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January 05, 2016

I chose an isolated spot in Destiny's Tower to sit among the pigeons.
My sibling said a lot of things about me, about me being a promiscuous, drug-addicted, boozing, partying low-life.

He said so many things I tried to push out of my head, because they all hurt. It's because I responded to his pushy, brutish behavior by insulting him. And he can't be insulted by anyone. So he's written me emails telling me how worthless I am. Then when he corresponded with my mother about how I'm a squatter, he made sure to forward that to me. So that if there was any sense of self-worth left, it would be drained.

I brought up to my mother that if she told me the portion of utilities I owed that I would pay them, but it's not an issue to her. My brother just wanted to send me a message.

I want to do things, but I don't want to do things. Because to do things means facing myself, and I have never been able to face myself. To live with myself, to work with myself, to get through something with myself.

On the radio, some singer was saying if music is a struggle for you, then you should reconsider.
I hate hearing things like that.
I like hearing people talk about science, because I don't have the attention span or willpower to throw myself into it. I don't have the self-esteem to work on anything. It is a privilege to hear people speak about things that interest me. Because I can't do it myself.

If life is a struggle, should I reconsider that?

I have mostly pushed the repetition of what he said out of my head, but the feelings remain. Like he replaced the blood in my veins with the self-loathing that has been there for so long. I don't think so much about the words he said now. I don't think about the fat jokes he's made in years' past. I don't think about the many occasions he's gone into my room, and thrown away most of my things, mementos from the past that I will never see again. But in order to push out the pain of that, I forget why I feel the way I do. And all I'm left with is a sense of emptiness, of futility, and of worthlessness. And no words to describe it.

I want to do things to make myself feel better about myself. To learn. But I don't want to be alone with myself. I want to be alone with the pigeons, a blue-skinned, smooth-skinned, glowing being. Separate from this place, this time, these feelings. All of it, gone.