After so many years, after incorporating my glove into being an intrinsic part of my being, it still amuses me to no ends the amount of effort it takes to demonstrate the proper responses to emotional stimuli. Some days I wonder if it is worth the effort to integrate reflections of compassion and empathy into my daily life, but I know the consequences of not doing so. I am not in a position that I could afford to lose the few people I've kept around me.

Growing up as the monster that I am was exceptionally difficult for me for several reasons. The most critical component of that difficulty, the most difficult terrain to traverse, was the lack of control. As a 'child,' with no real world experience or wisdom, it was my duty to bow down to the whims of those called 'adults.' Those very same 'adults' that are just as clueless as we are about dealing with offspring, about the supposed budding relationship between mother and son, or father and son.

But before I digress into the emotional bonds, or lack thereof in my case, I should get back to control. One of my greatest strengths, and greatest flaws of my childhood, was my inability to back down. To give ground, to surrender. I was more stubborn than a goat, and more often than not I was the spider in its web, masterfully spinning circumstances to my favor, to manipulate an outcome in my favor. Combined with the obvious damage caused to my non-sociopath sister by the divorce of my mother and father, I had an easy nesting ground to hone my skills into something fantastic. (Fantastic, by my standards. Woe is humanity, for those early years I had to get better and better at my craft)

I am sure many of you reading this have dealt with something like divorce. I have studied how it affected the normal psyche extensively, to better perpetrate an individual affected by such an emotionally 'traumatic' event. I sometimes wonder how it would have effected me if I felt the 'grief,' the 'sadness' experienced by the loss of such a constant in one's life as a parent. Neither of my parents are dead, but then again, to me, they were never alive as much more than a provider. They gave me food, shelter, 'encouragement,' the mandatory things required by parent of the offspring. They showed moderate levels of favoritism for my sister, despite my higher intellect and interest in pleasing them, which caused a bit of a schism in our relationships. Regardless of their preferential treatment of her, however, I ... adored? ... her all the same.

Do not mistake that word for anything that I am not attempting to imply. There has yet to be an event in my life, or the lives of anyone I've ever known, to convince me such a thing as 'love' exists. The concept of emotion is almost a fallacy, yet obviously my fellow humans experience them every day. The flawed logic in convincing ones' self that emotion exists is one thing, but to actually experience them is another. That aside, I did adore her. She was one of the few pure, innocent things in my life. I protected her, from my parents' arguments, emotional neglect, and from the detriments of a public school education as a minority. (We are Caucasian, white, and grew up in an environment of government housing and welfare. Do not mistake me, I am not racist, and hold no illusions of the supremacy of one race to another, all of humanity is the same cancer in my eyes)

The last time I adored my sister, however, was years ago. I no longer count the years, the months, the weeks, nor days since she betrayed me, but she did betray me. It was exquisite, the pain and betrayal almost tangible... but was it real? Was that something lurking just out of reach of my perception, or was that simply the automatic, programmed response of my glove? I don't know, and I don't know if I ever will. But I digress, and then take this all over my life. 'I write from my heart,' so you must forgive the sporadic way in which I examine and dissect my life, my mistakes, my trials and my path. But to continue, she did betray me. A glorious betrayal, on many levels. I was nearly incarcerated for her betrayal, as was one of my friends. She told a translucent, yet excellent story, that I had no true and concrete way of disproving. And it tore both my father and his side of the family, as well as my mother and her's, down the middle.

Despite that betrayal, that non-subtle reminder that trust is vulnerability, trust is weakness, trust is dangerous... I have never tasted hate for her. That particular wine is reserved for special, truly special people, and occasions that I doubt will ever grace... or disgrace... the pages of this 'diary.' What I do have left for this sister, this young woman that betrayed me and reminded me of so many things that I had lost sight of, is the closest thing to sadness I have ever felt. That, coupled with amusement, disgust, and annoyance. Of the four? Annoyance reigns supreme.

Irony. The monster, betrayed by the one person he 'cared' for. The monster, stabbed in the back, left in the dirt bleeding... but this monster is hard to kill. This monster is hard to kill.