The dream that turned into something else
***Two were sinners*** Your last day at school came and you went to sign a paper at the principal's office. When you were let out "Behind Blue Eyes" played in the radio. It was weird, wasn't it?
You were way too early for your appointment with the psychologist. You were sent away and so you wandered into the woods around there, in this place you didn't know, and just sat there without a watch. You never liked clocks. They always make you feel nervous, like the rabbit.
You didn't go to that psychologist very often. You didn't like her.
Your mother would ask questions, your mother would look for and find your alcohol. You hated her for taking it away. It was the only thing that made you feel good. It gave you all the comfort and all the help you needed. And you needed the alcohol. It was no longer a question of wanting it, but one of desperately needing it.
One night it was really bad: You screamed things at her you would never call a human being, before running of to your cousin. On the way there you put another cigarette out on your wrist. You were furious and ashamed.
When you came back after a few hours your mother simply hugged you and you cried and said you were sorry and you hadn't meant it. She said she knew.
It was also the time when your father learned about all of this. He had never particularly cared about you and well ... maybe he still didn't.
He is like a giant baby - a child in the body of a man. He doesn't MEAN to be cruel, but he is.
The first couple of days in the institution came. It isn't how people imagine. Basically all you do is talk, talk, talk or ... if you don't do that you say nothing at all and waddle through the hallways grumpily.
You were cheerful in the beginning, trying to make it a success.
After three days the weekend came and you were allowed to go home for that time. You called your father because you wanted to meet him. It was Easter and he said he couldn't because his wife's friend's ... whatever relative had his birthday.
I yelled at him. For a long time. I yelled all the pain and heartbreak he had caused me to have over all these years out and it felt so damn good. Calling your own father a sick asshole is probably not really polite or whatever. But he deserved it.
After that he became friendly and helpful all of a sudden and seemed to care. It was amazing. It didn't last, though.
~~~Am I an awful daughter?~~~
You were way too early for your appointment with the psychologist. You were sent away and so you wandered into the woods around there, in this place you didn't know, and just sat there without a watch. You never liked clocks. They always make you feel nervous, like the rabbit.
You didn't go to that psychologist very often. You didn't like her.
Your mother would ask questions, your mother would look for and find your alcohol. You hated her for taking it away. It was the only thing that made you feel good. It gave you all the comfort and all the help you needed. And you needed the alcohol. It was no longer a question of wanting it, but one of desperately needing it.
One night it was really bad: You screamed things at her you would never call a human being, before running of to your cousin. On the way there you put another cigarette out on your wrist. You were furious and ashamed.
When you came back after a few hours your mother simply hugged you and you cried and said you were sorry and you hadn't meant it. She said she knew.
It was also the time when your father learned about all of this. He had never particularly cared about you and well ... maybe he still didn't.
He is like a giant baby - a child in the body of a man. He doesn't MEAN to be cruel, but he is.
The first couple of days in the institution came. It isn't how people imagine. Basically all you do is talk, talk, talk or ... if you don't do that you say nothing at all and waddle through the hallways grumpily.
You were cheerful in the beginning, trying to make it a success.
After three days the weekend came and you were allowed to go home for that time. You called your father because you wanted to meet him. It was Easter and he said he couldn't because his wife's friend's ... whatever relative had his birthday.
I yelled at him. For a long time. I yelled all the pain and heartbreak he had caused me to have over all these years out and it felt so damn good. Calling your own father a sick asshole is probably not really polite or whatever. But he deserved it.
After that he became friendly and helpful all of a sudden and seemed to care. It was amazing. It didn't last, though.
~~~Am I an awful daughter?~~~