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FIRSTLY: NO, THE RUMOURS WEREN'T TRUE - Stanley Uris was not an insensitive dickhead.
He wasn't mean, nor a perfect candidate to be on the next Buzzfeed Unsolved or a true crime podcast: a quiet school kid who was perfectly normal...until he wasn't. DUN DUN.
He just had trouble trying not to suffocate within his own emotions, let alone understanding everyone else's. It was a simple fact but it came with consequences.
This was a problem, Stan could admit that, but never outloud. No that would mean it was real, and Stan had a little issue with facing the consequences of reality.
When anything went wrong, which seemed to be more often than not, he would just imagine that he wasn't really himself, and this wasn't really his life. He was just a character in a book or a movie or a show. That none of it was real, and if it was, how did it matter? But fuck it. He'd just save it for the fucking memoirs, pull out a small book or something when people asked how his life got so fucked, well...here you seeexibite B.
Stan didn't like it, this whole growing up thing. Well there wasn't many things he disliked about it, just a few that he could fit on the palm of his hand...if he carved or burned the words deep in his skin. He didn't have to, it was engraved in his mind, it would spirall through his body and slip past his tongue as he whispered the ghosts that haunted him outloud.
Stan couldn't explain it, the way he felt, other than it felt like he was empty, dead, whatever that was left of his spirit, soul or life inside of his was slipping away. His first thought? About fucking time.
But then he realised no one could appreciate my dark humour when he was actually dead.
Stan didn't remember much between the ages of eight and twelve. Just that the world moved slow and his brain moved too fast.
Everything was so fucking boring, he'd find something that would catch up with his mind, momentarily like first learning to ride a bike or just fucking running. But eventually that would wear thin and fall slow again.
He could remember his first anxiety attack, like he would ever forget. He collapsed in the middle of class because he couldn't fucking breathe, which was embarassing enough, it got worse when he had to be taken to hospital afterwards. Stan thought that was stupid, he would've been saved the embarassment and the panic if they just let him finish counting the tiles on the celing.
He grew up only knowing two things: no matter how much sleep he got he would always be fucking exhausted and every now and then, if he focused too closely on the way he breathed, he'd die.
Until every second of every day, he found find himself trying to outrun anxiety. But like gave up, because complaining about shit was easier than doing anything about it.
So when he found himself counting the tiles on his celing, or organizing the pencils on his desk, again and again until his fingers chapped raw, callusing over his fingertips, he knew he couldn't complain, because he was surrounded by people...people who had it worse of than him, people who would compare their trauma and people who would feel bad for him.
