I will never be perfect like any of you want me to be, your expectations are outrageous and frankly make me hope I either get kidnapped or die young because a lifetime of this will either kill me or drive me mad.
C'est nul! Yes, sometimes I will screw up royally and get things wrong but it is perfectly within human rights to fail every now and again and you know what I DON'T CARE IF I DO! Because I will figure it out with time, and all of you shoving your idiotic forms of logic down my throat dose nothing but make it perfectly clear that you will never be happy with anything I do. So why do I keep trying? Je n'ai aucune idée putain.
This is my life, a small part for if I were to describe it in whole and have to lay it all out infront of myself where I can behold it all, I don't think I could live with it and I don't know what I would do...
:
I wake up to the scream "get down here!" around 8:30, I do downstairs to see what the urgent problem is. It is nothing. I get that look, you know the one you give me, the one where I can tell you eyes are looking me over and lingering on my bed head, my pimples, my sweatpants and I just what to scream "Je me suis réveillé salope!" You screamed for me you made me run down here and now I know what you are going to say. "Oh my God clean yourself up. You are trash, just look at you. Do you think you will ever get anywhere looking like this? You think you will ever get any guy looking like this? What is wrong with you"
And I can say nothing DO nothing because this is your cruel game to play everyday.
I finally get to leave, to go upstairs again and fight for another 30 min or so of sleep and try no to hear your scream over and over again on the broken record of my head. Then I really get up, I brush my teeth the ones that I will never hear the end of the ones that you make me get braces for before I was rid of of my baby teeth, the ones that through your own impatience have messed up so thoroughly. My skewed bottom incisors. My upper canines that sit a little too high, a little too much like fangs. My slight over bite. And I can hear as if you are there and saying it out loud how ugly that is. How ugly MY mouth is.
I get dressed. I put on jeans even in the summer heat because I am ashamed of my legs that are a little too long and too fat for my small body. There is a hole in the knee from over use and a spot of green paint on the thigh for some old painting that drove me to fling my paint brush. I know this will not escape your notice, so I put on the brightest top I have, the one that after I bought you complained that you had wanted for yourself *vomit* I hope that this will make you not notice the other little imperfections, that this will make you happy. That this will make you like me enough to get me off the hook for another day.
I go to the bathroom again this time to tackle my hair. MY hair. The mousey brown hair with the strip behind my ear that is bright blue. Not exceptional. It is wavy curly. You hate it. You blame it on me, you blame MY own dieu maudit hair on me, as if it is a mistake that something needs to take blame for. It is a crazy mess or almost curls and small ringlets and little its that want to fly right off my head. And I love it sometimes, except when you look at me. Then I hate it, I want to rip it out straight from the roots like you have threatened to do so many times before. You wish it were straight, sick straight like your own dead mess that you chemically straighten, lifeless and just as eager to lay flat as it is to stick straight up like wire. You tell me everyday, "Just straighten your hair, then you will look normal, you will look like everyone else! You are disgusting it is like an afro. Disgusting, Trashy."Maybe I cave today and straighten it into submission, so it looks as dead and frayed as your own so that maybe it can be a peace offering and you will love me despite my hair. Maybe today I am sick of your merde and let it be its self, maybe braid a bit of the front, maybe but it up in a clip, maybe pull it back and put a headband in. Whatever I do it will not be enough. It never is, because it is not what you want.
The rest of my day is spent pretending I am not myself. That this is not my life. I do everything you told me to do around the house and nothing more, because if I were to you would complain I did it wrong and tell me I am retarded and ask yourself where did you mess up on such a daughter. Still I know when you get home you will sigh and bring up all the little things I could have done. The ones that you have conditioned me not to do because I fear your anger and accusations of stupidity if I do it any other way but the way you do it.
Then you come home and the first couple of moments will set the tone for the rest of that day. If you are nice and talkative it will be a good night. I will read or watch a show and then go to bed. If you look at me and I see your eyes focus on all the little things I know that I am screwed. I want to scream and yell and kick something hard until I hurt. Maybe I get defensive right away and cause you to let your anger out all at once and sit through the yelling and pain and the words that my mind will whisper back to me as I try to sleep.
I always try to do something else inside my head as you rant , maybe I sing something, maybe I tell myself a story. It never works I still end up hearing your words clear enough that I can repeat them all back to myself later. I don't look you in the eye, I look slightly above or below because the complete hatred and the manicness scares me. It is not normal. People do not behave like that, they don't say things like that, they don't do these things that will hurt. But when I say this, you tell me to grow up. Stop acting like a baby, stop crying, stop pretending to be hurt.
These things always end with you telling me to get out, to leave, to move out, that maybe my father wil want be but not to count on it how could he ever love me. And then you play the martyr and tell me how you always bought me everything I wanted always put me first and went with out because of me, for me. And I hear you blame your own pain on me. But I never asked for any of that. I never even wanted any of that.
I would have loved having a life where all I had from my family was love or at least acceptance. I don't need things. I don't need you to give up things just so you can later say HERE LOO! LOOK at all this I did, you owe me. I gave you this and I deserve this and that.
Ungrateful.
Disrespectful.
Give me love to be grateful for having, give me some reason to respect you.
You pitiful woman. Get help.
God knows I'll need it too.
Comment suis-je encore en vie. It is horrible knowing that you will never be good enough. You consider doing a lot of drastic things.
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