My parents raised me "young." I don't think they really had childhoods, and because of that, they have been refusing to unhinge their fixation on it. I'm actually surprised I didn't end up more weird than I already am. My siblings and I were raised in a bubble of books and imagination with tinted windows so that we couldn't see the sun. My parents were and are very strict. My parents still don't want me to grow up. I love my family; I couldn't have asked for a better childhood. But now I find that the very holy childhood soaked in a golden aura of nostalgia wrapped in a bow on a shelf in the living room of my upper story- is something I'm starting to resent. My parents hardly know me anymore. They have no idea what I'm actually doing- both good and very, very, VERY bad things. If I died tomorrow, and they found this blog and all of my writing in my room and heard stories about me and found out some of the things I've done, I have no idea what they would do. I can't help but wonder that if the chances of them reading this are very high, then why am I doing this?
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