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November 05, 2015

I was walking to class when I called my mother, and I was stopped by how cold she was. I suppose she's still upset with me for last night.
Because we have these fights. I start off thinking I'm reaching out to her, and it ends with feeling like I'm strangling her. She tells me I expect the world to adapt to me, and that makes me second-guess myself constantly, even more than I already did. Everything I feel and think about the world around me is invalidated by her saying that. Not just in terms of how she makes me feel when she says it, or how she thinks of it, but how I think of myself all the time. People in their twenties becoming CEOs, going on adventures, being fit, being assertive, taking control of their life, even the lives of those around them. That type of person is the antithesis of the type of person I see myself as. Success, simply, is not for me.

To me, I am a child, a baby, reaching out for someone to love it. But as I'm lumbering toward them, looking for comfort, they see me as a creature with no eyes or face, spewing life-destroying bile from various unpredictable parts of my distorted, inhuman body. From a place they would never want to go. But they know I'll drag them to Hell.
I see myself as a monster. I see myself as a monster from Silent Hill, and it makes sense, because parts of Silent Hill came from where I live.

My dad called when I was masturbating and I hate how smartphones handle calls, because I just want to put it off, but it demands action, demands I answer or cut the person off, signaling that I saw the call. So I was annoyed, and I was annoyed because I had been coming down from the previous fight, and I felt that he was blaming me, as well. The last thing he said was that he hoped he lives forever, and then he went away. I hope that isn't the last thing he ever says to me.

All of this agony stems from workers coming into my room, tearing it up, damaging my possessions, like a collage I have had for nearly ten years and kept in good condition. Ripped up. A drawing board from almost twenty years ago, pictures from magazines I taped to it, ripped up.

All it takes is one person to destroy the things you have spent so long caring for.

And not knowing what touched what. Not knowing what's dirty and what's clean and I just wanted to ask my mom why am I being punished why is my life one long neverending trauma no matter how old I get. Why do I constantly feel violated and scared, do I deserve this, why.

But it's too much. And it's like she hates me. She hates me because of what my suffering turns me into. My suffering applies acetone to my face until I'm just a smeared wreckage of something familiar enough to be repulsive. My suffering makes me into a monster.