I told my friends I missed you. I cried because I thought I missed my mom. But I don't miss my mom because I don't have one.
I have someone who hit me the hardest I've ever been hit in the post office parking lot.
Maybe you didn't think the force was that significant, but you forgot about the emotional scar it would leave. Then you hit me again.
You didn't see the signs of my depression sophomore year and told me to cry in the garage. You didn't know I was sobbing because I was trying to make myself throw up and couldn't.
Because I already hadn't eaten that day. In the days leading up to and following that one, I didn't allow myself more than 800 calories. That went on for four months.
I lost ten pounds and you thought I was healthy. I wasn't. I needed help and you never so much as checked in.
You turned the other cheek when your boyfriend left handprint shaped bruises on my chest and stomach over a phone. You even justified it.
I thought I missed my mom, but I'm crying for the figure I never had to help me through my tears rather than causing them, for someone that wants to advocate for me,
for someone who loves me and helps me through my mistakes rather than punishing me, finding sadistic pleasure in my struggles, going to the ends of the earth to ruin my future.
I'm crying for the support my life has been missing, not the woman that's supposed to provide it. I don't understand how this situation is benefitting you, but it's hurting me.
If you're seeking for me to understand consequences, that life skill won't help if my life is destroyed by a criminal record you choose to impose.
If you're attempting to prove your aptitude as a mother, please rethink what defines that aptitude. I'm certain it's not wreaking emotional havoc on your daughter.
If you just want to be right, will that be satisfying enough to justify all of this?