I had an argument with my father yesterday, before my birthday celebrations, over something small but something he was in the wrong for. But why was I the one left crying?
This morning I laid in bed for nearly 3 hours, dreading the thought of getting out and facing reality. My household has become one where I can’t even express the fact I’m feeling hurt, the fact that something upsets me.
‘You shouldn’t speak to your father like that, poor him,’ said my mother. Poor him? Why do I have to see him in that way when he doesn’t see us in that way. He has never thought ‘my poor wife’ or ‘my poor daughter, she’s going through a lot’. Not once. When I told him about my resits, all he had to say was, ‘You should have known better’.
My mother, on the other hand, is the only reason why I come home. Because she misses me and I miss her. But she doesn’t understand my anxiety; she doesn’t take it seriously.
I feel trapped and I’m suffocating.
But no matter how hard I try to explain, they leave me here to choke.