On April 1st, I'll be moving into my new flat in Douglasdale, close to Fourways, in the Northern suburbs of Johannesburg.

It's a great flat, very similar in feel and function as my flat in Cricklewood, Northwest London. I will furnish this from scratch. This weekend, I bought cutlery and basic kitchen amenities.

In 2006, I left my friend Sam to go live in London after leaving a comfortable and cosy house in Oxford. In 2009, I'm leaving my family home to go live on my own. Both are lofts. Both are homes of great memories, comfort, security, and ease.

In 2006, things had cooled and soured by the end with Sam, as he was going through his own struggles. In 2009, things have become so difficult at home.

Lord, I thirst for their connection to me. Lord, I thirst for someone or something to heal the gaping wounds in my heart, from their words, silence, negligence, their shouting, their insensitivity, their lack of understanding, their flippancy, their bile, their wrath, their lack of care. Lord, I thirst, my soul longs for life.

I laid in bed today, the tears starting to cradle in my eyes, hearing my mother talk to my sister. They then fell out of the cradle while taking a shower and getting ready for work. I hear my mother's voice directed at me and I shudder. I shake. I'm terrified of her. I'm terrified that the next word will be silence, a dagger fired, disapproval, hard hurtful tones shot at me. Whenever she speaks, I am transfixed and am horrified.

I went downstairs to have some breakfast; she had knocked on the bathroom to ask me if I wanted some and also packed lunch.

Whenever I scrub up, my mom's running joke is that I'm going to meet a girl. In another time and in another me, I would have said something emotive and showing my longing for affirmation, positive feedback. But this is me now. The me who quietly said no, no girl and kept on eating his jammy toast.

They could come in and talk, ask me what I'm doing with my life, what am I working on, what I am feeling, whom I am meeting, what I am thinking and feeling. They only seemed to do that when they approved of my existence, when I was about to marry that girl and they felt that they had to intervene. So, then, they put on their Sunday best of words and speech, and came to speak to me. Now that there is no threat, and that they just plain disapprove of absolutely everything I do, no need to go talk to him. He will bury himself in his arrogance and blindness. He will destroy himself. And we'll stand by to watch him waste away as we try to engage with his sister. The more worthy out of the two. The one worth trying to talk to, the one worth trying to reach out to, the one worth trying to put aside all my fears and hurts and anger for! But not the other one.

Not that mess of a human being. Not that rude, lying, disrespectful, sorry excuse for a man. Not that pile of dog shit who takes up a room every day, comes home at late hours, and uses me like a maid. Not that sorry fuck for a human being. No. Not him. The daughter, yes. But, the son? No. He's a lost cause. He's an eternal mess. He's a past failure.

He cannot be spoken to. He is emotional and illogical. He is rude and hurtful. He is weak and pathetic. He is forgettable and distorted. He's lost, confused, depressed, and thus worth ignoring altogether. Let me focus on the healthy one, the one that is willing to play my game.

….. my parents don't love me. They watch me waste away, day in day out, asking me who's hurting me and upsetting me while my blood drips from their fingers. While their hands carry the smell and imprints of my face. While their words are found, nuzzled and shooting hot cum into my cheeks.

I hate them while I lie in this prison, waiting for the day to release, to simply go to another prison. And one day, if ever, while I'm in the new shiny loft prison, I may find deliverance and peace.

Let him move out. Let him reap the consequences of his childish and arrogant decision. Let him fall and fail and be destroyed. And let my conscience be clear in front of God. Let me be pure and righteous before Him. And let my son die. Let my son fail so I may succeed. Let my son fall so I may rise. Let my son die so my ego and self-confidence may rule eternal and unmatched.

My mother doesn't love me. And my father doesn't care. And my sister enjoys their courting, while I fester in despair.

I'll never be good enough in their eyes. I'll never do anything of note that can get something positive. I'll never do anything properly, exactly as they raised me to it. The moment is here. I am a complete and unsalvageable failure in their eyes. I am a mess and sinner. I'm a horrible, horrible person. I'm the Devil himself, I'm possessed by him, I'm run by him, I'm chasing after a sinful dream of making film. I'm not a man. Just a walking sack of water, shit, and dreams, daring to live differently than them. I'm garbage. Real garbage.

I am a fool for moving back in with my family! I'm a fool for believing I could have a meaningful relationship with my parents! I'm a fool for thinking that they love me. I'm a fool for thinking that they care about me… I'm a fool for thinking – that they even care about my feelings, my fragile self-esteem, and my tattered emotions… I'm a fool… *crying*.. I'm such a fucking fool… *crying*

OH MY GOD, ANOTHER 15 DAYS IN THIS HELL! 15 DAYS!!!!! 15 FUCKING, 15 FUCK-ING DAYS… WHY!!!!! WHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO DIE!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO DIE!!!!!!!!!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!!!!!!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY!!!!! WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY!

*screaming* WHY!!!! WHY!!!!!!

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!