Conception.

I was of forced conception. Two children: one too ill and one of malicious and selfish intent. My beloved parents. Or so I thought as a four year old. I thought everything was perfect. I was perfect. I had the perfect life and nothing would ever change that. And things got violent.

To be told of my conception as a child greatly broke something deep down. Sometimes I'd forget about why I'm here and just be here. But no one can escape their past, who they really are inside.

And it burns inside. It feels like rats are crawling and turning in my stomach, every inch of skin crawls. My muscles are repulsed, crafted around bones and trapped by skin that's so dirty and nasty.

It really is the true definition of self-loathing. I just want to be sick.

Was I really meant to be here at all?

I'm just so tired and heavy and miserable.

I just hate who I am.