"I think, before I gave birth to her, I drank too much sour plum juice."
"Why?"
"Her face is always so sour."
At this point, I feel like a broken record. What other complaints and rants could I possibly have other than myself? When will I ever write quality posts about the world and my thoughts? When will I stop this shitposting because I need to realise how irrelevant I am.
If she could just impart those motherly instincts that she often talk about (brag about) to me, maybe she could understand why I am so angry, so hurt. She would talk about how she could feel her heart drop when the boys are hurt or in pain, but it doesn't seem like it works for me. Every single day, I feel this bone deep ache and she can continue about her day, without ever stopping to ask whether I am okay.
One look at my face and she goes into a tirade of how I need to understand them. They need the help, the support. She feels them, empathizes with them.
But I am never a part of that equation. When I wanted to die, she went ballistic on me. She called me an ingrate for not cherishing my life. He laid his hands on me and walked out, leaving me behind like forgotten trash.
When they messed up their lives, they were both angry and disappointed but so concerned, so supportive. When they felt down and about with life, we went to counselling as a family to seek help. Us three put our all into helping them get back to their feet.
They've grown up into adult men, guided by the love of our parents.
And I'm still 11 years old.
