Warning: emotional entry ahead.
I've come to conclusion to many things. Many many things except myself. Last night was one of those nights. A night that serves as the conclusion of a week of feeling unwell. I felt the urge to read my old black diary and when I did, I realized a pattern of thoughts I've become accustomed to.
When I was about 13 to 16, almost every diary entry was occupied with experiences involving my mother and stepfather. I was a relatively good boy with very minor personality defects. I was self-motivated, righteous and expressive. But my years of adolescence was tainted with financial problems, my mother's tantrums and my longing for a real family, a family I was once in. I know everyone has issues with their family but mine was ongoing and escalated to