Cut the Obsessive Fangirl Crap This Is Me. Holy and Still Bloody Ungrateful.

I had a shit upbringing. My parents would deny it, because that’s what my mother would do. She stayed with my wretched father for us – through his alcholism and his emotional abuse he put us through. I should be thankful that I wasn’t raped by him, murdered or physically tortured like other cases I’ve read about, where the father is the one guzzling down three bottles of red wine a night and bashing his wife. No my family suffered emotionally and financially. I should be thankful. But I’m not. I never want to go back to those days, where I felt like I was the one to blame. I had the shit experience of having to feel like I was shit some years later, thanks to various males in my life. It’s what part of growing up, isn’t it? You love, you get burnt. No. I hate myself for putting myself in those positions because I was too blind to see what was happening.

It’s a known fact. I hate myself.

I will never learn to love myself for who I am. I always want to better than people. I always want to be thinner. I always want to be prettier. That’s what gets me in a knot – because I always want what I can’t have. Because it only makes me upset that I will never live out my life like everybody else around me. I will never have the father for my kids, I wanted him to be – the father figure I lacked. I’m a girl with a lot of daddy issues because I will never forgive him for how he made me feel at such a young age. I will never forgive him for breaking up our family. I will never forgive him period. Even if he dies tomorrow, I may not forgive him. I would mourn him, but I would never forgive – mourning and forgiving are two different things.

I see him once in a blue mood. It’s like one big reality show where it’s scripted and you’re meant to act good for the sake of production and audience. The same goes for my sister – that was a disaster in the making that relationship. She always wanted to be the mother of the family, being first born and all, but at the end of the day, she pushed me away even more. I resent her. She’s just like my father. I would mourn her, but I wouldn’t forgive her.

Today, I thought about suicide.

Scary fucking thought hey? It scared the shit out of me too. I have said this in a previous blog post – there’s one thing in the world stopping me from completely necking it. My girls. You can leave me homeless, leave me without food and water but I will love them. They have been the only family that have somewhat seen me through hard times recently, and thoroughly. I can’t even type this without crying, because it’s that frightening. The most horrifying thing about committing suicide is the very thought of no one finding my girls for days at end, after I slit all the veins in my wrists and let myself bleed out all over the kitchen floor. They would be hungry, they would be dirty and they would be unloved. I never want them to grow up, thinking that I killed myself because of them – because it’s the exact thought I had growing up with my father – he was an alcholic at the end of the day because of me. It was all my fault. I didn’t know why, but it was my fault because no one was around to explain that his alcholism had been going on before I was even born. I could never do that to them.

I’m overtired as fuck.

I should be happy.

But I’m ballin’.

Instead of trying to figure out why I felt so bad this afternoon and writing everything down, it’s made me worse. I want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

I never want to wake up.

I want to be comatised for eternity.

But that would be hypocritical if I want to watch my girls grow up to have a life, I couldn’t have at that age.

I feel like fucking puking now.

My anxiety attacks are a downward spiral lately and combined with borderline bipolar and depression, it’ll be the death of me one day. Just not today. Being comotise and dead are two different things. I want to wake up and don’t want these memories to exist. Hell, I don’t even want to remember my own name when I wake up.

I don’t expect sympathy for this. I don’t want sympathy because frankly no matter how much I cry or write, no one will ever understand me. My words have just made me more upset than calm, like I had hoped. I don’t know what I want at the end of the day other than being a coma patient with cerebral cortex damage.

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