@suzleigh thanks for replying, yes, I had some thoughts on those things. I just thought that I have to make everything broken then build it back. I think it’s the best way to solve my problem

@suzleigh In fact, I went through my memories—complete memories—with several AIs yesterday. But I found that most AIs tend to operate based on underlying logic focused on soothing user emotions, preventing crises, or even avoiding risks and responsibilities. They approach the content I need to sort through with oversimplification or make edits that are easily overlooked yet impact the story's overall context. But perhaps that's not important. The entire process involved me conversing with the AI. I told it to speak freely about whatever memories came to mind—anything related to my entire being. I recalled memories that had long troubled me, or those I harbored resentment toward, or those I believed contributed to my C PTSD. Or childhood memories, perhaps from when I was only a few years old, that might reflect my personality traits—and I discovered an interesting fact. In fact, paranoia belongs to Type A personality traits. I realized it doesn't change based on my experiences; it doesn't transform someone fundamentally non-paranoid into a paranoid person due to negative events or trauma later in life.
I realized that my memories of my father, including those from childhood, involved his work colleagues, friends, or anyone else who enjoyed teasing him. In China, many people use the question "Do you love your daddy or your mommy?" as a joke to mock children. Moreover, perhaps ten or twenty years ago in China, corporal punishment was still widely accepted in my parents' generation. They believed strictness was necessary to teach children to study diligently and become better people. So when I was young, if I lost points on a test due to carelessness or avoidable mistakes, or even for minor missteps in daily life, they would administer small punishments—like spanking a child's bottom. This was the reason my father was the one who disciplined me physically from childhood. Back then, I never thought anything was wrong. I didn't perceive anything unusual about my memories of myself or my father. I didn't see my own thoughts as problematic, nor did I view my father's actions as problematic. It wasn't until I revisited these memories, overwhelmed by the burden my illness had placed on everyone, that I realized something. I discovered that from the very first time someone asked me about my preferences, "Dad still loves Mom more, so how will you treat them?" my answer always seemed the same: "My dad hits me now. Just wait until he can't walk anymore—you'll see how I treat him. He won't get off easy." (In truth, my words were far harsher, detailing specific acts. Yet at the time, no one—including myself—felt anything was amiss. I saw nothing wrong with my father's actions.) Moreover, growing up, I realized I'd only learned how to hate someone. I don't know how to love; I lack the capacity to love.