Post by Kyle Stockholm on Jul 9, 2013 19:38:26 GMT -5
Full Name: Kyle Thomas Stockholm. He really hates when people call him Ky, so don't do that.
Age: 17, born on January 10th. He is a Junior here at Somerset.
Clubs/Sports: Choir. That's it. And he flaunts it. Don't go telling him its girly cuz he'll challenge you to a rap battle.
Appearance: Kyle is rather regular looking. He's particularly pale with short brown hair and big brown eyes, a wide smile with wonky teeth, thick eyebrows and a basic nose. His lips are a bit thick and often very red in pictures, but they thin out when he grins which is often. Its hard to find Kyle not smiling unless he's writing or sitting alone. After getting his first on his sixteenth birthday, Kyle has acquired several tattoos. They're all very basic and geometric, but he likes that way better than colorful, whimsical things. He's muscular, but not to the point where he's got visible abs. His arms are nice to look at, but that's about it. He's just not a stick, is what I'm basically saying.
For clothing, Kyle sticks to that 'hipster/band' trend. Tight pants with long, fitted tee shirts are his thing. Vans are usually his footwear of choice. Quite honestly, Kyle's sense of fashion is very bland. If its tight, he'll wear it. End of story, really.
Personality:
- Sociable: Kyle is going to talk to you. He likes to make friends and used to find it very difficult to do so. So if he doesn't know who you are, he WILL talk to you and attempt a friendship. If you're a dick, he'll probably never talk to you again. But if you even just smile at him, he'll think that's an invitation to talk to you again. And he won't forget that invitation. Kyle loves talking. Especially to you. *wink wink*
- Touchy: Kyle will probably have his hand on your shoulder within seconds of saying hello. That or he'll be poking you, grabbing your hand, hugging you, something. He likes physical contact for some reason. That might explain why he likes sex so much. Or for.. other reasons. But regardless, he's a very touchy person. This also goes along with the fact that he's rather caring. He may not always seem it (especially since he's notorious for one night stands and that doesn't seem so caring, does it?), but if you mean enough to him, he'll certainly sit down with you and talk things through. He wants to hear you vent, he wants to cuddle the shit out of you, and in the end he wants to watch a stupid funny movie to make you smile.
- Emotional: Kyle has BPD (borderline personality disorder) and is thus a very sensitive person. His case isn't all so severe, so he's not a constant emotional wreck. But the tiniest things can and do get to him, so don't freak out if he suddenly starts crying or screaming or something. There's many triggers that turn on the tears, and he'll just take a moment to get over it. It can be good, though, because he's pretty good at talking about what he feels. Though he doesn't know something will cause a breakdown, he can explain what happened after the fact. Like if you say someone died, he's sure to come up with a family member that recently died. Something like that. And its good to talk about your feelings, so he's at least thankful he can do that.
- Impulsive: Kyle is not good at controlling his own actions. If he wants to say something, he'll say it. If he wants to do something, he'll do it. If you're acting like a shit, he'll tell you. If he wants to climb that tree, you best believe he's gonna climb that tree. Usually he'll apologize if he says something mean because he knows his mouth is just too fast to control. But he won't even think twice about his actions. Like if he jumps off a bridge into a lake and snaps his collarbone, he's gonna flaunt that. He likes to think he's a daredevil. A daredevil with a potty mouth.
- Silly: Kyle is famous for the faces he makes. Often they're cute and silly, but sometimes they're downright weird. He makes a lot of noises (usually like "boop!" and fart sounds) and is pretty good at impressions. He likes to use baby voices when talking for objects and has a tendency to tell inanimate objects to 'stay'. If you can't tell, he's a goof. Sometimes he's kind of an idiot (going back to his impulsiveness; he likes to climb and jump off of shit) but he thinks that just adds to his 'winning personality'. Yes, you could label him a class clown.
- Carefree: Sometimes too carefree. Though this trait can be good, its mostly bad. He's not very good about turning in homework or being on time or things like that. Things that matter. But on the other hand, its a pretty good outlook on life. Kyle tries very hard to not let the little things bother him (but with his condition, that's kind of hard) and prefers to just sit back and look at the flowers rather than worry about deadlines and such. I guess generally, this is a bad trait. But if you look at it y'know with your head tilted to the side and while squinting, its kind of an okay trait. He makes the most of it, anyway. Keeps his depression at bay.
