My Life (Far From Finished) *not completed

When I’m exposed to reality, I automatically become lost. I cower behind books and images in order to cope with the fact that I have no true understanding of things going on around me. One of my favorite authors, Anne Rice, wrote a book that was a ‘spiritual confession’. She described her life and how she came to believe in God. I'll be honest, I didn't really read it. It was too harsh for me. It was reality in text format and as I stated before, reality and I don't mix. I was actually wounded, which is an odd thing to say, I guess. I can't help it. I assume that knowing more about the author, who had written so many books I admired, ruined a part of myself that I didn't know I carried. In my mind somewhere, there is a small hope that someone out there could understand my mind. A comrade in shadowy arms that would be able to make sense of the depth of minds that I have already explored. You see, there is barely any thoughts in my head that are painted in happy colors. They project themselves outward by way of personality, likes, dislikes, and habits. Describing all of these would probably take me forever and would also be exposing parts of myself that I am not ready to air out. I can give you clues, but even I'm not totally sure why these things are the way they are. I prefer stormy, grey days well over any sunshine days that your local forecaster would call 'beautiful'. I feel more invigorated when clouds cover the blue sky and rain powers down. I will open my windows on sunny days to let fresh air penetrates my house, but I keep the blinds tightly closed. The light doesn't just bother my eyes, it depresses me. It doesn't depress me in the sense that I think of it as happy, but in the sense that it feels damning. Summer is by far my least favorite season. Give me a rainy fall day or a cold winter night and I am as content as a well-fed baby. Mind you, I don't consider myself 'Goth' or 'Emo' or whatever else word you would like to use. I don't wear solely black, though it does make up a good portion of my closet, but that is because it sliming. Let’s face it, must Americans now in days could stand to lose a few pounds, and I count amongst that majority. I like sensations as well. I prefer cold and dry. When I was younger I use to lay on the cold, dry concrete of my unfinished basement and it relaxed me. I would enjoy the silence as long as I could before my mother and her current husband would start fighting . At that point in the day I would retreat into my room, writing or reading; trying my best to ignore them. Part of me wonders if this is why I am different from most of my fellow peers. Could it be that all the hiding in my room or closet (when either parent would come for me, but I’ll discuss this later) led me to have an aversion for things such as light and the warm air of a sunny day? I had a cedar closet in my room and it was the only door that had a lock on it. My parents had driven screws into the other locks so that they could come in when they wanted without worry about being locked out. Many times my mother would come into the bathroom while I was showering an stare at me. I would be screaming in my head, worrying about the added bulked I had, that she did not. My mother was a tall, thin woman. Small chested and sometimes small-hearted. Many times I took the full brunt of her compact strength and even now I feel afterimage aches from her blows. She was mentally and physically abusive, I still carry many of the scars today. Her husband at that time was a bit better than her previous one, but he was just as psychologically damaging as well as sexually abusive. When I look back at my life, I can recall ever good memory because they were so few and far in between. I’m jumping around and getting off topic. You’ll have to forgive me, this is truly the first time I have tried to be completely honest about who I am and what has happened in my life, even to myself.