Bury Me Before I Start To Smell.

For twenty-two years I've been speaking. No one has listened. For twenty-two years I've been forced to endure and endure and endure, never allowed to express my anger, or sadness, or hurt. People have been allowed to scratch me, and punch me, and throw things at me. And nobody has stopped them.

And not only that, but the perpetrator of my abuse has been allowed to debase me constantly to others, to such a degree that people have had the nerve to reprimand ME for "maltreating" THEM. Nobody has defended me, or spoken up for me, or attempted to restore my name.

Maybe my time is over. Maybe this twenty second year is special. Maybe twenty-two is where my story ends.

Maybe it will be less complicated without me. They can keep pretending that you're a good person, and I won't be around to tell them otherwise.

I should stop expecting you to save me. I have a picture in my mind sometimes, of me slashing my wrists, and you showing up just in time. But you've never done that. You've never saved me. Never protected me. Why would you change now??

You won't. None of you will. Days will go by, while I slowly bleed my life away and go cold in bed. Someone will call me. Try to shake my shoulder. I won't move, they'll call for help. How could you not know, they'll ask? You'll make your excuses, all the while knowing that they're not true.

And I'll be gone.

I hope you miss me. I hope you regret ignoring me when you should have listened. You chose who was most important to you. I hope you'll be happy with her.

And I hope you never have another child. You were lucky with me. You won't be again.

You assholes had better remember that I wanted to be cremated.

Letter From a Furiously Distraught Daughter

Dear Mother,

I am sometimes shocked by how utterly selfish you are. You force me to live with a woman who abuses me, disrespects me, and generally makes me feel bad about myself for twenty years, simply because of your own tired cultural ideas of sticking by family. You are never even around to experience it to the same level I do because you are at work during the day. You don't allow me to vent about my feelings when it's necessary, yet whenever YOU get upset with her, you yell at me, or blame me for it, and I'm expected to deal with it. 

Not only do you allow your mother to get away with all this, but you allow her to tell other people how "disrespectful" I am to her, even to the point where our family members feel the need to constantly confront me about my supposed behaviour towards her. When the reality is that if I am home when she is, I stay inside my room, to the point of starving myself for days at a time to avoid having to listen to her scream at me!

After all of this, you have the NERVE to try and force me to do things for her, when all of this is YOUR FAULT in the first place, just like everything else, you try and make me feel GUILTY for not wanting to take whatever treatment your ABUSIVE SADISTIC TYRANT OF A MOTHER decides to dish out!

I hate both of you. The fact that I'm related to either of you makes me want to swallow gasoline and scorch myself from the inside out until there's nothing left.

Sincerely, 

That Thing You Should Have Aborted.

The Therapeutic Qualities of Revenge

I'm sure no one ever clawed up Queen Victoria's leg. Except maybe John Conroy. Hmm. Oh well, I suppose everyone has to have a nemesis.