As I am writing this, I am currently in my bathroom, wiping off my tears.

I hate when the people I love most… hurt me the most. And no, I don’t mean teeange love I mean my fucking mother. The person that has given me life, the person that’s supposed to love me the most, to support me, to help me, to make my life at least a tiny little bit better.

But you see, my mom doesn’t do that. She rips the heart right out of my chest, breaks it in half, puts some salt on it, then throws it to the ground watches as it shatters and me, laughing and smiling. She hates me with all her pasion, one might say. But I don’t believe that. I belive that she loves me and for that very reason she wants to hurt me. She loves me because I am so easy to break, like a simple cat toy thrown to a lion. She loves me because I love her, and because I have nowhere to go nothibg to. She loves me because I am weak, and will continue to love her, to give into her tricks everytime she tries to make me like her, I will. And that’s why I hate her.

She doesn’t care about me, about what I have to say, what I’m thinking, what i want or what’s happening to me. She only cares about the surface. She sees me as her shinny toy, to prove the world how good of a person she is. When we’re talking, she never listens. She interups me in the middle of a sentence, to comment on my disgusting new pimple, or how I stink horribly, or how I shod try a face mask. She tells me how, if I won’t make myself look pretty, no one will ever date me.

For a summer camp I’m gonna go to, I had to write two, 200 words essays about stupid topics that I’m not gonna mention. I knew about it for a while, and I tried to wrote it several times but it always turned out like garbage. My mom told me that it’s ok, because I’m gonna get in anyway. And that’s true. But she still needed the essays. I told her they’re bad, but I didn’t tell her the number of times I re-wrote them, that I asked a few people about it, that I genuantly tried my best. I assumed that was obvious. But it wasn’t. She read them. She told me to get that garbage away from her face, that I was worse than handicaped, that I wrote shit, and that I was shit and a bitch for not putting the slightest effort into it. I’m a piece of shit, that didn’t care about her time and I treated her like a slave, like she doesn’t have anything else to do except read that crap I wrote, blindfolded, that I wrote without putting in minimal effort and that I fucked up and didn’t gave a shit about those esseys or her time. I went in my bathroom and cried.

I don’t know what to do. I always belive communication is key, but trust me, it doesn’t help. I talked to her before, I openly told her how I feel and how I want things to change and that we should both make an effort and everything will be alright. She didn’t give a damn shit about it.

And it’s sad to think that only now I actively think about it. About how wrong all of that is. When I was six I wrote my mom multiple letters telling her how I will kill myself, so both of our lives would be easier. She never took it seriously. She never thought that when I was telling people she’s a screaming dragonĀ I was serious. She only said I made her look bad. And when things calned down I notch, I always blamed myself, saying that I’m too dramatic and I should stop over reacting. But that’s not true. I wasn’t joking, wasn’t kidding and was not lying when I was on my floor, as a poor kindergardener, then in primary school, and now in middle school, crying, balling my balls out, thinking of where I could go or how I should die. Thinking if I should just throw myself out the window, or in front of a car. Thinking if I should cut my vein or drown myself to death. But I always blamed myself, for being over-dramatic.


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