I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I F****** HATE YOU WHEN YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST F****** COMMAND ME TO DO THINGS YOU FUCKER.

“Your wife” may be dead, but she’s also my f****** mom. You’re not the only one who’s f****** sad about it. And I kept it together all this f****** time, just for you, because we live together and I’M still depedant on you and your f****** money. Because I’m too f****** mentally ill to f****** do anything apparently. You think I f****** want this??
You think I f****** LIKE living everyday like the last because I can’t even bring myself to enjoy it???

I really REALLY f****** try, okay???
I try my f****** best to get a f****** apprenticeship, but your goddamn nagging everyday does NOT. F******. HELP.

Sorry you didn’t get the perfect, straight, skinny, happy princess daughter, but you have to f****** deal with it now.

So f*** you. You’re stuck with the chubby, depressed, autistic heathen dyke.
Your idea of being “caring” was only ever buying stuff or planning trips, that you only told us about, like, 2 days before. And then you were f****** offended when we didn’t lick your heel in appreciation, because guess what? WE HAD F****** OTHER PLANS!!

God forbid we don’t want to do the same s*** as you. How DARE we not be skinny like you. none of us three kids are, but you never f****** criticised my brother, because he’s not a girl. So obviously HIS bodytype is f****** unimportant.

F*** your “You need to work on your body, not just your mind.”
F*** your “I’m only saying this for your own health.”

B**** we both know, that if I took crack behind your back and lost weight, you’d be f****** happy. I could be dying of cancer like mom did, and you’d be optimistic because at least I’d be losing weight. Because b****, I f****** saw you being happy because of her weight loss.
F*** you. I’ve had 2 bulimic eating disorders because of people like you.

I’ve spent this whole f****** day running around, sorry that I don’t have the F****** ENERGY TO ALSO COOK AND CLEAN AND DO THE F****** LAUNDRY.

You always go straight to yelling when my words start making too much sense for your liking. You ALWAYS have to talk over me because you f****** know my arguments are better. You get louder and louder because you know I’m f****** scared of it, back from when I was younger and you used to hit me right after your voice got loud.
Whenever that topic comes up, you say, it “wasn’t that bad” because “it made us better people now”-
No it f****** didn’t. You and mom were just too f****** lazy to raise us without hitting us. “I turned out fine too.” No you f****** didn’t, idiot.
Your parents were f****** abusive and now you’re just emotionally unavailable and have a high pain tolerance, that you aso expect fro everybody else.

I became a good person, because I didn’t reflect my f****** trauma on people around me. I f****** do what I can, even if you don’t f****** see it. Because everything has to work according to YOUR method, doesn’t it?
My therapist told me to “feel my feelings” but how can I do that If I always just get a “Don’t be dramatic” from you?

You could barely keep yourself from crying when I told mom years ago, that I had suicidal thoughts already when I was young. You even called the emergency team to break my bedroom open, because you thought I might try something, 8 years after, just because I slept tighter than usual. But you won’t even grant me some f****** alone time, because I’m f****** depressed and CAN’T ALWAYS BE PRODUCTIVE. I’m not like you! I’M not a workaholic, sorry I guess??

But I’m trying, and I just can’t be perfect, and thanks to you and your damn expectations death seems typically appealing right now.
I won’t do it, only for my sister and grandparents, because I know they couldn’t take it.
I just want this to be over with. I want a job, my own place, and for once, some f****** peace and quiet from you.