Lost in July

XXV

Margo
~
Someone needs to tell me to stop making my life so much harder on myself.

My mother is currently screaming at me. Why? Because of the fucking letters I wrote my parents during my stay at Orchard Hills.

Honestly? I don't even remember sending them, but here they are, being waved in my face by my mother.

"Why would you write such horrible things about me? About your father!" She shouts. Her eyes are wide and her hands are emphasizing every syllable she speaks.

I simply stare at her, not showing any emotion. Truthfully, I feel nothing about the situation. Everything I wrote in those letters was true.

Some days I look at my mom as a manipulative, borderline abusive bitch and other times I see the untreated mental illness that is stripping her away.

I've begged my father to get her help, but she ensures him she's fine. That she's "nothing like her mother." It's extremely rare that three generations of us have the same illness. My mom assures my dad that there's no way three generations could possibly have the same diagnosis. Like the spineless fuck he is, he ignored all of the signs as long as she kept being his loving little wife.

I said exactly that in his fucking letter. He's not even brave enough to face me.

"Are you going to answer you little brat?"

Those two words tear me back to one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

~
Almost Three Years Ago

"Margaret! Stop running from me right now!" My mother screams at me as I storm into my bedroom and slam the door. I don't bother locking it. She'll just break it down.

Sure enough, the door swings open. I turn to face her, arms crossed. "Don't ever slam the door in my face you little brat," she points her manicured finger at me, attempting to appear intimidating.

"I don't understand why you're yelling at me," I say innocently. "It's not a big deal."

Mom narrows her eyes at me. "you submitted a video diary project basically trashing me and your father for five minutes. Not to mention the part where you said you were suicidal. I'm sure that will look great! Your teacher is going to call fucking CPS!"

I try not to laugh. My mother found a video on my laptop of me pretending to talk about what I wanted to talk about for my psychology project. Obviously, I didn't submit that one, but clearly she doesn't know that.

"Why the fuck are you looking through my stuff!" I shout at her. Here we go, yet another screaming match with mom.

"Because you just received a terrifying diagnosis! I am a concerned parent you clueless child!" Her words come out with pure venom.

"Maybe I'm sick, mom, but so are you. I'm tired. I'm going to bed." I rush into the bathroom and close the door, locking it behind me. I'm sure she'll shout at me through the door, but I turn on the shower. I strip my clothes and hop into the scorching hot shower. I sit on the floor of my tub, letting the heat rain down on me, burning my skin.

It sounds like my parents are fighting now, but I can't really make it out. I ignore it entirely, closing my eyes and letting my mind disappear.