When I got a little older, in high school, my dad started to really punish me a lot. All of our differences started to truly surface. All of our similarities started to relentlessly reveal itself, and then ricochet, and blow up right in our faces. Then there’s the whole rebellious teen angst phenomenon that I can assure you, exists. That rebellion that I prematurely, and undeniably mastered; it was my specialty. I became very cocky, and clever. I learned how to manage my parents and keep them under my thumb. I got good with people and learned how to talk with them, talk to them, to get everything I wanted. I became a smart ass but knew how to work people. I was charming and witty; manipulative, with an affable undertone. Still, I was a teenager. A very theatrical, and melodramatic one at that, with an appetite for danger in risk, and a proclivity for adventure in damnation. My dad couldn't handle this. I survived high school without being shipped off to boarding school solely because my mother was able to calm him down and push him through these most challenging and cryptic of times.
Do you know that I wake up every day of my life — distressed? Distressed with some kind of infinite agony, bound in this sort of desperation. I do not know where it comes from, I do not know why it stays—but it wakes up with me, bright and early in the morning, and stays up with me each and every dark night until I slip away. And when I am very lucky, I do not dream.
And then I hate you. I hate you because you took everything that was us out of that house. Everything that was us — that was our family. You went and you tore it down and tore it out of our lives, out of my life, without a second thought, without any concern or understanding of what you had really done.