03/09/25
I don't think my life has been eventful.
Not really, not in the grand scheme of things. As I write, I realise that I have lived a spectacularly uneventful, unfulfiling & soul-destroying lie of an existence. I like to think that this is only the beginning, that, like the arc, the journey of the hero that I am in the troughs—and maybe I am—maybe I'm not. In any case, there are few positives that I could extract from my twenty-five years of putrid existence—nothing wholly substantial anyway, or worthy of note.
For a while, it felt like my birth was a stain on humanity.
I don't think it was ever meant to work out anyway. My Mum got with My dad when she was 19 and my dad was at least 26/27, which wasn't a good start. I was too young when my mum split with my biological father, so I didn't know him, not until I was 18 anyway. From what I gathered he never cared for myself, my mum or himself—granted, this could just be my mother passing the buck, easy to blame a man of course and never the woman.
Years and years later, when I'd grown up, my mum would comment saying you're just like your father, or that I looked like him [which obviously, I would]. She would make remarks about this all the time and she probably didn't realise that it hurt, it hurt me a lot—mostly because I didn't know him. I think she hated my father, I hated him too. I met him infrequantly after my 18th birthday and then after that I sort of cut contact, guess my mum was right all along.
Years later, I started to turn into him.
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