Twenty years ago this day, Breaking Benjamin released this song with the birth of its mother album, “Phobia“. Since then, I’ve pondered the meaning of this literal masterpiece, but finally settled upon it being an interpretation of what it’s like living with a mental illness in the wake of trauma of any kind. In my case, specifically, I’ve likened it to the battlefield of my father’s psychologically abusive warfare and the eggshells our family did then and still are forced to tiptoe around on a daily basis. So, yeah, the scene at this family dinner table pretty much sums up the entirety of my childhood. With that, I would now like to offer up this ‘lil nuggie on behalf of every “unknown soldier” out there like me and my daughter who through no choice of their own was forced to step into the ring with their own effing parents and lived to tell about it:
Hey! YOU! All you ‘lil wreaking ball “parents” out there with “dinner tables” like this who think their kids AREN’T gonna either:
(a) End up in lifelong therapy;
(b) End up with a rip-roaring mental illness;
(c) End up hating and making cryptic posts like this about you;
(d) End up completely SEVERING you from their lives; or
(e) ALL OF THE ABOVE!
DO BETTER, YA JEAN-CLAUDE VAN DAMN EFFING JACKWAD! If, however, you either can’t do better or simply refuse to even try because it makes you feel like a much more powerful human being thing than you actually are, then don’t you DARE ever let any of us Unknown Soldiers out here catch you crying yer “Oh, poor me! Nobody loves me … not even my own kids!” effing eyes out! It was never ANY of our responsibilities to become the living bandages to soak up the blood you’ve let from the cuts you never healed from. Capiche? K, bye now!
The Diary Of My Perfection 