The imposters were found out immediately but the charade has persisted through the years. Outward perfection. Perceived wealth. Oneupmanship, a sport as revered as any in these circles, where family tragedy was to be quashed down into a manageable, historical denial and the hype train rattles on. There's horror underneath every fresh coat of paint, and the lights we shine upon the hard parts are fuelled with gas. Designer labels and the exhausting pretense has left me cold, as I realized so early on that it was all so horribly wrong.
No, actually it left me angry, not cold. Learning how to reverse engineer support, belief, warmth and encouragement is an impossible task now and the efforts to try and escape the quicksand of compulsive perfection and ultimately endless failure is a gift that should not be wished upon anyone, ever. All of it could have been fixed with simple acknowledgement or extra effort but back then one didn't look inward, you didn't look behind you as you ran (something I always do, no matter what, even if it means landing on my face) and you certainly aren't going to go and talk to anyone about the fact that you were the one that found him swinging from the rafters in the garage when you were of such a formative year, were you?
No, because you can always slap on another coat of paint over that and just carry on, right?
I was already fucked up before you gave me to the wolves and yet that doesn't matter one bit, does it?
My entire life now dedicates itself to changing history and fixing all of the worn spots, so that this doesn't happen again. Twice as much work for me because you wouldn't do any at all.