I’m not sure where it all started. Around ten years ago, maybe. Before that, probably my parents knew everything about me. Probably if I died, they had nice things to say about me and probably they would have been true.
Then something happens, and one day they wake up to a whiny bitch for a daughter and they don’t know how the fuck I ended up being like this. We were never close so I never told them when my friends were fighting with me or if a teacher had a problem with me. I never told them if I had any boy trouble or how I thought that no one liked me when I was 8 or how I had suicidal thoughts when I was 12. I think I never wanted them to feel sorry for me. I never cried in front of my mother while watching Titanic or The Notebook and she thought I was cold heartened. She doesn’t know that I actually cry for the smallest and stupidest of things.
I can’t tell her that sometimes I really hate my boyfriend and that sometimes his words really hurt and that sometimes also his hands hurt and that I didn’t get the last couple of bruises I’ve had from ‘I don’t know’. She just hears me shouting and screaming at him when he’s being an asshole and she thinks that I’m the one with the attitude problems.
So probably if I died, my mum would say nice things about me cause that would be the respectful thing to do of course, but she wouldn’t mean any of it.
(Source: another-troubled-soul, via -fuckthepeople)
(Source: likeafieldmouse, via sincerelytherese)
