Poem 65 + Abuse

image. Shutterstock.com/Suzanne Tucker

when you tell me

there’s something about the way
you go on about how childish it is
that pushes me to my limit,
beyond my breaking point
and past being reasonable.

 

you hate it when i don’t speak up
like it’s a sign of being weak
but when i tell you
right in your face
how ridiculous you seem
judging and stroking your ego,
you turn and put me down.

 

don’t go spouting words
like it’s a one way streak
because like it or not
i’ll put up my defenses
and never let them down.

 

you taught me best
at protecting myself from bullies
bullies like yourselves
and don’t ever forget
that not even for a second
i’d let you crush me yet again.

c 2015 / &velajune

Growing up, I wasn’t abused as a child. My parents were loving, I suppose. I wouldn’t really know it myself. I grew up under the care of a nanny. My father was pretty much MIA in my memories from 4 years old to when I was 8. At 8 years old, I moved to America. As far as I can remember, the people that raised me were my nanny, for my first 8 years and the rest was done by my older sisters.

I give credit to them when it comes to my morals and beliefs. It’s thanks to them that I’ve reached the age of 23. Without them, I don’t think I would have been the person that I am now.

The lack of parenthood from my real parents always bothers me especially nowadays when they try to justify the lack of love and why they now choose to be parents. It’s crazy to think that my parents’ sole purpose was financial support. I’m always short tempered when it comes to them pretending like they suddenly know and understand me when for more than half of my life, they didn’t really care or at least didn’t show it.

My father likes to think that he knows everything about me and my friends and my friends from high school. He likes to insist that I’ve made a grave mistake for dropping friends I used to have.

Here’s my advice to anyone who’s having difficulties in high school or college or whatever. It’s better to have quality friends than quantity. Having one friend that’s there for you to help you get up is always better than six friends who’re just there to watch you break down.

My mother on the other hand likes to think she knows me as a person. She thinks that the girl who used to be top percent of the class is the real me. Or that my love for art is as shallow as a puddle. And she treats me like a child. I get it that I still am dependent but the fact that she doesn’t bother to truly understand me as a person annoys me. She likes to think that I’m this 10 year old girl who has a superficial take on life. Little did she know that her baby girl is more troubled about life than she.

Sometimes, I just want to tell her: Listen, I have worries about money too, and what we’ll be eating tonight. I worry about how much my clothes cost that’s why I only shop about twice a year. I get it; I understand it. But here’s the real problem. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I want to go, my goals, my aspirations. I don’t know if I want a burger today or Chinese food. I don’t know what I want with my future other than peace of mind.

But whenever I try to tell her, she just casts it off to the aside like it’s a phase I’m going through. Yeah, a phase that’s lasted five years already. Thanks, thanks for not listening, ever.

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