𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 || 𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘫.

𝟏𝟔

contains
emotional abuse
verbal abuse
mental illness
mentions of attempted suicide
mentions of suicide
drug use
gaslighting
mentions of self harm
mentions of eating disorders
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The week passed, and it was now Friday. I had spent the entire week at Jean's, not wanting to go back home. I did let my mom know that I was staying at a friends house, being sure not to tell her which friend, afraid that she'd probably have a police squad sent after me or something. I hadn't talked to my mom in almost an entire week, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Throughout the week I regularly went to me meeting and attended school. Eren didn't talk to me at our meetings. He'd just casually meet my gaze. It was weird for him not to talk to me, it's almost like he had nothing else to say or something. It was bothering me how he was talking his ass off, and now he doesn't want to talk to me at all.

Jean had agreed to let me stay at his house for a week up until the weekend. So since it was Friday, that meant I had to go back home. I already knew what was going to happen when I got home, me and my mom were going to argue. Both of us would probably get into a heated argument, and it'd get so bad to the point where I'd lock myself in my room and just think. What I meant by "think" was contemplating ways of which I was a failure and rethink my entire life. I'd end up getting depressed and allow my anger to over cloud me. It regularly happened when I got into arguments with my family. Those times were when I'd need to talk to someone, because it meant that I was being swallowed by my depression again. I'd sit in my rooms for hours or days after arguments with my parents, usually crying. So I guess you could say that after arguing with my parents that meant I'd more likely attempt suicide again. It was a normal occurrence for me, something that regularly happened. I didn't know for what reason, that I'd always turn to suicide as the answer, but I always did.

The weed helped calm me down a bit, after being released from the hospital things did seem to be a little better. I still thought of suicide, and got depressed, but I didn't think about it as much. I thought for a second that maybe I was getting better, healing even, but I always turned out to be wrong. I knew that after this whole ordeal, that the relationship with me and my mom would be worse. I knew that more thank likely, I'd end up becoming depressed again. I hated feeling that way, so I used weed, I used it as a way to become happy, a way for all my problems to go away. Weed its self was a problem, it was a problem to my mom. My mom made a lot of my decisions. She was the one who contributed to how I almost always felt. I hated myself for making my mom out to be the bad guy, but she was the one who made me this way in the first place.

I packed up my things and began driving my way to my house. I was scared, more scared than I've ever been in my life. I didn't want the relationship between my mom and I to deteriorate. It was all my fault all of it. I couldn't cry, I couldn't make myself out to be weak in front of her. When I got to my house, I left my things in the car and just made my way to the door. I knew I was going to have to give some half ass apology, one I didn't really mean. I would only apologize, to make her feel at ease, to make my apology seem real. Truth was I was a little bit sorry, I was only sorry because that meant there was one less person in my life. It meant there was one more person who I couldn't talk to, one more person who couldn't comfort me.

I opened the door, and into the kitchen. My mom wasn't in the kitchen, but she was at the house. I walked up stairs and into her room. Dad wasn't here, he worked nights, so she was alone. I opened her door, to find her in her bed crying. I stood awkwardly at the door. I didn't dare say anything, I'd play these things off by acting cocky, which really wasn't the time. I decided to stay quite, not wanting to say anything, only speaking when I felt it was appropriate. I usually wore a bored expression when it came to these kinds of things, this time it was different. This time my actual emotions did matter. I knocked on the door, allowing her to know I was here. I propped myself up against a wall, across from her bed. The silence was beginning to become a little too loud, a little too much. She started talking. Her voice was hoarse, I could tell she had been crying.