Hello. It's been a bit since my last entry. I don't remember when, but I hid the entry page some time ago because my father had found it. You can still see it if you just type /entries in the url. Hopefully he is too stupid to do that. If not, hello. I was reading my past entries today and realized how in denial I was about the truly unrecoverable damage that has been done to me. I started community college two months ago and joined for a summer class. It was at SMC, the same place that Monica Lewinsky and Alex Mahan went to. Cool. I'm starting my actual first full semester at the end of the month. I was taking english 1 and film 1 but I had to drop a class and decided on english. My professor for film was Michael Peter Bolus. You can look him up. He knows what he's talking about, but it seemed to me that in the class he felt underappreciated. I can't blame him though, honestly. It's pretty apparent in a class like that, that most people just want to watch movies. Why you would pay thousands of dollars for a class only to ignore the lecture and barely perk up during screenings is beyond me. You can watch movies for free on your iPhone. I'm being harsh, but what I mean is that I get why he was the way he was. Hopefully I'm able to take his screenwriting class.
What I mean when I say that I've come to realize how severe my situation is, though, that I just have no idea what I'm doing. My father was/is a diagnosed malignant narcissist with sadistic tendencies. Throughout my childhood I had no friends, no hobbies, nothing, unless it was permitted to me on his whim. I wanted to be creative my entire life, but the one thing he allowed was for me to play guitar, only, he decided how and when I would learn. I never had an intense passion for music, but I took the opportunity to be creative. Every time I would practice at home, no matter what, he would insert himself and tell me what to play. This wasn't like a father teaching his child, though, no. He would tell me, "play this" or "play that." It was a performance. For him. He wanted a son who could play guitar, and so he had one. I practiced at least once a week for 9 years, but with him there, every time, I was too afraid to make mistakes, and never improved beyond simple power chords and guitar tabs. I even tried to start a band, and practiced with them for a while at my house. We, of course, naturally practiced in my parent's bedroom. It's where the guitar stuff was, so where else? Yeah, absurd and weird. Please remember that I was a child during this time, and completely under his spell, believing that he could do no wrong. This may sound stupid, but we watched Citizen Kane in film class (what a shocker) - but I nearly teared up during the scenes with Dorothy Comingore / Susan Alexander. I was grateful that the film almost enabled me to cry, something I haven't been able to do for many years, but that's besides the point. The film is a masterpiece, and the class has made me realize that there is so much that I do not know, but I cannot bring myself to watch it again. At least not for a while.
I wanted to go on and explain about how there is much more wrong with me - how I still haven't made a single friend besides one who I occasionally speak to online (for which I am truly forever grateful) - and how I've never been close to anyone besides one hug - and how I hate myself so much that I don't even want to leave the house because I don't feel like people should have to look at me - but I just don't have the energy. I just need to sleep. Or something. I don't know. As I said before, I feel lost. There is so much to do in this city and so much I have to do, but it still feels like a world away.