You told me on more than one occasion that you were a bad mother. These words were spoken in varying tones - sometimes regretfully, sometimes sarcastically, sometimes with the intent to seek forgiveness, and sometimes with the intent to hurt, as if it were my fault for not being content with the subpar job you've been doing. Today you told me, after I recounted a story about how Maarya's parents wanted her to change the oil in the car, that we complained about you when it could be so much worse. At first I felt bad, as if what I was experiencing was nothing in comparison to people who really had problems, but then I realised that, even if that were true (which it's not), I have a right to complain anyway.
No matter how ridiculous anyone else's parents may seem and no matter how much of a martyr you think you are, it still came as a surprise to me that despite all the times I told you I wanted to die and all the times I told you how bad I felt, you continually chose to deny what I said, tell me my life will never be as hard as yours, and ignore what I say. When I tell you a situation makes me feel uncomfortable enough to panic and want to cry and you tell me I'm making stuff up to make you feel miserable, you don't care about me. You care about yourself. You have made it abundantly clear that you don't give shit about me or how I feel. This is what makes you a bad mother - not that you sometimes get mad and argue, which I understand, but because you consistently, time and time again, show just how little you care about my problems.
So I don't care about your problems anymore. Do you remember all the times you were upset and crying and couldn't stop and I gave you a hug, looked after Sasha while you lay in bed for hours crying (and Sasha knew, so she was crying too)? What about when you were mad at papa and I listened, no matter how much it hurt to hear insults being thrown at him? Or when I helped you clean out the house, constantly cleaning up because I know it's hard for you (later you complained about how I didn't do anything to baboola and told me not to take it personally). And when I tell you if you can please not bitch about papa to me because it hurts, because I can't take it, and you tell me I'm the jerk, I'm the bad guy who contributes to your suffering, but what goes around comes around and I will eventually get what I am due? You do not deserve the effort I have put in to help you because I felt bad. You did not put in effort to help me when I felt bad.
I don't need you. I crawled out of that hole slowly, painstakingly, mostly by myself. I dragged myself up and I'm happy, god forbid! You did nothing to help me and I know now you will never do anything to help me. I am sorry for wasting your time. As long as you continue to harbour this ridiculous notion that you are a martyr constantly hurt by everyone else, never doing anything wrong, then I am not your daughter. I do not want to be the daughter of someone who doesn't give a shit about me.
You are not entitled to my love, or my respect, or my devotion. I am not a sound board for you to bounce your frustrations off of. Get a fucking stress ball, go crying to your fucking boyfriend, and leave me alone, because I am through with you and if I can solve my problems (which you don't think exist) by myself, then you can climb off your high horse and solve your problems by yourself, too.
When it comes down to it, the first time I wore a short sleeved shirt around papa, he instantly recognised the scars and asked me where I got them. I can't say the same for you, no matter how many times I've told you.
No matter how ridiculous anyone else's parents may seem and no matter how much of a martyr you think you are, it still came as a surprise to me that despite all the times I told you I wanted to die and all the times I told you how bad I felt, you continually chose to deny what I said, tell me my life will never be as hard as yours, and ignore what I say. When I tell you a situation makes me feel uncomfortable enough to panic and want to cry and you tell me I'm making stuff up to make you feel miserable, you don't care about me. You care about yourself. You have made it abundantly clear that you don't give shit about me or how I feel. This is what makes you a bad mother - not that you sometimes get mad and argue, which I understand, but because you consistently, time and time again, show just how little you care about my problems.
So I don't care about your problems anymore. Do you remember all the times you were upset and crying and couldn't stop and I gave you a hug, looked after Sasha while you lay in bed for hours crying (and Sasha knew, so she was crying too)? What about when you were mad at papa and I listened, no matter how much it hurt to hear insults being thrown at him? Or when I helped you clean out the house, constantly cleaning up because I know it's hard for you (later you complained about how I didn't do anything to baboola and told me not to take it personally). And when I tell you if you can please not bitch about papa to me because it hurts, because I can't take it, and you tell me I'm the jerk, I'm the bad guy who contributes to your suffering, but what goes around comes around and I will eventually get what I am due? You do not deserve the effort I have put in to help you because I felt bad. You did not put in effort to help me when I felt bad.
I don't need you. I crawled out of that hole slowly, painstakingly, mostly by myself. I dragged myself up and I'm happy, god forbid! You did nothing to help me and I know now you will never do anything to help me. I am sorry for wasting your time. As long as you continue to harbour this ridiculous notion that you are a martyr constantly hurt by everyone else, never doing anything wrong, then I am not your daughter. I do not want to be the daughter of someone who doesn't give a shit about me.
You are not entitled to my love, or my respect, or my devotion. I am not a sound board for you to bounce your frustrations off of. Get a fucking stress ball, go crying to your fucking boyfriend, and leave me alone, because I am through with you and if I can solve my problems (which you don't think exist) by myself, then you can climb off your high horse and solve your problems by yourself, too.
When it comes down to it, the first time I wore a short sleeved shirt around papa, he instantly recognised the scars and asked me where I got them. I can't say the same for you, no matter how many times I've told you.
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