Please note that this is an autobiography of myself and what so nearly led to my arrest only months ago. I dedicate this to all those who helped me through this difficult phase. Emma Hocking, Sidney Paulson, Gabie Kitchens, Nathan Brede, Christopher Rinehart, Collin Hill, Kierra Pendill, and especially Evelyn Yielding... I love you all. Thank you for your help.
This will very likely take a long while to complete, as a lot has happened in the five months since this nightmare began. I will probably add to this day by day for a while before I finish it. Unfortunately, I may not even be able to finish this for an even longer time due to the simple fact that the nightmare still hasn't ended yet. I'm still going through the aftershocks of the intial incident...
Here is a link to the original posting that brought about all these problems.
I still remember that day as though it were only yesterday. December 14th, 2012 was the day it all started. My (former) friend, Micah, shared on Facebook his thoughts on the recent shooting in Newtown, Connecticut.
"so some guy went and shot a bunch of little kids. this is probably the saddest story i've heard in a long time. what did the kids do? here some men walk into the school, pull out guns and go on a shooting spree? those kids were the future of mankind, not target practice. my prayers go out to the families and kids that were torn apart or killed in this."
Well. The then self-absorbed and cynical me spoke up and began ranting about how I was the... future of mankind and how those children... were unimportant anyways, and that it made no difference if they lived or died. I just couldn't understand how anyone would make such a big fuss over children that they didn't even know in real life... To this very day, I still do not understand what was going through the heads of everybody. In all fairness, though, no one knew what was going through my head either. To be honest, I'm not even sure I knew. My exact wording in my first comment...
"I am the true future of mankind, not those little kids. They were insignificant little lumps of useless flesh, and it makes no difference to me whether they live or not. I'm willing to bet that 75% of them would have become delinquents later on in their lives should they have not been killed. In all honesty, I think it's GOOD that they were killed."
I am not the future of mankind. At least, I do not believe so. Shortly after my first comment... Someone else spoke up. A girl my age named Haley, whom I had recently had multiple arguments with on semi-related matters.
"You're so selfish Winston. They're just KIDS. And you're glad that they're dead? Excuse my language, but get your shit together." she wrote.
"I knew it was only a matter of time before our little "hero" spoke up on the matter. So what if they're just kids? They most likely had no important future. I'm sure even you can agree with that, regardless of how you feel about this. While, yes, I am glad that they are dead, I can see how so many of you would find this a "tragic event" and how you could be so sad. But it happened. Get over it. It doesn't affect you in any way, so why feel sad about it? There is absolutely NO REASON. Mourning won't bring them back, nor will praying for them (really, why do people pray for people who die?!). It's just ridiculous. Feeling remorse for others who you don't even know is what's holding us back as a species... Deny me if you will, but it's the truth." I responded.
"You don't know them, and you most certainly don't know their FUTURE.
You have a total lack of morals. I can't even fathom how terrible the things you're saying are. You might be even more screwed up than the gunman himself." said she.
As Haley said, I was more screwed up than the man who murdered those children. I may still be, in a way. I wouldn't deny if one accused me of such a thing. The argument continued on this subject until a friend of mine, Nathan, got involved. He reasoned that we all have twisted minds, stating that he himself enjoyed seeing blood, and people killed. (Although it was later verified that he was referring to blood and death in movies, not real life.)
Everything fell apart after that. Well, more than it already had. At some point I brought up the issue that led to my current situation; force. I said that I wanted to change the world peacefully, and if that failed, I would use force. Even now, I am unsure of what I meant by that. All I know is that that one, single, tiny word tore my life into pieces.
Two days later on December 16th, a Sunday, there was a fierce knock at the front door. At the time, I was the only one who was awake. My mother was at work, and my grandmother was asleep. I was playing my favorite video game, Minecraft when the knock came. Not knowing who was at the door, I hurried to awaken my grandmother. After waking her, I looked through the peephole in the front door and saw... a police officer. And not far away in the driveway, a police car and a black car, although I am not sure of which make or model.
My grandmother went outside to confront the officer while I stayed inside, wondering what was going on. I waited for what I would guess was about twenty or so minutes before my cellphone began to ring. It was my grandmother. I answered, and she told me that I had to come outside immediately, and that the police were going to take me to my school to question me along with the principal, Pam Alfieri. I was questioned briefly when I was outside. The only question I remember was, "Do you know why we're here today?", to which I responded with an affirmative. By that point I'd figured out why the police were at my home. The man who questioned me was a detective by the name of Gomez. He was the owner of the black car. He said that he wished to speak with my mother as well, but my grandmother informed him that she was currently at her place of work, a local restaurant called Hofbrau.
The police officer went to pick up my mother from Hofbrau, and my grandmother and I waited awkwardly with Gomez. He asked more questions, but I have totally forgotten them at this point in time. I feel that I may have subconsciously blocked them away due to the shock of the incident.
Minutes later, the officer returned with my crying mother, who had no idea what was going on. Gomez informed her of what was happening before asking if it would be okay with us to search the home for weapons. My mother strongly insisted that they did not, for she was highly embarrassed about the condition of the home.
