A/N: This fic is written in a diary format, as you can see. I am experimenting with the whole diary style. This fic is also very angsty. The R rating is there so that I can write this story 'freely', without worrying about restrictions, but I am not exactly sure yet if this story will live up to its rating. Enjoy, and please leave a review.

11:30pm Saturday, September 1st, 2004

'And this concludes tonight's edition of CTV News. I am Lloyd Robertson, and this was CTV News'

I swear I am getting sick of that guy. He has been saying that line for about, well, forever. What ever happened to originality?

I really have nothing to write about. In fact, I an extremely bored. By some miracle I managed to finish all of my homework this afternoon. I have spent the last half hour, pen in hand, listening to Lloyd drone through the National News. My mind has been blank of what to write in this stupid journal so far.

So why am I writing? Mary suggested that I write down all of my feelings and thoughts down in a book. She even provided one for me. Mary is my psychiatrist. I had my first session with her this morning. Vasil thinks that I need professional help.

Vasil is my new found father. Well, not exactly new found, but he was non existent for the first seventeen years of my life. Wait, he did stick around until I was six, so I should give him credit for that. Okay then, so for the past eleven years of my life he hasn't been around. Not that he totally forgot that I existed; he did call and visit me when the mood struck him. I just don't think that Vasil was mature enough for fatherhood.

So that brings us (well me at least) to the next question. Why am I living with him?

I will admit that the answer is still painful to think about, and it may be part of the reason why I need 'professional help'. But then if I knew what was wrong with me, why would I need to see Mary? Sorry, I know I am straying off topic.

My mother walked out on me three weeks ago. As simple as that. She wants to pursue a new life back in her homeland of Macedonia with her new husband-to- be. I think his name is Petar. I don't care. My mother never bothered to introduce me to him, I don't know who he is, but I hate him. He took my mom away from me.

She told me that I was a man now, even though Canadian law says otherwise. She told me that I am old enough to look after myself. She said that it would be best for me to stay in Toronto and finish my education. Not that I wanted to leave; I wanted her to stay. She told me that she was a grown woman and it was time for her to actually get a chance to live her life after seventeen years of having a ball and chain named Alex (actually it's Aleks, but I prefer to spell it Alex).

Well, she didn't quite say that, but that was what she meant in my opinion. Mom has always found a nice way to say harsh things. For instance, a year or two ago back when I was fat. She told me that I was well insured incase of a famine. Then when I lost all of my extra baggage and had a huge growth spurt which brought my height to 6'2 from its former 5'6, and I began to look sickly skinny, Mom told me that I looked like a beautiful Chinese chopstick. Ok, well, maybe those two weren't too nice, but you have to admit that she was pretty nice when she told me that I had been unintended, unwanted and that she was more than happy to dump me on my father. At least, that is how I see it.

Well, she is a grown woman I suppose. I guess she does need to live her life. I guess she had every right to tell me to fuck off and leave her alone.

So for the past three weeks, I have been stuck here with Vasil. I absolutely refuse to call him 'Dad'. He isn't my father, just a sperm donor. A real father would have been there. A real father would have raised me.

As for why my dad decided to put me through therapy, well, I guess it has to do with my tantrums and the fact that I kind of ever so accidentally threw a lamp at his head. Ok, I will admit that it wasn't an accident; I was just pissed. I do not condone my behaviour, and I know that I should not turn innocent people (and objects) into victims of my anger. I just don't think I could control myself, and I will admit as much; I do need therapy. You see under normal circumstances I tend to bottle up my emotions. I have a temper, but not a nasty one. Everything that Vasil knows about me is from phone calls, and the brief summary my mom gave of me before dumping me on his doorstep the next day. And even from those two minutes glimpses of my personality, he knows that my sudden anger is unusual.

I will admit that I am angry. I am angry at my mother mostly for ditching me. I was messed up enough before that, and she just made it worse. I am also angry at myself, for being such a terrible son that my mother would want to leave me.

I am also confused I suppose as well. I am confused about who I am. I think I may be gay.

To be continued..