Story of a Girl
Please stop touching my things
I usually prefer to work on everything individually-- it's not because I can't get along with others, but because I don't like how others do things. I'm extremely passive-aggresive; it's something I desperately want to change about myself, but I just... can't. I've lost hope in ever changing.
I have a certain way of doing things-- doing things how /I/ want to. Let me work alone & I'll do things how I want to. I'll be a happy camper.
If I'm at school, it's kind of different. If we're working in groups, I tend to take charge (if I found myself doing this, I back off as much as possible) & do things how I want to... of course, I let others incorporate. It's not just about me, I know that. If they do something that I would've done differently, I get a bit upset, but whatever. Next time, I'll just do it by myself. I'll be happy.
At home, that's not the case. My parents tell me to everything all the time. My sisters? Let them have fun; they're still young, too young to learn how to vacuum or broom! Yeah, whatever. As the oldest, it's my job to apparently do the cleaning for them. Because /I/ do the cleaning, /I/ do it how /I/ like. That pisses my parents off. "NO, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO IT LIKE THIS." If you want something done, do it YOURSELF. If I want to clean the table with a shitload of soap, I'll do it because I'M the one cleaning it. I don't care if I'm wasting soap; I'm doing your chores & if using a ton of soap gets me working, then let me use the damn soap! Of course, I try to use a fair amount of soap, but yeah.
At my dad's house, that's not a problem at all for me. As long as I'm getting the job done, he couldn't care less. I'll do it how I like. He actually CARES about what I have to say. If I want to paint my room black, he'd help me. But my mom wouldn't care because it's "her house & I own the damn house so I'll decide what's best for everyone." And at my mom's house, I'll clean how SHE wants me to.
I do the laundry for my siblings. All the time. I wash their dirty underwear every Sunday afternoon (sometimes Saturday) & I fold their laundry because they apparently can't do it themselves. Whatever. I don't care. And since I'M the one washing, I'll do it however I want. If I want to wash the white first, I'LL FUCKING WASH THE WHITE FIRST.
My mom has never washed laundry for us. It's always been my dad to do it for us-- but since my mother absolutely refuses to do ours, I wash my own at her house. And since my sisters are lazy fucks, I have to do theirs, too. It's not a big load on my back, so I do it. And today is Sunday. Laundry day. I'M doing the laundry. I put the dark clothes in first, always. Medium load, cold water. Half a cup of soap. Just how I always put it in. I took a shower, & I spent about 45 minutes in the shower. 10 minutes washing myself & shaving, 35 minutes getting dressed & wondering why I don't like my body. I leave the shower to put my dirty clothes in. I also needed to put the light clothes in, too. I'm walking into the kitchen, & I see the hamper by the trash can. Why is it over there? I don't know, but do I honestly care? Not at all. So I go to the closet where the machines are... Open the lid. "WHO THE HELL PUT THE CLOTHES IN THERE?"
"What? Isn't it all dirty?"
NO, MOM. NO. THEY'RE NOT ALL DIRTY.
Like I've said, I have a specific way of doing things. She just came in & took a complete shit over my entire routine! NO, YOU DON'T DO THAT. Of course I'm pissed.
I had things in that hamper.. That don't belong in the washer. Certain things were left there for a reason. And she just did things by herself.. THIS IS WHY I DON'T EVER LET HER TOUCH MY THINGS.
It's not because I have something to hide; it's because I keep to myself & she just comes in & messes everything up! I had all my shit together, organized in a way that I'LL remember where things are. I don't want her ever touching my things. And I didn't want her putting the clothes in the washer. Everything is so unorganized now. Certain shirts are washed differently & some stain others. But "let's just dump all the clothes in & hope they come out clean!"
I'm a neat freak. These are my things, & I organize them however I want to. I don't want HER touching them & telling me how to organize MY things. So please, don't ever touch the clothes again. You weren't helping. At all. That's the second time you've done that. You say you know me... It's been 15 fucking years, when wi you realize that I don't like my things being touched? I don't like my things being touched by YOU.
Do my parents EVER wonder why I lash out on them? THEY DON'T KNOW ME BUT THEY CLAIM TO. I keep to myself, please don't go around touching my stuff because I ALWAYS ask you for permission to use your stuff! I don't have anything to hide but my grades, so please stop touching my things & let me do things myself. I don't ever ask for your help, so if I don't ask, then DON'T help. That is why I lash out; because I can't do things calmy in the manner I want to. It's always been about what THEY want. I had a broken arm once. They made me clean the house, & my dominant arm was broken. "CLEAN THE WINDOW CORRECTLY." they said. Mom, I can't clean correctly because my arm is broken. "DON'T CARE. YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO CLEAN IT." Can't I just use my left hand to clean it? I'll be slower but still-- "CLEAN IT."
I had a USB on my keychain. This keychain was a gift from someone so fucking special to me. I was going through a difficult time, & they were there, helping me, when everyone else gave up on me. Of course I would never give up the keychain! That keychain was all I had of them. That USB was full of memories with that special person. I never, ever lost that keychain. I made sure that it was always with me, wherever I went. So, my house keys were on that keychain. I mean, that's its purpose, right? To hold keys. It was a Tuesday night. My mom's husband took the keys, & my mom needed to go somewhere, so she took mine... I was hesitant to give them to her because, well, it was special, but I couldn't just say no. I could've, but she would've thrown another glass cup at me again & I didn't want to pick out glass shards out of my skin with tweezers. The first few times had actually hurt, y'know?
