To My Mother

Hey, Mom.

We love being hurt so much by you that we wake up the second we recognize your footsteps in the hallway. But at the same time, you say you're trying to change, so I feel like total shit not trusting you.

You fucking say your justification is "You hurt yourself, why can't I hurt you?"
First of all, there is a fucking DIFFERENCE between self-harm, which is an ADDICTION, and abuse, which is inexcusable. Simple as that.
Then, you just solve it by blaming me for being an addict. NO. Besides, who was the one beating the shit out of their kid for noy buying alcohol?

"Alcoholism is hard, you can't blame me." Hon, I'm a former alcoholic, clean for two fucking years. Find a new excuse. That's pathetic.

Then, you put me in the psych ward for two weeks. After I BEG ON MY LITERAL FUCKING KNEES not to go back, because of the trauma from there. "The hospital told me it'd be best!" No. Fuck you. That isn't an excuse. You moved us because of YOUR drug addiction. Meaning new hospital system. Fuck you. You KNOW they don't know shit.

I can kiss my chances of ever having a normal, civil childhood on the ass goodbye. Nope, none of that for me! Why? YOU.

Fourteen fucking years of LIES. Sometimes I wonder why you even had kids. I know I was a mistake, but still. All you do is lie to them, manipulate them, abuse them, fuck them up, traumatize them, blackmail them, then blame them for all of the above.

I shouldn't have to recognize your footsteps in the hall to know if I should be scared I'll be black and blue or not. I shouldn't have to turn down my music so that you don't snap my headphone cord. I shouldn't have to use the fucking GARDEN SHED to play guitar so that you dont break it over my head. I shouldn't have to think about whether you think I'll deserve to go on the next compulsury excursion to know if I should bother asking.

I'm sick of needing to wear five layers because if I don't, the bruises will flare up and people will find out. I'm sick of living in fear, and being taken away from my childhood home because of YOUR drug addiction. I'm sick of needing to internalize everything, because the SECOND the poker face comes down, I'm in hospital for a broken leg. I'm sick and fucking tired of needing to hide my guitar, AKA the ONLY object I own from my childhood that doesnt bring back trauma. I'm sick of being told my music taste is shit, to the point of you buying MCR CDs for my birthday (the day you admitted me to the psych ward) and snapping them right in front of my eyes when i get out. I'm sick of being pushed further into my ED by you, while I need to gain weight for a surgery that could save my fucking life. I'm sick of your excuse for nearly killing me being "You're suicidal anyway". I'm sick of not being able to express myself because it isn't what you want. 

I'M FUCKING SICK OF IT.

I JUST WANT OUT, I CAN'T HANDLE ALL OF WHAT YOURE DOING ANYMORE. I'VE HAD ENOUGH. I'VE TAKEN IT FOR THE THREE YEARS YOU WERE MAN ENOUGH TO CALL ME YOUR CHILD, AND FOR FAR, FAR LONGER THAN THAT BEFOREHAND. I WAS THREE YEARS OLD, MOM. I DESERVED A CHILDHOOD, I DESERVED A LIFE. I FUCKING DESERVED THAT, I FUCKING SEE IT NOW, AND I'M FUCKING SICK OF BEING TOLD I DIDN'T.

You wonder why i have a system? Because of the fourteen years of trauma YOU inflicted. You wonder why I'm emo? Because the lyrics are pure, uncensored pain, anger, pure hatred half the time. Because THAT is what i relate to. Because the amount of blood I've seen (metaphoric and literal) has made me like that scene. You wonder why I hate you? Take a look at the last fourteen years.

Some days, I hope I die alone. Just so it's certain I won't die with you. This is one of those days. This is also one of my impulsive days, which is why I'm writing this. I know this is a death sentence. I know when you see this, you'll be pissed. I don't care.

Oh, and one more thing. I hope you get better. I hope you get over the addiction that's controlling so much of you. I hope you get to know happiness. I hope that some day, you don't feel the need to take your pain out on everyone. I love the Mom I used to know. I hate whoever this is. I want to see her again. Some day, I hope I meet her again.

Thank you for the venom, Mom. Without you, I would've never become this strong. So, thank you. And goodbye. (To the others reading this, I'm running away, this isn't suicidal whatsoever; because I know some people will worry about that.) So long and goodnight, Mother.