had taken place.

This hadn’t been my intention obviously. But it suited me from a constructive point of view. My father was as amused by it as I was, and he came over to me laughing, greeting me like the little boss I was. Although I took credit for it, the blow had not been on purpose—I had just thrown the ball at him, not at his mouth specifically.

This event would have its own repercussions over the years that followed. Many episodes would follow—little quarrels over minor situations I can hardly remember. Those I can remember seemed too insignificant to be included in this book, except for one episode in which Crybaby decided to spread this first piece of gossip about me ever—the significance of which I didn’t realize at the time or the influence