crash&burn.

I’m sick of that fucked up bitch you’re obsessed with. I don’t know why you bother, she’s going to be dead in a morgue by the time she’s twenty-five.”
What the fuck gives you the right to talk about a sixteen year old girl that way? Especially someone that has done a whole hell of a lot for me.  Especially someone I care about.
She’s not going to be in a morgue anytime soon. She’s not. Fuck you. She’s going to live for a very long time and be happy. I’m not giving up on her.
“That bitch is trying to ruin our lives in anyway  possible.”
She’s not trying to ruin my life. She’s saved my life. She’s sure as hell not trying to ruin yours, although with all the shit you’ve said about her she might want to.
“Because of her my daughter is dying. She’s sick. She’s one twisted bitch.”
Your daughter is alive because of her. She has problems, yes. But she’s trying to get out of them. Trying so hard and fighting and I’m so fucking proud of her for that. She’s not twisted. She’s not a bitch and referring to her as ‘that bitch’ every time you want to acknowledge her is fucking rude. If anyone is a bitch, you are. A stupid, careless, arrogant, ignorant bitch with the empathy of a pile of shit.
“It doesn’t matter what you do, she’s just going to go puke and hack up her own wrists a little more.”
Contrary to your belief, it does matter. If there’s one good thing I can say about myself it’s that I’ve done everything I can to help her. I like to think that that does matter, that I have helped in some way. You have no right to judge her  based on things you know nothing  about. Nothing.
“You will never talk to her, will never see her. I promise you.”
So far you’ve shut me off from almost everyone I care about. So far you’ve forbidden me to talk to many good friends. So far you’ve kept me home near constantly for the past two years. So now you’re going to make sure that the one person that makes me happy is cut off from me, too? Good move.

Everytime I think it’s impossible for me to hate you any more, you do something to accomplish it. You make me feel worse than anyone in my entire life ever has, and that includes myself. Just when I thought we were starting to get along more, starting to maybe be a normal mother and daughter,  you pull some shit like this. I’ve said this before, but you  are not my mother anymore. You’re not. Someone who makes me feel like crap, tears me down when I already feel awful, who pokes at my weaknesses is not my mother. I don’t know who you are. You’re the dictator. You’re the stupid bitch I have to live under for two more years. But I guarantee you that the very first fucking day I turn eighteen, I’m gone. I will not tell you where I’m going. I don’t want your help with college money; I’ll do it on my own. I will not give you my number. We will not talk.
I’ve never been so angry at anyone. I’ve never been so annoyed by the presence of anyone. I’m so sick of this. This isn’t normal. I’m so sick of the fighting, of crying, of being controlled every second of my day.
You really want to know who to blame, Karen? You reallyreally do? If there’s anyone to blame, it’s you. You may not be what made me sick, but you certainly add fuel to the fire. By ridiculing me, by belittling the situation, by keeping me home all the time,  by making sure you control every step I take.
You’re not my mother, not my family member, not anything but a woman I live with.

God. I am so fucking frustrated. So frustrated. I hate her. I hate her so much more than I thought I could hate anyone. I would do anything to get out of here. I’m a spoiled bitch for wanting that, but it’s true. I want out of here. I need to  get out. I can’t handle this any more. I just can’t do this. I can’t.