I get so caught up in the books I read,
in the traits of the characters they portray,
that I tend to take on some of those traits myself.

Not for forever.
But usually lasting for a few weeks,
sometimes even up to a few months,
after I read a book.


When I was little,
I devoured books like I was a starving child on the streets.

As I became an adult,
I thought this was because I just loved to read.

Which, I guess,
is partially true.

But I've begun to realise,
that it was also because
I was lonely.

I never thought
I was lonely.

After all,
how could a child
who grew up
in a large family
be lonely?

I had no reason to be...
right?

But it makes sense.

My temperament didn't match the others.
I was always sent to grandma's house
and everyone else got to stay together
when my parents had to travel for work.

"Family" means together?
Family means they love you?
Family means that they'll
work hard to help you
fight whatever demons
you face,
help you fight the
darkness that threatens
to swallow you
whole,
help you to not feel
lonely...

...family doesn't mean anything.

Family means giving up.

Family means telling me
to shape up
or to pick going
into foster care.
Family means being
sent to grandma's house
because you're too
much for all your siblings
combined
to handle.
Family means talking about
my issues to extended family
whom you would otherwise
never even give the light of day
instead of trying to help me
figure out what's wrong.


Even to this day,
I get lost in the books I read.

My imagination runs wild.

And I still take on character traits.

Am I still running from something?
Am I still lonely?
Am I still trying to figure out who I am?


The one thing
that I can say for sure
is that I know
that I hate myself.

And that's not said
to seek pity.

It's said as a
matter of fact.

It's my reality.
And it's something
I live with.

It's neither here
nor there.

It just...is.

Just like me.