A letter to my mother who has gone too far

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
What I wish I could say. I live in a house with my hoarder mother, a little sister who had meningitis years ago, and my older sister who had to move in after uni worked out badly and so did real life with a job.

I'm 17 and my dad has Schizophrenia.

Submitted: June 24, 2012

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Submitted: June 24, 2012



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Dear Mother.

I’m tired. It comes around and around that I try to tell you how I feel. You tell me to fuck off if I’m depressed. I wish I had somewhere else to go.


So fuck off. Stop being depressing. Stop making excuses. Stop wasting your life and get on with it.

“Stop laying around in bed all day” doesn’t fit, but I could certainly say, stop avoiding your problems. I am trying to fix my problems, but unfortunately an old bitch told me that it’s not my house to fix, so even if I knew who to call and had access to the money that OUGHT to be putting the bathroom floor down INSTEAD of a new tumble drier, I wouldn’t be allowed to address my problems.


My problem is having no home. I live in hope of someone coming to look after me one day, because since God knows how long I’ve been tired of looking after myself.


My problem is having no “own place”. I’m denied a bedroom of my own because you seem to believe I want to spend my nights wishing Katy would stop crying for the boys who take advantage of her. Don’t worry, your precious daughter has her virginity.. Probably only just. I spend my time despising the disgusting mess on my floor where your precious Katy has invited in friends to mess up my room, break my stuff, smush sweets and chewing gum into clothes, bedsheets, and said floor in the past. I love that the crappy chair is still there. I wanted it, before I realized I have no friends I’m not too ashamed to invite, and instead Katy further invades my space. I love trying desperately to split the room and such only for her putrid disease of mess, anger, depression, and other foulness to choke me even more.

I’m not even messy.

I just don’t know what the point is when she’s already making a mess.


My problem is Katy. Assuming her kingdom to reign over everyone. You think she has sore legs, I know she’s talking to some 17 year old Glaswegian on cam and God knows what else if you know what I’m implying. She claims to have anxiety because FOUR years ago she was diagnosed, and if she still does no wonder. I never heard you tell her to suck it up and get to fucking school. She nearly died once. Once. ONCE. Michael sure seems to move on from that fact.


My problem is you. I am sick of you assuming that because you were ONCE told you were a good mum and stuff, that it means you still are. Just because you slag off other parents doesn’t prevent hypocrisy. You lie to me. You don’t even know my favourite food. You think I like macaroni, no that’s precious Katy. You think I like broccoli, once upon a time years ago but fair enough it was probably the last time you listened to my opinion. You even know I don’t like green beans, but I am forced to put up with it. For Katy.


My problem is your whining. GROW UP. I don’t whine as much as I want to and deserve to, yet you whine that I’m whining. You whine that Katy doesn’t want to crawl through the waste land of our crappy house to cfill the dishwasher with ugly dishes you chose in a kitchen you chose, in a house you chose…and complain about because you don’t like it. FUCK OFF!!! Tell Suzannah to fucking move out already if you don’t want her here. Clean up your own fucking mess and show some example. And shut the fuck up because I’m sick of you whining about everything when I’m not allowed to whine to a certain extent for fear you’ll throw me out. I wonder why I think that, not like you’ve threatened to throw me out.


My problem is me. I’m scared I’ll get thrown out. I’m scared I’m stuck here. I feel guilty for hating you. I feel remorseful because I remember that once upon a time I didn’t hate you all. I’ve gotten used to grinning and lying. To ignoring and blocking out, just like you mum. I hate this place. I hate that I long for someone to take me away. I hate that now that I’m old enough to see I deserved a childhood, I’m too old for a childhood. I hate that you make me feel selfish for everything I do or want for myself. I can’t buy myself things without going through a period of indecision because I feel selfish. I spend my money on anything and anyone else because I hate the idea of giving you £60 to spend on filling this hell hole. I hate my laptop, I asked Mike to get me one I could play Sims on at the time and this can’t even play games. I hate my clothes, because you made me feel guilty for having you buy them. I hate my body because it’s too fat and too thin. I hate my face.


Because it looks like yours.


I cry a lot. I wish I was brave enough to kill myself a lot more. I smoke when I feel upset and I like to because I know it’s helping to kill me a little bit more. Because I feel claustrophobic of life and I wish I could have a new one. I hate being lucky I’m so smart because I’m smart enough to know everyone else’s parents strive to look after their children and I’m smart enough to realize there is no point. You assume you know me and we should both realize it’s too late because it’s like I wasn’t even there.


My problem is that Brinley actually distracts me enough to make me want to stay ‘here’. My problem is that if I could choose anything in the world it would be to stay with him and live with him forever. My problem is I don’t think it’s any of your fucking business that I feel like this, because you’re more like a biological mother than a mum.


I probably do have Dad’s mental illness. I hope I do, because I don’t  love you and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to. Every time you say ‘just like me’ it’s because your proud of something I do. Nothing like you. No one is proud of you.


Get your act together.

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