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"Baby baby Jessica" - the start of my depression.

Short story By: Rowenya
Non-fiction


This is my story.


Submitted:Sep 16, 2012    Reads: 86    Comments: 4    Likes: 2   


My mother hates me. No, really, she does. Well, she doesn't hate hate me, she just wants me to do everything her way. She wants me to dress a certain way, act a certain way ... she won't let me see my friends when I want to or even have a computer of my own. I don't know what she thinks I'll do on a computer - have a mind of my own, perhaps - but it really upsets me that she wants to control my life. Dad doesn't do anything about it, of course, because he's just one of those guys who goes with the flow. I can't tell him how I feel because he never listens - he just tells me to get on with it and then doesn't say anything else. Whenever Mum and I fight, she goes off crying like a baby and makes Dad have a go at me. Sometimes she doesn't cry, which is worse because she usually insults me and calls me names like "Baby baby Jessica" or some other such stupid thing.

I remember the first time she did it. I was 14 years old, and we were arguing about something stupid. I got really frustrated and started to cry in anger, and that's when she called me "Baby baby Jessica". She said it in a sing-song tone, like she was talking to a five-year-old, which just made it worse. That's when I started cutting. I figured that if my own parents didn't give a shit about me, why should I care? Why would anyone care about me, for that matter? My own parents thought I was a nobody, why would anything or anyone change that opinion? After all, if my mum and dad didn't love then nobody could ...or could they? Either way it didn't matter - my parents didn't care, and nor did I. The scissors and razor blades became my way of expressing myself, but even that didn't work. My parents just thought I was seeking attention when actually I was screaming for someone to help me out of my misery. I saw counsellors from time to time, but none of them really helped because all they wanted to ask me was whether or not my father had abused me - as if that mattered!!!

My parents never really got to know me. I'm adopted, you see. Many people would say that they were really kind to adopt me, and I agree wholeheartedly. Without them I'd be stuck in some hellhole in Ashford living with my biological mother and her grandmother, or in foster care being shoved from pillar to post like unwanted mail. That's how I felt though, even after my adoption - I felt unwanted. I felt like my own mother had walked away so somebody else had taken me on because they had to, not because they wanted to. Nobody really seemed to care what happened to me as long as I was alive, quiet and got good grades. Yes, you read that right. All my parents cared about was my grades. Razor slashes all up my arm? Not a problem - how had I done on my mock GCSE paper? Deep wounds on my stomach? Who cares, did I do well in my flute exam? Had I got the grades that my parents expected of me?

My GCSEs went well, so they were ... accepting of it. I say accepting because I didn't get all A*s and As. I got 5 As, 1 B and 5 Cs - not exactly what my parents wanted out of their amazing child prodigy, huh? My A Levels were even more "diabolical" - 1 B, 4 Cs and 1 D. My parents took it in their stride, but said I could have done better "if only I'd worked harder". Worked harder? I worked my butt off for those grades, in between doing music exams and music lessons and maintaining the small vestige of sanity that I had left. My parents clearly thought that going to school for 6 hours, doing music for 1 hour and revising for the remaining time wasn't good enough. Therefore, when I got to university I decided that I was going to finally do something that even they couldn't disapprove of - I was going to get a First (or at least a high 2:1).

Unfortunately, that didn't quite go to plan for the first two years of university. I got a bit sidetracked by meeting my fiancé (and soon to be husband!) Jonathan, and my own laziness played a large part in it too. Hopefully one day I'll escape the pain of my parents' disapproval and become my own woman. Until then ... all I can say is good luck to myself.





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