(no subject)
Dear parents:
Stop caring about me so much!
Sometimes I kind of wish you hated me, so that I'd at least get some goddamn peace from your constant fluffing, nagging and coddling. You got rid of the SCALE because you thought I had an eating disorder, for God's sake. Did you deign to try and talk to me about it? No, you just automatically thought you knew best, as though I still have the mentality of a six year old, and pretty much took away my only reliable measuring tool while I was trying to lose my holiday weight. Out of nowhere too. Do you realize how offended that makes me? What did I do to deserve such a lack of trust? And then, after cushioning me against the world like a helpless child 80 percent of the time, you turn around and try to wrench me into the position of an adult. No, that's not going to work. If I'm going to learn how to live like an adult, then I need to have the freedom to do so for once. That includes the freedom to make my own mistakes. If that means going out for a walk during dusk and risking getting raped by a crazy wanderer who is prowling the neighborhood for no better reason than to uphold the proud reputation that dusk and taking walks have when combined with each other, then SO BE IT.
No love,
Daughter
So.
"Your parents only want the best for you" No shit? Elementary, Watson. It's all TOO obvious to me, and I'm really getting sick of it. Their idea of what is best for me doesn't coincide with mine, and that's where the trouble lies. Sometimes I fantasize about what I'd do if I were to get thrown out of the house. Left with nowhere logically feasible to go in order to support myself-- besides joining a brothel, but that's hardly an option-- I'd find a way to end my life. It's be the biggest and most personal choice I'd ever make for myself, and would probably be the only real control I'd ever have over my life. If I can't choose the way I want to live, I can sure as hell choose how I die.
(Disregard that bit of melodrama at the very end, if you don't mind. I was in one of my high rage rant modes when I wrote it.)
Stop caring about me so much!
Sometimes I kind of wish you hated me, so that I'd at least get some goddamn peace from your constant fluffing, nagging and coddling. You got rid of the SCALE because you thought I had an eating disorder, for God's sake. Did you deign to try and talk to me about it? No, you just automatically thought you knew best, as though I still have the mentality of a six year old, and pretty much took away my only reliable measuring tool while I was trying to lose my holiday weight. Out of nowhere too. Do you realize how offended that makes me? What did I do to deserve such a lack of trust? And then, after cushioning me against the world like a helpless child 80 percent of the time, you turn around and try to wrench me into the position of an adult. No, that's not going to work. If I'm going to learn how to live like an adult, then I need to have the freedom to do so for once. That includes the freedom to make my own mistakes. If that means going out for a walk during dusk and risking getting raped by a crazy wanderer who is prowling the neighborhood for no better reason than to uphold the proud reputation that dusk and taking walks have when combined with each other, then SO BE IT.
No love,
Daughter
So.
"Your parents only want the best for you" No shit? Elementary, Watson. It's all TOO obvious to me, and I'm really getting sick of it. Their idea of what is best for me doesn't coincide with mine, and that's where the trouble lies. Sometimes I fantasize about what I'd do if I were to get thrown out of the house. Left with nowhere logically feasible to go in order to support myself-- besides joining a brothel, but that's hardly an option-- I'd find a way to end my life. It's be the biggest and most personal choice I'd ever make for myself, and would probably be the only real control I'd ever have over my life. If I can't choose the way I want to live, I can sure as hell choose how I die.
(Disregard that bit of melodrama at the very end, if you don't mind. I was in one of my high rage rant modes when I wrote it.)