and I don't think I have ever seen a soul so in despair
Monday, September 9th, 2002 03:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaLiving in this house makes me want to shove a knife into my stomach and rip, throw myself at the wall and knock myself out, break a bone or two just to have something to focus on. It makes me want to scream and hit anything smaller than me, and cut anything bigger than me with words. I can't stand being lectured by my father about how I don't have the right to tell my little brother what to do, how I don't have the right to think for myself or act for myself or tell myself what's right or wrong or try to help... that's all the attention that they pay to me.
No, that's not true. Sometimes they're nice, and sometimes I want to care for them, telling them little stories and waiting on tenterhooks for their approval, but that just makes it hurt worse when they turn on me. I'm scared to love them anymore, I'm tired of waiting for my father to make fun of me and sick of being always on the defensive. Scared of assuming my mother cares and then realizing that she forgets about me at the earliest possible opportunity, if she ever listened at all. That she can't pay the bills and expects me to take calls for her, to lie to the people who want to know when she's going to pay them, to tell them that she's at work, or she's not home, or she just can't plain fucking come to the phone, and to say "yes, I'll take a message, yes, she'll call you back" but I give her the messages and they just keep calling. Calling, that is, if our phone isn't disconnected from the bills they seem to think are optional.
I can't help myself screaming at my younger brother and sister, wanting so fucking desperately to help them and not being able to keep myself from pushing them away, from screaming at them to get as far away from me as possible, to leave me some space, some room, somewhere, dear god, somewhere, please, where I can be alone. Just so I don't have to deal with their crap, their constant arguing and their incessant irritation of my nerves, the way I can never concentrate while they're around, how they poke and touch and read over my shoulder and and and I feel so guilty for just begging for some peace that I snap, screaming at them to get away from me.
But I'm never alone. Someone's always standing over my shoulder or going through my files or reading my books or asking me questions and I can't take it anymore, because all the information I give them, begging them to leave me alone, to let me rest, they just use my weaknesses against me. My brother, my sister, my little brother, they just smile cynical smiles that they learned from my father, and they twist my words until I cry. And my father's the best of them all, yes, he's the best because he really couldn't give a damn -- no, I take that back. He's the best because he enjoys it when he makes me cry, when in frustration and anger and pure hurt I break down into tears and he knows that he's won, because I'm weaker than he is.
All the questions of "concerned" teachers and counselors and social workers build up, and they ask about my parents, and I shrug, which always seems to worry them. The concerned adults call my family and ask if we are dysfunctional, and my mother takes the calls and is pleasant and sweet, declares we're absolutely perfect, and they believe her, and think yes, it's the kid that's screwed up. Why does she think her parents don't care? Why, it's obvious they love her very much. "No!" I want to scream. "I don't care how they act, how they seem on the outside, but they are not my parents -- parents should GIVE a fuck about their children, should make sure their children are happy and -- and... and ..." And I don't really know what parents should be like, but I'm sick of talking about mine, so I say the words they want to hear, sometimes, or I don't say anything at all; I pat the concerned adults on the hand and leave, tired of thinking about the life I have to deal with enough already.
My head aches when I walk into my house, my shoulders tense and I feel edgy, anxious -- waiting for something to blow. Sometimes it doesn't, but I can't relax. I need to leave; god knows I dream of better places. Still, I stay quiet, don't rock the boat, I don't tell, I can't tell anymore. It doesn't work, because I can't care anymore, won't try to get help anymore because the first thing anyone wants to do is talk to my parents. I won't call, I won't write, I won't visit, and maybe I won't hurt anymore. Won't care anymore.
Living in this house makes me want to break my heart completely so that my family can never hurt me again.
No, that's not true. Sometimes they're nice, and sometimes I want to care for them, telling them little stories and waiting on tenterhooks for their approval, but that just makes it hurt worse when they turn on me. I'm scared to love them anymore, I'm tired of waiting for my father to make fun of me and sick of being always on the defensive. Scared of assuming my mother cares and then realizing that she forgets about me at the earliest possible opportunity, if she ever listened at all. That she can't pay the bills and expects me to take calls for her, to lie to the people who want to know when she's going to pay them, to tell them that she's at work, or she's not home, or she just can't plain fucking come to the phone, and to say "yes, I'll take a message, yes, she'll call you back" but I give her the messages and they just keep calling. Calling, that is, if our phone isn't disconnected from the bills they seem to think are optional.
I can't help myself screaming at my younger brother and sister, wanting so fucking desperately to help them and not being able to keep myself from pushing them away, from screaming at them to get as far away from me as possible, to leave me some space, some room, somewhere, dear god, somewhere, please, where I can be alone. Just so I don't have to deal with their crap, their constant arguing and their incessant irritation of my nerves, the way I can never concentrate while they're around, how they poke and touch and read over my shoulder and and and I feel so guilty for just begging for some peace that I snap, screaming at them to get away from me.
But I'm never alone. Someone's always standing over my shoulder or going through my files or reading my books or asking me questions and I can't take it anymore, because all the information I give them, begging them to leave me alone, to let me rest, they just use my weaknesses against me. My brother, my sister, my little brother, they just smile cynical smiles that they learned from my father, and they twist my words until I cry. And my father's the best of them all, yes, he's the best because he really couldn't give a damn -- no, I take that back. He's the best because he enjoys it when he makes me cry, when in frustration and anger and pure hurt I break down into tears and he knows that he's won, because I'm weaker than he is.
All the questions of "concerned" teachers and counselors and social workers build up, and they ask about my parents, and I shrug, which always seems to worry them. The concerned adults call my family and ask if we are dysfunctional, and my mother takes the calls and is pleasant and sweet, declares we're absolutely perfect, and they believe her, and think yes, it's the kid that's screwed up. Why does she think her parents don't care? Why, it's obvious they love her very much. "No!" I want to scream. "I don't care how they act, how they seem on the outside, but they are not my parents -- parents should GIVE a fuck about their children, should make sure their children are happy and -- and... and ..." And I don't really know what parents should be like, but I'm sick of talking about mine, so I say the words they want to hear, sometimes, or I don't say anything at all; I pat the concerned adults on the hand and leave, tired of thinking about the life I have to deal with enough already.
My head aches when I walk into my house, my shoulders tense and I feel edgy, anxious -- waiting for something to blow. Sometimes it doesn't, but I can't relax. I need to leave; god knows I dream of better places. Still, I stay quiet, don't rock the boat, I don't tell, I can't tell anymore. It doesn't work, because I can't care anymore, won't try to get help anymore because the first thing anyone wants to do is talk to my parents. I won't call, I won't write, I won't visit, and maybe I won't hurt anymore. Won't care anymore.
Living in this house makes me want to break my heart completely so that my family can never hurt me again.