So I gave her the keys.
7 hours later, it's almost midnight & I'm going to sleep. Briana's done taking her shower so I let her watch over the kids while I go to bed. My mom comes home, & she doesn't give me the keychain back. I forget about it. A week later, I finally ask where my keys are. "Oh, I lost them." "WHY WOULD YOU LOSE MY KEYS?" "They're just keys, I'll make a new copy. Stop crying."
NO, YOU DON'T-- AND STILL DON'T-- UNDERSTAND.
That keychain meant everything to me & YOU LOST IT.
JUST BECAUSE SHE HAD TO GO TO HER STUPID FUCKING RELIGION MEETINGS.
I can't just get another keychain-- it won't have sentimental value to me. So she gave me an uglier keychain with all the keys to the house. I lost that keychain, & all the other keychains after one another. No, mom. It's not because I'm clumsy. It's not because I'm forgetful. It's because those were NOT my keychain. Without that keychain, I've got nothing. It's the only thing I had that mattered. Can it be just a coincidence that I've lost every keychain you gave me to after you lost MINE?
But it's Sunday & we're cleaning. "Look under the couches, see if you find your keys." YOU want ME to look for the KEYS that YOU lost? How logical. But I'm not going to; this is just your lousy way of getting me to clean. I'm not buying it.
And I'm just so upset that she keys trying to "help" me. I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP. I'm living under your roof because I don't have another choice. I can't work, I can't rent my own apartment, I can't do anything because of my age. You never bother to help us, so why do something for me NOW? I know that getting upset over her putting the clothes in the washer is stupid... I know. But it's the fact that she keeps TOUCHING my things. She thinks she knows how I do things. But she doesn't. And I'm sick of her getting in the way of how I do things. Doing things by myself is the only freedom I ever have in this shithole. And she just took that away. I'm still abiding by her rules by doing things how I want, but I can't even do THAT here.
If I were in the workplace, I'd do things by my employer's instructions. He's an authority that I respect because he's helping me survive by paying me. I'll afford a car, a house, I'll be able to pay my bills. But my mom hasn't done anything for me except for giving me a roof to live under, & I don't even want to LIVE with her. If she could just, stop touching my things, that'd be great. That's all I ask for.
I honestly don't care if she throws another glass cup at me; I mean, I can just pick out the shards myself, it's a lengthy process but that's no problem. Throw as many glass cups & plates as you please.. Just stop touching my things. Organizing & doing things how I want to is the only freedom I've got in this house. And it pisses me off when you do things without warning.
She knows I'm pissed off & she's making it worse by taking things out of my drawers so I could reorganize them... how SHE wants them organized.
I think I would've been better off if she let me die back in Mexico. She probably wouldn't have had much to deal with, eh?
I'm getting upset over something utterly stupid I'm ashamed in myself. Wish I could change that about myself, too. But nope.
And stop calling my name. I don't want to be anywhere near your face right now. The urges to hit something are incredibly strong.
I once had a dream that I stabbed my mom with a knife & she bled all over the floor & then I ran away. I was HAPPY to do it, even if it left me homeless & without a job. Probably the happiest I've ever been, though. But then I woke up & realized it was all a dream. Too bad.
It's not too fucked up, is it? I don't think it is.
Then there was the time in class when our teacher asked us, "What would you do if you lost your mother? Some people don't have both parents." I wrote a whole essay on why I'd be happy to live without my mother but I had to erase everything because I should write a "socially correct" response. I was smiling while writing the whole thing, too.
Aaaaand my mom's still calling my name & everyone's looking for me. But do they know that I'm hiding in the closet?
Nevermind. They found me.
Now she's telling me to keep cleaning... EVEN THOUGH EVERYTHING is clean.
I'm gonna talk to my dad about him getting custody over me. My mom pisses me the fuck off & I don't think a girl my age should have high stress levels like mine. Is it normal to be THIS stressed? Could I die from it? I'm surprised I'm not dead yet, if it's possible. I highly stress over every small thing & my parents don't make it any easier.
I also wish I could visit a therapist or psychiatrist; I don't know the difference. I'd like to have someone to talk to--they could at least pretend to care. That's what they get paid for, right? But this diary's all I have.. which I guess is the closest to a therapist that I'll ever come to. I don't think my dad would take me see a therapist. He'd probably think I'm crazy. I don't bother talking to my parents about my problems because all they ever do is make me feel worse about myself. "Mom, I feel like everyone hates me." "Well, OBVIOUSLY. Everyone DOES hate you. You're stupid, you're fat, you're ugly, you're rude--" "...Thanks for the pep talk, mom." "I'M NOT FINISHED." And my dad somehow ends up talking about Mexico & the rancheros, yada yada. I've heard his same story one hundred & thirty eight times. (he's told it too many times for me to keep count)
My mom keeps telling me to clean & now I'm bleeding because glasssssss. I just hope this shirt doesn't end up at my dad's house somehow; explaining why the blood is there is just gonna be awkward as hell.
I'm gonna end this entry now. If I keep writing down thoughts, it'll make no sense. It doesn't make sense now, but.. still. Fingers crossed I can wash the blood off. This is a good shirt, too. I hate the color red.
I wish I wasn't such a coward. And I wish I wouldn't get upset over something stupid like mom touching my things. I'm just a hormonal, stupid teenager that doesn't know anything.
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