Waiting and Hating

Now I sit alone at the library. The question keeps running through my head “Were is there to go when you can’t go home?”

 I had been getting better. The seroquel, miracle pills, had been working. Yeah I wasn’t normal, not even close, but they helped. While they do nothing in the way of suicidal fanticies they had helped my be less violent, less angry, less of bitchy me.

That time is gone. They stopped working. I’m not weak. I’m not the kind of person who sits and cries. I don’t feel the need to whine about it’s not fair. I’m just… pissed.

So I’m stuck here. Waiting and hating. Waiting for this to blow over. Waiting until the darkness to fade. Hating my sister for starting this all. Hating my parents for blaming me. Hating my dad for trying to call the cops on his own kid. Hating myself for running away. Waiting to get the nerve to go back and go out fighting.