...and who are we, the betrodden?

To many, the "story" of my life begins with the murder suicide - as though before that moment, no publisher would deem my life worthy of writing memoirs.

But what story ends in any form of suicide whose beginning is pristine?

My childhood was unhappy. My family was dysfunctional. The first 19 years of my life culminated in blood and fire.

I have spent my life fighting against the odds, trying to be a good person. Yet whatever I do, I am held against the same standards as everyone else. I am expected to struggle and make sacrifice as though I haven't already done more than my lifetime's share of just that.

I spoke on the phone with a friend today. A friend with similar circumstances, similarly struggling against society's expectations of being a "good person" - trying to reconcile the raging desire to finally, finally live on one's own terms with the rules that are dictated by what everyone else decides is "fair".

But we grew up in unfair worlds, and unfair situations. We were young and innocent and pure, and we were dealt a losing hand. And by still living and still striving, we see ourselves now as successes - but everyone else, who compare us only to the situations that are familiar to them, see us as weak and lazy and cruel and lacking.

And who are we, in this world?

Are we children of this universe, destined to come into our own as has never been given to us?

Or are we bleak anomalies, dark smudges to balance out those with glittering lives?

If the latter -- I'm ready for the revolution.