I feel lonely. So damn lonely. And so sad and angry.
I should start explaining better right?
I live in my “father’s house” with him, my mother and sister. And without job or any possibility I can’t live. I’m 26 year old and some days I wish I wasn’t born.
I hate it here
I hide who I am in daily basis at this house cause everytime I have tried to be me, to show what I’m passionate about, or do what I love or show what I dislike or just tell my damn opinion, you know what I’ve been told?
That I feel too much. That I’m too sensitive. That I’m a nutjob. That I have two faces like doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde. That I’m a horrible human being.
And maybe I have them.
Outside, with my friends I can be me. My goofy self, my serious self, my passionate self, my kind self. My flawed self who is far too oblivious and have a too long memory. My sad self. My mischievous shelf. My happy self.
No matter what I can be me. Cause I know even if they don’t get me sometimes, they are going to be there by my side. Even if they disagree with what I think I can count on them. They are one of the few things tethering me to sanity and myself.
In the hellhole I’m living? Not so much. I’ve been yelled and called “too much” for being happy and started rambling about what made me happy. I’ve been called stupid bitch for not knowing. I’ve been called piece of meat with eyes by my own dad, and my mom said it was just words and that my father loves me.
I remember crying myself to sleep the first time it happened. I was 11.
My father considers he never does anything wrong. That he’s perfect. And basically berates and insults me when I’m not who he wants. I’m argumentative. I do not conform with his rules and the way he lives. I don’t conform with his I can spend money in everything I want, cause last time it ended with us not being able to go into the house. He says the “family” had money troubles and then he buys 5 drons, computers and lots of shit.
And my mom says drop it. Leave him be.
And I keep fighting it. Cause I’m not okay and I need at least a place I can have my things. One place in this hellhole that was suppose to be my home to feel like I belong. Cause I belong nowhere.
He gets angry with me cause I refuse to let his shit on my bedroom. And he screams and tells and threaten, saying it’s not my home. It’s not my bedroom. And it hurts. It hurts cause it should be.
It should be my bedroom. It should be my home too. But it’s not.
So I wear my mask, but it’s cracked. It’s cracked by how sad I am. By how tired I am. By how angry I am.