a life defined by torture?

(TW for sounding fucking insane. I am mentally ill so don’t hate on me please! Some of what I say may be incorrect/delusional and believe me, I know.) 

surely there must be more to me, to BE than this. I’ve said this so many times but I just can’t wrap my head around the idea of this being..it. That this is who I am.

What am I? A creature, made of the genetics of an abusive man with NPD, low intelligence, who makes no time for himself and his family; and a mother who became insane and ill within his world, and gave birth to a son of the fangs of the snake father. 

Something must have touched me at birth. Specifically, I imagine a long, pure claw of creamy white coming from from the ceiling, from light itself, and putting just a speck of its light into my forehead. The thing is not separate to me, I am not separate to it. We are both the same. Imagine the three-headed Jesus. That is I and the Other that is I. If that hadn’t happened then I’d be like any other disrespectful, rude child who came from an abusive family and never got out of it. Not in his head, not in his actions, not anywhere. I am .. more.

But sometimes I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like I am an inbred backyard dog made from two un-fixed dogs, the creation of a human’s corruption and a dog’s innate need to mate. Sometimes I really do just feel like that terrible, disrespectful child. Maybe I’ll end up in jail, or dead by 20. That’s what this world wants of me, but I feel the strings connecting me to the other worlds. I simply can’t. 

I don’t like that I’m defined by my abuse. Despise my spiritual connections a lot of what is ‘me’ can be traced back to what happened when I was younger. There was never a ‘before’. There wasn’t a life of joy before the victim. I was born into the maw of the working man and stayed there, bones crushed by the canines until they formed callouses to defend themselves. Am I the product of corruption? Nothing more? Maybe. Probably. But I simply just can’t accept it. 

I think that’s what I am socially. Socially, I am a failure. But I know that, outside of interacting with the sickly people, I am so much more. It’s just the truth. I’ll be amazing, because I was meant to be. If not I would never be me. 

Maybe that’s what makes me. Not my abuse, but that glow of pure white in the middle of my forehead, that I feel in my hands and my chest almost painfully. That I feel drawing out of my hands and up as we speak. Maybe that’s me. I don’t know yet.