Disgusting.

     I never go on facebook, mainly because I don't like social networking sites. But while surfing through 'friends you may know' I saw a name I recognized but a face I didn't. So I clicked in. I found this boy I knew from elementary only now he was a lot cooler and better looking than before. I'm not saying he was cute, because to me he wasn't even slightly attractive, but he looked better than before. It was not until after that I realized it could have just been someone else with the same first name, because I couldn't seem to remember his last name at the time. Still, I realized something.
     I always stand against bullying and say I hate it and the people who do it, but I was one of them, to this boy at least. Sometimes. I would make fun of him and blackmail him with horror stories from third grade (peeing yourself in class is something you can never out live). It's not that I was so bad or mean that he hated me, he liked me and we got along fine, but I still sometimes playing bully with him.Yet when people made fun of him or made him cry I would go crazy trying to defend him.
     The point is: when I made him cry, or sad, in return I had a gratifying feeling. And I find that disgusting.
     That I could find happiness from someone elses pain scares me more than anything. I do not want to be labeled a sociopath or some other kind of -path I just want to be happy. But then as I was writing this I realized this happened in sixth grade.
     That was the period in which my parents were going through a divorce and I was no longer the only kid in class with parents who were still together. I was coming to terms with my father being from a third world country from where a women's place is the kitchen and her king, her husband. A father who I learned told my mother to get an abortion the moment he learned I had been conceived. A father who, now that I learned, was mentally and emotionally abusing me and was neglecting me. A father who called me an idiot and was convinced I would never amount to anything in life. A father who my mother felt sure would try to kidnap if he had the chance.
     This is the man that 'raised' me. This was only a short list of things he did to me, the list of mental and emotional abuse he did to my mother could go on forever. An abuse I never even noticed.
     And I realize, now, that the reason I found happiness in his, the boy I bullied, pain is because my home life went to shit in a matter of two seconds.
    In these two seconds two things happened; One: my mother was physically abused, for the first time. And two: I saw it.