It was new, and frankly, it was scary. I hated how it stuck to me I could try to scrape it off or wash it off as much as I wanted, but it always stayed, seeping into my skin. At that point, I was determined to get rid of it I couldn’t stand it being there any longer, so I went to my parents about it. They were the only ones I wanted to talk to. I didn’t go into any huge details I wasn’t ready to yet. My mother didn’t have any words to put in, she was usually silent. My father on the other hand told me everything he had to say about it, trying to analyze what he thought was many levels of drivel. I wasn’t allowed to have a mental illness, I was too young, too much, not truthful, not like him. Not him, I wasn’t him that was the issue yet it was the solution too. Only the man of the house was allowed to have feelings, it let him express how continuously disappointed he was, how I could do better, be less of a failure. Henceforth I made it my mission not to be like him, spite the very thing he strives off