Story:
"And eventually you just give into that darkness..."
I had a rough childhood. Or adolescence, I suppose. Because my one-digit days were great. Things didn't matter at that young of an age and they shouldn't have mattered even at ten or eleven. But they did. I took on a great bit of responsibility when I was still so very young. Responsibility that wasn't given to me by a person, but by my own mind. The responsibility of a disorder. One that crept in slowly and quietly made its home between my ears. I didn't know about it. I couldn't feel it, you can feel diseases like this one. You don't know until its too late for therapy, too late for a ward and too late for anything, really. You don't know until you know that its over. Until you can physically feel the end.
My parents noticed before I did. Which is good, I guess. I'm glad I wasn't that neglected. I was neglected, that was just a figure of speech. In fact, my parents loved me very much. They love me very much. Its not a past-tense thing. But either way, they noticed. I always cried a lot as a child, which they assumed was normal. If I got hurt, I cried. If someone was mean, I cried. Any age older than ten might've made that weird. But they didn't even have to wait that long. They said I would drop something and cry. Or I'd wear one pair of shoes and cry because I couldn't wear the other pair too. I cried when my clothes went in the hamper because I knew I wouldn't be able to wear them again until they were clean. But I was still young, so it was written off as 'cute'.
But not when I was ten.
By that age, I'd started to cry at nothing. Now it wasn't even the little things that made me cry. There was just nothing. I could be fine, happy, excited and then... breakdown. I threw full on tantrums and I would kick and scream and fight and bite and then... as quick as it had come, it was gone. I remember flailing across the ground at one point, and not two seconds later standing up and walking away like it was nothing. That's when my parents noticed. I didn't, I didn't even comprehend how quickly I shifted from extreme to the next. But they did. They thought I was bipolar. Autistic, maybe. One way or another, they knew something was wrong with me. They could see it destroying my mind. I wasn't the same by that age. I seemed to be deteriorating rather than growing. My brain, once perfectly regular for a boy of six, was in reverse. I had been the chattiest of my friends, the wildest, the craziest, you name it. I was a handful. But by ten, I had already begun to shut down. I didn't speak often, I didn't want to see my friends, and I just couldn't control myself.
I was thirteen when I started to realize my problems.
My mom and dad took me to the doctor a lot. From when I was ten to when I was thirteen, there were innumerable visits made, most of which I've forgotten. But what I do remember is hating them for it. I hated my parents for taking me to those sickeningly spotless death homes. That's what they were. Not hospitals, not specialized therapists. Death houses. Anyone that went in had a problem, and at the time I was convinced I didn't belong there. The men in the white scared me and made me feel sick. It wasn't until I was thirteen when I began to believe them.
"Your son has borderline personality disorder. That's the conclusion we've come to over the past three years." Three years. It took them, the professionals, three years to diagnose me. It seemed to me at that point that maybe I was fine. I hadn't noticed anything yet, and if took them three years.. maybe it wasn't true. Maybe this was all fake. Maybe I'd been bad and this was my parent's way of teaching me a lesson. Maybe it was all to scare me. But it didn't scare me as much as finding out for myself. Nothing has scared me as much as that did.
I was home from the hospital. They'd kept me for a couple months for tests and such, and I was home that day. My room was on the top floor of our house just down the hall from a bathroom and my parent's bedroom. It was painted black but covered in posters and strands of Christmas lights I'd refused to let my mother put away from previous holidays. My bed was large, a sailor's bed with chests stored beneath it. A beanbag sat in one corner, my desk in the other. Between the two was my closet with sliding doors made of mirrors. I entered, removed my jacket and set it on my bed before turning to my mirror. There was a power strip on the floor that controlled the Christmas lights running across my ceiling and walls. I pressed the switch to on with my toe and just as soon as the lights had flickered on, a strand popped and blew, sending sparks raining over me.
I lost it.
