By Sophie Ann
They say it gets better when you tell your parents about your mental health. A few days of realisation, then a long road to being ‘normal’. But with mine, it hasn’t been like that. nothing like that at all. I am victimised and bullied by my own mother and stepfather, snarled at with snide comments and shouted at for just being a little sad. Telling isn’t always best.
I shouted the truth
Simple things become a tiresome chore of social interaction with distant people that should hold you and tell you it’s going to be okay, but don’t. Your close bond with mother and daughter makes me envious, a laugh, a hug, a helping hand, nothing that I can get, since I shouted the truth to her face: ‘I don’t want to be here anymore!’
You think I’m lying?
You think I’m lying? That there’s nothing wrong? That this is all for attention? Why would I be sat by my bedroom door, sit from eating half my dinner before you verbally harass me with comments of invasion, wanting to know every small detail of my conversations with a friend. When I try to help myself you push me further down, and I don’t think you’d be saying all this if you saw me nearly hit down by that blue car, or if you walked in on me burning my tongue with those chemicals.
You wouldn’t make me feel worse about who I am, when all I do is try.
I try for you and I get nothing.
Nothing but arguments and grief.