I reacted strongly, unaware that the evolution of culture and society was making every pretense within me either irrelevant, inappropriate, or obsolete. And yet, I knew the things that I felt were still true: either there was something wrong with the universe, or there was something wrong with me. This would become a pattern for me. The pain would cease under the weight of suppression, even though I knew it still existed somewhere, underneath strata of something which pretended to be strength, or safety, or understanding. From now on it would only burst out randomly, when the tectonic plates of my soul built enough stress that the crevices and cracks in my personality would reveal themselves in magma and Richter-scale devastation. There are two periods of my life when I wanted to cry. One, when I was six years old. And all the days since. I am now sixteen.