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The first time I ever remember someone being concerned with how much I preferred the dark was when I was 8 years old and my mom walked through my room(we lived in a railroad apartment at the time) and saying "you *like it*, this, way?" in a manner that seemed to say "damn this kid's crazy." I didn't know how to respond back then, so I just confirmed. In sophomore year, when I didn't feel confident to talk about my mental issues with my parents but wasn't that good at hiding them, my mom had the audacity to say to me "if you're so sad all the time, why do you keep yourself locked up in this dark room?"
This told me two things. One is that my mom either doesn't realize the hints that she's given that I can't be anything resembling my comfortable self around here(she once implied to me that I didn't love her simply because I questioned my religious beliefs, among other things; TO THIS DAY believes that I'm only queer because "the media" made me that way, even though my dad is probably bisexual too, and to this day can't decide whether she wants to tell me that it's not my fault that I am who I am(referring to my tough childhood in relation to being ND) or that being that way means that I can't be queer because "you already have enough against you"(referring to my race and the previous ND part). The other is that she views my room as the source of my depression rather than an escape from it. She thinks she can fix me, and always has, I think.
When I was in elementary and middle school and considered killing myself more than a couple times, it was my room and my thoughts that gave me a reprieve from that dark world. Itwas the darkness of my room where I didn't have to be reminded that I was a burden on everyone's lives that was told(either by words or context, often the former) that he would probably end up either dead or jailed before he reached the age of 18. In my dark room, I could spend time on my phone or 3DS to find a world where I wasn't just waiting until someone finally got tired of me and sent me to a home like they kept threatening. They didn't deserve to deal with me, so my room was the best compromise where people didn't have to be disappointed.
I originally intended this to be uplifting, but now I think that maybe they're half-right. My room is the source of my sadness, not because it's too far, but because it's not far enough. I don't like being in this house, and my main thought on staying here is an obligation to my sister that I am in no way qualified to fill. I'm not physically strong nor sneaky enough to get any evidence of the most glaring bullshit, and any family member nearby(assuming they would do something as drastic to my sister as send her to a conversion camp if she turned out gay, like they implied they considered doing to me) would probably do even worse things if they had custody. I hate it here.
Dark is the thing that calms me, and makes it so that they won't see when I contact the people that actually accept me as I am and would never consider doing such horrible things to me. It's a shield. I don't think I'm saying this properly. I love them. My real family. Someday I'll have love in my own home, and maybe raise kids in a safe environment. And if they one day go through some stuff, or maybe if they're just weird and like the dark like 7-year-old me was, so be it. I'll help them the best I can, not "help."