to my not so dear parents.
I am not a bum, nor am I aspiring to become one. Stop talking to me like this is an episode of Intervention. I'm not on drugs (though you'd like to change that, wouldn't you). I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not pregnant. I'm troubled. Don't come in now and try to play mommy and daddy. I parented myself, and have now outgrown any need for a parent.
I never talk to you because a) I am an intensely private person, a condition your prying only serves to aggravate, and b) you don't listen to me.
Father. So I stay up until five in the morning. I can't sleep. So that's not your normal, but this isn't your life. You get up at five in the morning. That's hardly normal to me, but I don't tell you that you need to adopt a "more conventional" lifestyle. Furthermore don't presume to tell me what I want and don't want to do. Believe it or not I really am a very private person. Don't tell me that I am that way because I "tell myself that's what I want to be." You don't know me. You have never known me. So don't throw an I Love You at me as you walk out the door. It's meaningless to me. A breath in a language I can't understand.
Mother. Just. Just step off. Sure maybe I could have used your guidance in my life at some point in the past two decades, but I certainly don't need you two interfering now. I am an adult, influenced by what I am, and at this point in the proceedings you'll only make things worse. As all outside influences tend to do. Don't tell me that just because I hear voices I must be psychotic. They keep me saner than you do. Also, pansexuality? Bisexuality? They exist. It is not a "moral abomination," nor do I think I am "so avant garde." You can hardly blame me for pursuing love as I have learned it, since I didn't learn it from you.
I am either terribly strong or terribly stupid for coming out of all that I have alive, let alone with as much of my sanity as I have. Either way, you had no part in any of my accomplishments, but you reside at least in some part in my failings. Who knows, maybe you'd have preferred that I let it have me. It may still get me. Maybe you'll be happy. I know I would be, so I can't say it matters much to me which way your feelings bend.
Sometimes I wish that I really were schizophrenic like they say I am. At least then I'd have some hope of detaching from reality enough that I would be spared the consternation and the hopelessness and the knowing.
No love, your daughter only by a couple of unfortunate cells,
Emily
I never talk to you because a) I am an intensely private person, a condition your prying only serves to aggravate, and b) you don't listen to me.
Father. So I stay up until five in the morning. I can't sleep. So that's not your normal, but this isn't your life. You get up at five in the morning. That's hardly normal to me, but I don't tell you that you need to adopt a "more conventional" lifestyle. Furthermore don't presume to tell me what I want and don't want to do. Believe it or not I really am a very private person. Don't tell me that I am that way because I "tell myself that's what I want to be." You don't know me. You have never known me. So don't throw an I Love You at me as you walk out the door. It's meaningless to me. A breath in a language I can't understand.
Mother. Just. Just step off. Sure maybe I could have used your guidance in my life at some point in the past two decades, but I certainly don't need you two interfering now. I am an adult, influenced by what I am, and at this point in the proceedings you'll only make things worse. As all outside influences tend to do. Don't tell me that just because I hear voices I must be psychotic. They keep me saner than you do. Also, pansexuality? Bisexuality? They exist. It is not a "moral abomination," nor do I think I am "so avant garde." You can hardly blame me for pursuing love as I have learned it, since I didn't learn it from you.
I am either terribly strong or terribly stupid for coming out of all that I have alive, let alone with as much of my sanity as I have. Either way, you had no part in any of my accomplishments, but you reside at least in some part in my failings. Who knows, maybe you'd have preferred that I let it have me. It may still get me. Maybe you'll be happy. I know I would be, so I can't say it matters much to me which way your feelings bend.
Sometimes I wish that I really were schizophrenic like they say I am. At least then I'd have some hope of detaching from reality enough that I would be spared the consternation and the hopelessness and the knowing.
No love, your daughter only by a couple of unfortunate cells,
Emily