Monday 7 October 2013

I do fucking everything myself!

I've looked after myself for a long time. I have been expected to look after myself for longer. I work part time while I'm studying at University. A university I had to get into on my own. I eat food that I buy with MY money, even down to the bread and butter on my toast and the milk in my tea. If I'm cold while sat in a jumper and a jacket I have to put money on the metre for electricity. I have to pay for the gas if I want to use the oven, the second hand oven that I paid for!

Everything I own even my laptop, my little table, my tiny box t.v all came either from my own pocket or from the mercy of my brothers. I have no license and no car because I cant afford it. I've never been abroad because I cant afford it. I think a luxury is buying a £12 pair of boots to keep my feet dry through the wet months when I travel 3 buses and 2 short walks to uni. I never get the odd £20 handed to me towards my university stuff, I don't get a couple of bags of food shopping put in the cupboards to tide me over. I got fuck all for my birthday this year. Last year a card when the day was almost over.

Christmas is a pointless misery of no expectations, and gotten used to disappointed hopes. I was twelve when my mother told me in December that there was no money for Christmas, and I dealt with it, I have dealt with it every year since. The year my parents said "What's the point in putting up the tree, don't bother" was the year I gave up hope on them. (The tree and the decorations are my favourite part, they should have known that) I could overlook everything else. My brothers have taken pity on me too many times and I'll be forever grateful that they've included me in their own separate families to save me from being alone, even the decent floor in my bedroom is there because my brother laid it down. This year will no doubt be the best year I can remember because it will be spent with someone who wants to spend it with me and he will be my salvation. I actually feel like I'm the heart and not the spare part this time.

I come home to a cold house, an almost empty fridge and matching shelves. (My fridge contents at the moment is an almost empty bottle of milk, 2 half tubs of butter, one of which I have bought, and half a bar of chocolate) the shelf has five items on one of which is cat food, no more details necessary.
The thing is I'm used to all this. I have dealt with standing on my own feet for years, I know if I want to put food in my mouth the money for it will first come from my purse. Everything I am, I have become on my own.

What I can't stand, what I cannot deal with is being treated with such careless, insensitive disrespect as if I owe the world to my parents and this house. As if I have been given the best and looked after when I've had fuck all for too sodding long to even try and pretend you have any right to say these things. "What about the times I drove you to those interviews?" YOU GOD DAMN TWAT! Is that really what you're saying to me? Are you really acting as if I owe you. I even paid for the petrol! Sorry for getting off my ass and getting a job! Unlike you! Sorry for buying my own washing powder! The cutlery you're using downstairs I bought! That kettle you make your drinks with every sodding day I paid for! You ungrateful scum. I would never have a child without being fully prepared to support and love and cherish them, and it doesn't matter how old they get you are a parent for life and you should be their support if and when they need it. You don't have a kid and the moment they're too old for benefits to reap in treat them like a burden when you do fuck all for me! I expect nothing! I stopped expecting when I was twelve years old. But a little respect, for your only daughter who gets nothing, a little respect would have been appreciated. The reason I don't bring food here anymore is because I don't hear the end of it until I give in and let you eat it! Now I have a place to be comfortable, to put a few things, to be quiet and peaceful and warm and loved and I wont give it up until I'm bodily thrown out, and you wonder why I never want to be home.

I don't expect an outsider to understand this post. There have only ever been two people that understood this. This what I live through. One left me. I'm waiting for the other one to as well, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. My writing is my salvation, but he's my dream.
(This is the fridge. I wasn't kidding.
See the 2 white labels on that left draw?...that's my name, because that's my butter, and I have to label it. Because its take take take here, and no sodding give what so ever. )



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