I'm at my dad's house again, as I usually am after two weeks. Sitting here, my 18-year-old adult self, so down I just want to cry and go to sleep.
I can't handle life at my mom's house. She's Pentecostal. Strict. I can't wear pants, dye my hair, cut my hair, paint my nails, sing non ch*is*ian music, voice any contrary opinions lest she yell and call me sames, and so much more, and it makes me want to scream. Since I was seven. So long.
And more, now it's getting worse.
Now she's claiming I have no issues. She won't recognize my autism. She won't recognize my near-crippling anxiety. She won't recognize my childhood trauma. She just calls me lazy. She blames it all on a lack of motivation.
No, mother. I'm not lazy. I'm sad. There is a difference. I'm sad and I don't see how this will ever get better, how I'm going to even keep living. In this world that just gets worse, how will I ever become independent? How will I provide for myself?
And seeing how I'm so attached to you that I'm upset when I'm away as well, will I even break this cycle? I feel emotionally dehydrated. Drained. Tired.
I want to restart or just to die.
I'm beyond tired. I reassured my friend the other day that I'm not even at my breaking point, but now I think I lied. I'm... done. Only guilt keeps me here anymore.