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Warning!
This is a rant, and there will, inevitably, be sorrow and/or things you disagree with in it. If you want to be all mad and yell at me, please refrain from doing so and leave me alone.
If you really hated me that much, you shouldn't be reading my journal, dammit!
This is for myself, and myself only.
Though, if you love me enough to have actually read through the entire thing, please comment and stuff.
Now for the said writing...

Mother hates me. I'm doing this to try and work through why this might be. I cant help but think that it was something that I did. I cant help it, I am after all, human. And I cant help but wonder what it was that could have taken mother so far away that she would hit her own child. So brutally, over and over. She always wanted a little girl. I remember her telling me that that should have been me that died in the womb, that it should have been me that was killed and absorbed. But it wasn't. I cant help but wonder if it were true, if it was meant to be differently. And then I look around and realize that she, mother, was never made to even have children. I was the one she kept. I was the one that she held that first time and said that she was glad. I was the one that wasn't a mistake, II was the one that wasn't conceived from blood and hate. Like big brother, who I love more than mother herself, who was given away because Grandmother couldn't bare having a rape child in the family.
I like it when she hits me. It feel good, like fire when she hits me. And when she screams my name, I feel noticed, and when she calls me s**t I feel like I actually exist. It might be hard to understand, but I miss her sometimes. I want to go back to that house, that trailer that reeked of liquor, thick enough to be deathly. And yet I cant bring myself to go, I cant bring myself to leave Anthony alone.
I think mother is the reason I let him do those things to me. Those things that made me feel so beautiful. It's true, not only do females do things like that, but males. And I need it now. Not as badly as I once did, but I can feel it. And I need love, just as any other human does. As much as I might deny it, I am just the same as everybody else. I need only four things to live, air, food, shelter and love. And it's not that I need only those things, it's that those are the things I need. Those are the things that keep me alive every day.
I have never know what's it's like to be alone. Maybe a bit more than the average person does, but I do not know how it truly feels to be absolutely alone. In one way or another, there has always been someone there. When I was a little kid, and mother wasn't as sick, I had her there. Even if we were living in the back of a car and I had to go with Jason every other night because she had customers, I was never alone. I remember those days, and as odd as it may seem, those were the happiest days of my life. Those were the days when I knew nothing. Those were the days before Brian.
And then we found father, and got a real house. It was a shabby house, in the Southeast ghetto of Albuquerque, but we had a place to live. And then she met Brian, and daddy found Christy, and everything went to hell. Mother left with him, even though he beat her to the point where she had to go to the hospital for days at a time. I tried to tell her to stay, that she didn't need him, and that she could just live with me, but I was young, small, breakable, and she was gone. That was the first time I ever felt her fist. She broke my jaw, screaming over and over again that it was my fault, that I was trying to keep Brian away from her, that he would never really love her if I was there to break them apart. One year later, Brian had overdosed on something, and mother wanted her boy back.
I couldn't refuse, I wouldn't hurt her and leave her alone and cold. And so I left on that plane.
Even now, I'm crying silent tears. I feel pitiful and stupid and like a whore. How human of me.
That was when I met him.
He was with mother, he was the one that let her crack-filled a** live in his house. And he sat me on his lap one day and told me how beautiful I was. And I let him do things, Things I had never had done to me before. And it hurt. And I was seven years old.
We left a week after that incident, but our leaving had nothing to do with it. I don't refer to it as when I lost my virginity because I didn't want it.
And we went and bought that trailer that she still lives in, and she began her rain of terror. Every night, when I got home from school, she would lay a few new blows down. And the school nurse was concerned, and she called the police, and they found my big brother. I was with mother for two years, and she had me in her grasp for those two years like a spider had it's prey. I'm just glad she didn't kill me. And it's sick, that way I'm glad for something like that. But I can't help it.
After Anthony got me, I was nine, and I could think for myself. I put him through hell, poor guy. I wanted to be with mother, but the government wouldn't allow it. An dafter all the s**t he put up with, Anthony finally put me in treatment. No, not the kind of treatment you go to every other week, I was put in an actual hospital. They diagnosed me with a disorder know commonly as RAD, reactive attachment disorder. I couldn't, or rather wouldn't love. Then they said that I was a sociopath, and finally, Bi-polar. Then, after a year on medications that didn't do anything for me, they went back to me being a sociopath. I guess that's what I am, a sociopath. I have a lack of the common feeling know as 'guilt', I guess. I feel it all the time, but maybe the phrase 'lack' was really referring to the fact that it was there in such small quantities.
******** it, I'll finish this later.

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