http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ige8G7qpEF8

     Shaking in my closet, I try to type and balance the laptop on my knee. It's been a while, and I apologize, because it feels unjust that I can just ditch as I please. That seems though to be my main desire these days. After a violent battle with my parents, physically, emotionally and verbally, no thought is more pertinent in my mind than this: I need to get out. However you interpret it, an exit is all I long for.

    After a call to someone, I realized how numb everyone is to my unsettledness, but I know writing always extends a hand in my time of destitution. So here goes: Today I woke up, my consciousness focused on a strange dream in which my sister was giving birth to a Muslim and would have to give it up because she wasn't 21... a little nonsensical but bear with me. I gathered myself and stumbled down the stairs, exhaustion present in my step. I spoke to my mom, explaining my dream to her with brevity. She sighed and voiced her displease as I mentioned the fact that the baby was Muslim. I stood up for the imaginary baby, a more figurative stand for Muslims everywhere, that just because they come from a culture with terrorists means little. Are all Americans overweight and stupid? No. She used her shield of religion, "I just want everyone to know Jesus!" Because, similarly, all American babies are born Christian, right? I was set with unease realizing her prejudice, her obvious and ignorant racism. I let it be, finished my breakfast then went to the house possessed by the dog I'm petsitting and returned home after running into some friends on the walk back. From the first step on my lawn to this exact moment, the unease has succeeded in occupying my whole body. Long story short, the tussle abridged to just a exchange of mean words, I am an ungrateful brat (repeat mentally about 5 octaves higher and that's more like it). Basically, I am a worthless child that is undeserving of anything but being pushed, shoved and/or hit. And for the past 41 minutes, I've sulked in this truth. I've been told by who I thought was my 2AM that they're just tired of hearing it. And, to be frank, I feel as if I am fighting for my life. This anger, this brokenness harbored behind my door is cancer, eating the good cells and converting them into   malevolent ones. And the outside of me, slightly battered, is not a valid reflection of the inside, torn and in tatters. As my parents yelled over my weak and poorly broad-casted defense, all I remember thinking was this: "For it is impossible to be feared and loved." My fear was suffocating, bursting into small droplets and falling from the corners of my eyes. It was exploding into red roses under my skin, doing an excellent job of turning my face nearly maroon. The fear was feasting on the traces of love I knew to have for these people who I shared the most genetic similarity with in this world. This fear was opening a chasm of which hurt would overflow. And fissures continue to appear, all over my body, a weak representation of the internal bruising. Because every inch of me is bruised.