Tragic

Once again, I have found myself spiraling deep into the darkness of the mind. Thrust into a frustrating event, I enter an emotional frenzy, trapped by blinding confusion and the weight of my anger. As always, blame is always placed on me in the family.

I wear denim shorts, only to be accused of not washing them. When explaining that I had already washed them, my father somehow reaches the conclusion that I only put one article of clothing (the denim shorts) in the washer. I correct his false statement, leading to an argument that ends with him yelling, "STUPID BITCH, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ARGUE? IF YOU DON'T SHUT THAT DIRTY MOUTH, I AM GOING TO HIT YOU."

I am the middle child, the one my parents deem as the mistake, the devil child. The baseless foundation of our relationship consists of nothing more than a mutual hatred. I suppose the most I can offer my parents emotionally is downgraded love, crossed with hatred, remorse, and disappointment.

After a storm, disorder crumbles into the warm image of peace. However, nothing is ever constant and excess trust is bound to be placed on that sense of security. One suppresses the trauma and basks in his or her new-found solace, only to return to the stressful environment of an imperfect reality.

Reality itself instills me with sadness. My close friend, suddenly ended her phone call with her boyfriend and entered my room. She uttered these truly heart breaking words: "Do they do this to (hit) you often?" I did not know how to answer her. I couldn't answer her.

It's almost tragic.