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I’ve never been homesick before. In fact, I’ve never even wished to be home again. Surely, I have wanted the comforts of my bed before, or perhaps my cat, but the home situation has never really appealed to me.

I hate my home. I really do. I dislike it so strongly that I wish destruction apon it. Not the building. I do not hold grudges with inanimate things. No, I have lived my life free of that happy, longing feeling to go back to a time of joy in my home; there are so few that it is simply not worth the effort to find one.

My mother was never the nicest of people. It spawns from her own personal lack of a happy household. It’s funny how that works. That her own lifestyle, which she hated so much, would become mine.

My mom grew up in a household where the only way of expressing yourself was with angry silence or hurtful words. I consider myself lucky that I have never endured the occasional physical abuse she did, but I know there have been occasions where I was only moments away from doing so. I know that her father threw things at her when he was angry. I know he blamed her, and flew off the handle needlessly, shattering things with his anger, not the least of which was my mother’s heart.

This, however, does not make me feel my life is any better.

My father was brought up in a home where you simply do not express yourself. You do not talk. You do not yell. You do not cry. You do not express emotions because it is simply easier not to have them. I, too, did not endure this.

It was seen fit that I received a mixture.

There are countless times I can imagine where I have been the victim of crimes I could not cause. Despite (or perhaps, because of) my mother’s background, it was I who felt the crux of the pain my mother felt. If she was not happy, I was not happy. Her anger lashed out at those around her in the form of illogical demands, angry questions. It was never enough.

I remember the phases I went through as a kid. Most kids had the “ME!” phase and the “NO!” phase. I had the “My fault” phase and the “Pleasing People” stages. I often find myself lapsing back into these personas. It became natural for me to blame myself, to apologize for no reason, to change who I was to make people happy. I couldn’t please my parents, so I wanted to please everyone else.

No, I am not nostalgic for those times.
I do not relish the rehashing of the hurtful words my mother would scream about me to my silent father.
In fact, I wish I could forget the sound of the door shutting, the car starting, as my father left, unable to deal with the situation in my home.
I wish I could leave behind her critical voice and simply run.
I wish I could replace the thoughts that I had failed her again with memories of a family who was there for me.

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