We had over fifty cats then. The house was livable, but we didn't particularly enjoy having others enter out of shame. Gomez and the police officer eventually coaxed her into letting them search for weapons, but they found none. They did, however, exit my home with my laptop. It was then that Gomez gave my mother and I a ride to my school, Traverse City West Middle School. The ride was quiet for the most part, though Gomez did speak to me once to ask me more questions, mostly pertaining to what I enjoy doing for fun or who I'm friends with. Let me say this right now: He treated me like a child. Of course, I technically was a child then, thirteen years of age. Even though I was young (and I still am young), my maturity was far past that of any middle-schooler.
Once we reached the school, we headed inside immediately. We walked to the main office to speak with Pam Alfieri, although I lagged behind Gomez and my mother due to nausea. My mother was still crying. We reached the office and sat down for a discussion with Gomez, an officer, the principal, and the school counselor, Kimberly Szatkiewicz. They questioned me to seemingly no end on what I wrote on Facebook, the most prominent question being what I meant by force. The only answer I ever gave for that was, "I don't know.", because I didn't know, and I am still clueless as to the meaning of what I said.
They questioned my mother and I for approximately two hours before coming to the consensus that I should be suspended. They had planned worse, that being expulsion from the school, but they decided that their final decision would be made at a later time after thoroughly examing the evidence. We planned on meeting again on another day, though I fail to remember the exact date.
While being questioned, I stated why I thought those children who were brutally killed had no future anyways. I took what I saw in my peers at my school and applied it to the children lost in the massacre. Not only did I apply it to them, but to all other children in the world. I thought everyone was the same, but I would find out months later that that was not true. But that is off topic and will be discussed later.
Gomez confiscated my laptop and cellphone so he could have someone examine the contents of both electronics in order to verify that there was nothing dangerous on them. They kept them for just over two weeks, if my memory serves me correctly. The days following the initial meeting were horrible. I could hardly sleep, I was stressed and even more depressed than I had been before, and I was honestly considering suicide.
When the next meeting came about, I spoke with the same people as before, but this time I also spoke with the head of the school district. During this meeting it was decided that I would be required to take a psychological evaluation in order to determine my mental state before I was to be allowed back into school. My mother opposed the evaluation greatly, but it was my decision that I wanted to take the assessment. I do not know why I wanted to take the psychological evaluation. I just did. The evaluation was scheduled for January 10th, 2013, just one day after my fourteenth birthday. Even after it was decided by the head of the school district, Pam Alfieri, Gomez, Kimberly Szatkiewicz, and myself, my mother was still against the idea.
Despite my mother's disapproval of the examination, I took it anyways on the scheduled date. I spoke with psychologist John Haskin and his assistant, who questioned me even further on the incident. I was given a series of tests, such as the Rorscach test, otherwise known as the "ink blot" test, a drawing test, a reading and language comprehension test, a mathematical test, and an online personality assessment. The questions of the online test... confounded me. Ridiculous yes or no questions such as "are you happy that sexual thoughts are now part of your mind?" and "are you often tempted to drink alcohol or do drugs?" Questions totally unrelated to the subject at hand, and yet they somehow determined my "personality". Through the various tests that I took, Haskin decided that I was extremely unlikely to become physically violent or otherwise hurt others in any way. In addition to this, he learned that my reading, spelling, and language comprehension was in the 99.9th percentile, far past even what is expected of college level. Although there were many positive results, he determined that I was dangerously depressed and that my math comprehension was in the 27th percentile, far below grade level. Because of these results, he strongly suggested that I be put into advanced language arts and social studies classes and into a math help class. He also suggested that I see a therapist outside of school to help with my other "issues".
Shortly after that, Child Protective Services got involved. Evidently, Gomez had called them soon after leaving my home. He explained to them that there was "excessive cat feces everywhere", and that he felt physically ill after entering the home. Child Protective Services looked through our home and immediately determined that all of the cats were to be euthanized because they were "too sick", without even taking a close look at them. My mother argued that the cats were perfectly healthy, and that a veterinarian could prove it. CPS agreed to this, and sent out a vet only a few days later to look over the cats. Just as predicted by my mother and I, the cats were proven to be perfectly healthy. CPS wasn't done trying to pin something on us, though, so they insisted that many of the cats were to be adopted out. (Which, to be honest, was a good idea. Even I can admit that we had too many cats.)
The CPS did take twenty of my cats, but we were left with thirty. We were told by them not to worry about the cats for a while, but as soon as we stopped worrying about it, CPS contacted my father (who lived outside of my home) saying that he should arrange finding a different place for me to live, since my mother refused to get rid of the cats. We only followed what they said; not to worry about getting rid of anymore cats.
A few weeks passed before I was allowed back into school, where I was bombarded by questions from other students who were wondering where I had been in the past month or so. I answered few of their questions, but I did explain to some of my close friends what had happened. When I returned to school, I discovered that my class schedule was indeed changed, now with advanced language arts, advanced social studies, and math help. In my new advanced classes, I was met with a group of noisy and obnoxious students who thought they were better than everybody else. I scuttled along pretending to like them, although the task was difficult.
Going back to the subject of a therapist, I was required to visit one every two weeks or so to discuss my frustrations.
(I may or may not add more to this soon, as the events are still unfolding...)