It hasn't been two weeks and I'm already dying being back in this house. Who am I kidding thinking that things had changed, someone literally had to die for things to improve during a visit home. Being in this house for so long is mentally toxic for me; all of the progress I've worked hard to make with myself just seems to be irrelevant, and I'm back in high school mode; judgmental, hovering parents, immature people that I'm forced to see (including my brother and his lame friends), and I find myself fighting the urges that I've been trying to overcome for years. How could Lori think that we would ever REALLY be close, and I could confide in her? I could never forget her reading my diary for god knows how long... or for her e-mailing my guidance counselor behind my back to tell her about me giving a blowjob. How could I ever really be close to my brother after he used to tell me he didn't care if I died, and (not personally related to me) but that he wishes her could put all the gays on an island and bomb it. And how could I REALLY be close to my dad for letting Lori wear the pants, and for not defending me countless times when he knew that he should've.
And then there's my mom. I saw her last week, and the lunch was so painful that I told her I had to babysit an hour early and that we had to go. I tried so hard to have a good time, but she legitimately looked me in the eyes, and gave me one of her distorted monologues that she often does- "my mother was toxic, I had to get out. But you're so lucky, because I love you so much. I have never abused you. I have never neglected you". I wanted to throw my sushi at her. Okay the abuse was only mental and verbal, but never neglected me? Is she joking? And now she's trying to see me again this week. I don't even know what to say. Ugh.
I know that I don't have it the worst, and I know that I am loved (by some members of my family at least). I know that if I wanted or needed something they would be there, but I'm one of the least materialistic people that I know, so this means nearly nothing to me. I'd rather live in a one bedroom box and not feel the emotional burdens that I've felt for as long as I can remember, than be in this big white house crying as I blog; I know that when I told my Dad that after college I might want to stay in central NY his heart broke a little, but I'm not going to let my guilty ways lead me back here in two years. The old, self-destructive me would maybe, but not the new me, the one who is learning to love herself, and not put the world before her.
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