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July 10, 2003
I feel like vomiting. My stomach turns its own knotted fabrics. The pains of life are too great for it. It can't stand my mother. Neither can I. Responsibility is not power. It's not even the road to it in her world. Every mistake that I make is reason for reprimand. Everything I do right is overlooked, expected. I reap no benefits that she speaks of. The best I can is all she ever asked, until I made what she thought of as a mistake, and that was a judgement call. This is my house, she burnt down my home.