Okay, let me start off by saying Happy New Year. Why do we say "Happy" New Year when people are constantly striving to change things and perfect imperfections? What is so happy about trying to change who we are? Why is it called "New Year" when everyone is stuck on stupid and making the same mistakes that they promise themselves they'll never make? I'm done with it. I have 11 months until I am 18, and I am counting the days. "Don't let it bother you" "You're being too sensitive" " You know how he is". These are the answers that my mom gives me when I try to open myself to her, to show her the real me. People wonder why I am the way that I am, and here it is. The raw and brutally honest truth. A child absorbs and sucks up every lesson, every experience that they've ever had, and it follows them for the rest of their lives. It molds them into the person that they are. Can you blame the prostitute that sells her body on the street corner if that's all she knows? All she feels is dirty and worthless, used and abused? Can you blame the man that beats his wife if that's what he came home from school to? If that's what he heard every night as he squeezed his little face into the pillow to muffle the sound? Can you blame the angry teenager that tries to hard to be accepted at school when all her life she was being pushed away by the people who were supposed to love her the most?
Today was a good day, no scratch that. It was freaking fabulous. I had a grin from ear to ear, just to be alive and talking to the people that make me happy. It is 7:52 PM, I am listening to this amazing mashup playlist on 8tracks, and stretching when I hear my name being screamed angrily.
"Yes Dad?" I call.
I approach the room, and knock hesitantly.
"Where were you? " he growls.
"In my room, listening to music"
Mind you, the TV is on full blast, so I can barely hear him.
"Why didn't you hear me call you?"
"I'm sorry Dad"
"It's because you weren't listening" he spits his words at me, as if I am nothing. As if I am a servant that is expected to jump at every sound. "Take your brother, and keep him out of my room".
I walk away with Isaiah, the tears are stinging and I know I am about to lose it. I ball my fists angrily and punch the wall
Ouch
It's not his fault, he didn't choose this life. All he wants is to be loved, so that is what I do. I recover, I kiss his cheek, and I turn on his cartoons. I leave the room and immediately come to my room. My head is spinning. I type in the words: blogger.com. And here I am: All of me. All I can give.
"He has good intention" my mom defends.
I don't know what to do with myself. He may have "good intentions", but he sure as hell has a funny way of showing it. I'm not calling him a monster... but hey?
If the shoe fits.....
