I’m just tired

I guess it started when I was born. I’m currently writing incredibly bluntly, please bear with it. I’m immensely bitter, especially right now. The state I’m in right now is disjointed and confusing and I just don’t understand anything of my thoughts, I thought maybe writing my story out would help.

Right, so I guess it started when I was born. So really, just this family. I’ve been abused as a kid. I don’t realize this until now. I didn’t understand this as abuse, and I was a child who only knew their parents to be right. I didn’t really understand the concept of having your own opinions. My brother is really sensitive, although older than I am and I don’t know why but it just gave a huge toll on me at the time. I was the youngest and I had anger problems with my brother because our petty arguments were never resolved reasonably, and I seemed to be the only one to become immensely frustrated at that point. Though, I really wanted to love my brother, I really did. He was the most affection I had recieved in my childhood really, by just talking to me with pretend understanding really just might have been the only to have kept me sane. My mother, though has given me such trauma, and I find it so hard to deal with now and I find it so overwhelming whenever I’m reminded of how it was.

My mom deals confusion with anger. Anger specifically towards me. She just could not understand what I was saying, literally because she couldn’t understand english or the contrast between asian and american culture. So with petty phrases like, “Can you please stop embarrassing me in front of my friend?” would resolve into screaming and screaming and I would still hear the screams as I bang my head against my bed post. There was kind of a sync with it as I smashed my head onto it with the screams and the beat of her hitting me maybe.

I don’t think the main problem was her physically hurting me, it was just her verbally and mentally, she never realized how much she didn’t understand and she never wanted to understand it. And I think that’s the worst part.

I began wanting to die when I was five, I guess. It’s really as far as I can remember back. I think I might have had bipolar depression at the time actually. Whenever Mom was in a good mood, as was I. And the contrast was so sharp and unpredictable.

I was incredibly afraid of my mother.

It’s not like I wasn’t an annoying child. Of course I was. I just wanted to be happy. I usually ran upstairs after one of Mother’s episodes, crying silently, trying to keep the tears from slipping. I’d run to my room and cry and cry and sometimes propose to never come out again to myself. I would make myself sleep on the floor, thinking I’d need of punishment. I’d try to strangle myself, not knowing that you are not able to commit suicide that way at the time.

What I really wanted was someone

just anyone

anything to come

and console me

I was punishing myself

for something that Mother could never understand and no one cared no one cared enough to stop that five year from banging her head up so much she has issues with remembering things now.

JUST ANYONE

She would hit me with anything in her hand at the time. The most vivid was with a slipper with an inch-thick bottom where she hit me more than ten times on the head. Another time she hit me with a hardcover book. It used to be my favorite.  Always on the head. I hate it when people touch my head.

I just wanted to die. I just wanted something to come and take me away and pretend that I had never happened. but I remember. even when I try to forget I remember so vividly I can still hear the pounding. And the only thing my brother cares about is how he thinks he had it worse. Why? Why does that matter? Isn’t it already enough to go through it? Now it’s a ridiculous competition? Of how I was such a disgusting, insolent, spoiled brat?

I had attempting suicide too many times to count. It’s so pathetic.

and now I just want to end it. I’m too hollow. There aren’t any distractions left for me. They’ll just run out and it’d be a waste to spend them on someone as so hopeless

But I speak in past tense. I do. My mother has improved over the years. And my father? At the time all he did was drink himself out of it. It’s better now.

Just not fixed.

My mother admits to none.

She is not sorry.

My father is in no disagreement with what she has done.

I disagree.