Screaming and already crying, I pounded my fists into the mirror doors and felt them shatter. Shards of glass pierced my skin and I fell to my knees, wailing as if I'd been shot or something. I don't remember what happened between that and coming to. But when I was back, when I'd calmed down and come out of my low, I knew what I'd done. Never before had I left such a visible representation of what happened to me. I'd only ever cried, thrown fits, tantrums. Not once had I ever acted on it. Not once had I ever caused myself harm. I still have the scars from the mirrors on my hands. Two on my left, four on my right.
At the age of fifteen, I was diagnosed with another disease: depression. I felt this one sooner than BPD... much sooner. What I had thought had been meaningless truly was. There was no hope, no reason, no point. I was an emotional wreck and who wanted that around? I was almost positive no one. After years of sitting in my own shit and wallowing in my own sorrow, I gave up. I tried not to feel and only felt when I went into a fit. Fits were brought on much easier than before. Just looking at me sent me over the edge. Talking was a no go. Moving became difficult and I spent days in my bed. Things got dark. A darkness came over me, my heart, my soul, my everything. I was a bottomless pit of nothing. And eventually... you just give into the darkness.
I hit rock bottom on my sixteenth birthday. My parents had thought it might be a good idea to invite family over to celebrate. They also thought it was a good idea to not tell me. It wasn't a good idea.
Things started fine. I wasn't very sociable, but I at least came out of my room. I greeted most of the people that came into my house and 'happily' accepted their gifts, placing them atop the piano to be opened later. I even had cake. But near the end of the night, one of my cousins looked to me and said, "Kyle, smile!". That was it. Pushed over the edge, I quietly excused myself from the table and went upstairs to the bathroom. After practically pulling all my hair out of the back of my head, I punched my fist through our medicine cabinet. That left six more scars on my left hand. And that landed me in a ward.
Four months later, I was released. I was put on (and am still on) heavy medication to attempt to control the fits. Though it helps, it did not cure. I am still always on edge and I am still very easily bothered. I've learned quite a few coping exercises and won't lash out at you if you say something wrong. There's no need to think I would do that. Because I wouldn't. Ever. I'm much better now. Not cured, but much better. The darkness is still there...
But I've found a light.
Other: Man-whore alert. Sign ups begin this coming week. Sign ups for what, you ask? Sign ups for his dick. The list is on his door.
(its not serious he just thinks its hilarious but if YOU'RE serious... his phone number is also on the list)
Kyle's favorite color is red. Like, maroon-ish. Not fire engine red.
He'd rather not eat salad.
He doesn't like doors. Or having to push through them. They require far too much effort. He'll often just throw himself on one until it opens at which point he usually falls to the floor. He's a drama queen.
Kyle's talking voice is kinda high pitched. He'll kill you if you make fun of it.
His singing voice, on the other hand, is what most people (himself included) assume his voice should sound like. Its a tad deeper. But because of how naturally high his voice is, he can hit quite a range of notes. He raps too.
He doesn't sleep much.
Kyle can play guitar, ukulele, piano, and drums. If he goes somewhere off campus, he almost always has his ukulele with him.
If it weren't for the bugs, he'd sleep in a forrest every night. He'd live his whole life in one, actually. He loves nature. Just hates bugs. So much.
Kyle's a bit of a partier. Get beer in this kids hand and shit is bound to go down. Good shit, though. The party will begin when there's alcohol in his veins.
Kyle has BPD, or 'Borderline Personality Disorder'. Generally, this means he gets very emotional very fast. Its a form of bipolar disorder, but is not as random as it is triggered rather than just.. well, random. He also has depression which was diagnosed at the age of fifteen, two years after he was diagnosed with BPD. Doctors say his depression was brought on by the discovery of his BPD.
Tacos are his favorite food. You could get Kyle to do anything for a twelve pack from Taco Bell.
Kyle also has Tourette's Syndrome. Its very mild, but its there, and his tics are very noticeable. However, since he's had it for years (he was diagnosed when he was five), he's learned to cope rather well. And the clonidine patch helps. His tics are mostly motor (his hands jerk to his face a lot or out to the side), but that's not to say he doesn't have a few phonic tics. He breathes pretty heavily which is the most severe phonic tic. Exhaling hard, anyway. But that's really it for phonics. Hence yea, its pretty mild. If you didn't know he had it, you probably wouldn't guess.
