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Spiderlike, the thought of suicide mocks me from its perch in one of the darker corners of my mind. My spit is gummy and tastes of gasoline; I walked miles today. I hate her. I need her. I love her. I hate her. I need her. I love her. Not just the hers I've always hated, needed and loved simultaneously––you know, the Teras of the past, the Stephanies. This time it's my mom too. I hate her so much. She needs to get a fucking grip. Yeah, I'm a piece of shit, but fuck, she's the one who raised me. Why does she stand there and lie to me, and when I say anything about it, she calls me the liar? It's like if I don't have the exact same outlook on every single situation, I'm lying to myself and to her and to the whole world about reality. And yet, she feels free to mangle the past, chop out the parts she doesn't like, make things up to compensate, and then she calls me the liar. Yeah, I lie. I know that. I've lied all my life, ever since I was tiny, and I'm only now beginning to realize the extent to which I've pushed my denial. But the bitch all up in my grill, calling me a liar and telling me she doesn't know if I'm human––that shit isn't necessary, and it's not helping. When she comes into my room and barks, "Rachel, you're spending all your time alone in your room. Tell me what you're hiding from," shit, what the hell am I supposed to say? "Yeah, well, I've lied so much throughout my life that I don't know what truth is and I don't know how to stop, I keep eating to the point of sickness and I don't know why, I'm alone, I'm tired, I'm scared of being sober and having to face the emptiness that is my mind hour after hour after hour, I miss Tera more than I ever have, I want to kill myself again and I really need some fucking help?" Is that what would make her happy? Doesn't she realize that when I say "I don't know," or "Nothing," it means FUCKING HELP ME, I'M DROWNING? It's not her fault, but shit, she should know me by now. She should know that I don't know how to say what's wrong, and in better times we've even had converstaions about it, about how we're going to try to listen more and not blame each other for everything and shit but when I come home depressed and angry I don't even really take it out on her and she still has to be a martyr about it, like oh, poor thing, her kid treats her likes shit, but I don't. I try not to. I mean, yeah, so I fuck up. I fuck up all the time. But at least I'm trying. When I ask her if she remembers what it was like being my age and not knowing what to do, she goes, "This isn't about me," but I'm not trying to make it about her, I'm trying to make her see and she just won't and I don't fucking know what to do, ok? I don't know what to do. Goodnight.
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