Whenever someone asks me what I can remember of my childhood, what the happier moments of my childhood were with my parents, I can't think of any. Those are the first and only stand-out memories of what growing up was like to me.
And those memories really seem to show what two of my main outlooks/observations on my life seems to be; one, there's always someone or something preventing me from doing what I want, what I need to do, to be happy, to be free, and any time I try to ask for help, I just get ignored as if I didn't exist. When I finally give in and accept my fate, it all gets thrown in my face and I get berated for not trying, when in reality I've done all in my power, all that I know how to do, to get where I wanted to go, to get something better for myself, and two, that everything I try and do to make things better, to get some kind of happieness and comfort, always gets thrown back in my face. Everything that I ever do to be happy somehow finds a way to be warped, perverted, and turned on me, so that everything that I enjoy becomes a constant reminder of just another way that I've failed at being better.
I started to try and put together why I'd written that, what I could have been thinking about. I went to thinking mostly about the last bit about my parents and how I felt growing up.
I started to try and put together why I'd written that, what I could have been thinking about. I went to thinking mostly about the last bit about my parents and how I felt growing up.
