okay. from the beginning.

i liked to wear red shoes. i didn't like to wear clothes. things were usually really confusing to me. they weren't home a lot so i didn't have anyone to talk to. we had a lot of babysitters. some of them were just children themselves, because i would watch them fumble around with their responsibilities. the night my brother was born my dad's cousin watched me. he wouldn't tell me what was going on. i was gentle with michael. i didn't understand him though and sometimes I would be aggressive, like bite him or put toys in his diaper. i could always get out of trouble. my mom didn't have the attention span to dole out discipline convincingly. she only grounded me once in my life, and it was for something really, really stupid, because she thought that's what parents are supposed to do (she said it like, "well I guess what other parents would do is ground you..."), but i blatantly went out the next day because I knew she'd forgotten. My dad was strict. He was like military. He was a drill sargeant. He kept you in check. I told him once that I wanted to play basketball. So he dragged me out to an outdoor court at 6am and made me do layup drills, screaming at me the whole time. I decided that I never wanted to play basketball because I'm a big pussy who's too sensitive. My dad is a very very angry man. I remember that anger. It's rage with a hair-trigger. I spilled milk on the couch once (I mean, it was literally over spilled milk) and he flew into a rage that went from the couch to me cleaning my room. He threw objects at me, including a binder that hit me in the leg and really hurt. I ended up getting really angry about it so I waited until he went off to bed and then I started crying until I hyperventilated and I freaked my mom out. I pretended to have body spasms so they took me to the hospital. I didn't say a word but I think the doctor knew something was wrong. Because later, my mom whispered to me that the doctor told my dad that he had emotional problems. sometimes i would throw michael under the bus when my dad was angry, because even though michael was so vulnerable, he would still take things out on him. but the thing was, michael never let anyone attack me. If my dad would dare hit me in his presence, little autistic michael would jump in the way and scream, "NOOOOOOO." he wouldn't let anyone touch me. he would yell at my parents to stop yelling at his sister. but i never stood up for him because i was a coward.

ah, fuck. at what point can I make up for my cowardice in life? how much good can I do to erase the fact that I am a coward? what if all this strength I supposedly have gained is just something that crumbles into dust in the face of a real challenge? who am I really, if I built this image of myself on the foundation of "I am not a coward," when I know deep down, I'm building my entire personality on a lie? What if it's not a lie and I'm actually stronger than I want to admit, because I've spent so many years hurting myself out of guilt that I'm still not convinced that I deserve to feel good again. I wanted him to do the work when really I need to do the work myself. what's so clear to others, you absolutely can not see. It's the curse of irony. that twilight zone where the guy who loves to read and finds out that due to a natural disaster, he's the last man on earth so he's happy he can read all these books in peace...until he breaks his glasses. you spend your life begging for a mirror, because you can't see yourself anymore and have no idea who you are. and that's the thing. all you'll really know of yourself, is reflection. but all that you can feel of yourself, is infinite.

i must be stronger than i realize, but i don't know why i can't see it. i'm so afraid of finding out i'm still a coward.