darker persuasion of the rainbow
2001-11-23 04:52:56 (UTC)

a letter

to my 'mother', 'father', and 'sister':

i hate you. you treat me like shit, putting your petty
little wants over my needs. you ridicule me, pointing out
my bad and ignoring my good.

'sister', you're a bitch. you seem to think that this
goddamned earth revolves around YOU, and to hell with what
happens to me. i'm sorry to break it to you, 'sister'
DARLING, but i am not your slave and refuse to be treated
as such. i'm sorry you don't live in a utopia, but i can't
create it for you, no matter how much you whine and bitch
at me to.

'mother', you're racist, homophobic, and arrogant. and you're
a hypocrite too, as you express disgust for anyone who
falls under any of the aforementioned categories. i hate to
admit that i'm related to you. you go out of your way to
try to embarrass me in front of my friends, mocking me
while they're around.

'father' . . . my my, where do i start? whenever 'sister'
decides to get me in trouble, you're always the one to step
in - and take her side. you seem to think she's descended
from above, and she does no wrong. her homework's not done?
my fault. her dinner's cold? my fault. her shit stinks?
still my fault. you punish me for her imperfections.
you can't deal with the fact that I'm not perfect. you're
trying to fit me into a mold that you yourself could not
fill. I got a b in social studies? 'you can try harder;
you're not applying yourself.' uh huh. my social studies teacher
himself said on the first day that he was the hardest
teacher at school.
At first, i thought my grade in his class was a b-. you
went to go talk to him, and a week later i got my report
card, and it had been raised to a b. instead of
congratulating me, you congratulate yourself. 'he probably
raised your grade after I went and talked to him,' you said
smugly as you looked over my shoulder. yes, and i suppose
my 3.76 GPA was your doing, too? can i remind you again who
does 5 or 6 hours of homework a night, and who has never so
much as lifted a finger to help?
it seems ironic that you credit yourself with my
achievements, as you normally overlook my talent, trying to
convince yourself that you're better than me.
yes, i did just imply that you're insecure about your
talent. you always challenge me, my simple statements of
fact. when I tell you something, and you challenge it, and
i give you proof, you still deny it. 'well, it's on the
internet. they can type whatever they want on there. who's to say
they're telling the truth?' mm-hm. you wouldn't give a damn if
einstein himself typed it up; if it contradicts your pathetic, half-
assed beliefs, you ignore it. that seems to be your coping method.
don't let anyone tell you anything you don't know, just ignore them
and they'll automatically be wrong. you're too damn proud.
an old dog may not be able to learn new tricks, but a proud
one will resist all attempts to be taught any.

all of you always claim that i never talk to you. that's
true, i'll admit it. and you know why? because you
don't.fucking.listen. you mock and ridicule my thoughts and
beliefs whenever i try to tell you them. i haven't tried
for several years now, you must've noticed. i learned not to, because
i would only be belittled for it.

every good time we've shared, every laugh we laughed
together, was my charade. my little joke on you. i can't
stand to be with you, any of you. you intentionally piss me
off to watch my reaction, and then act oblivious to the
fact. you view it as a game. you make me sick.

you call me a recluse, always telling me to go outside and
play for a while. play? sorry to disappoint you. i don't
play. i write. i like writing. it's one of the few things
i'm actually good at that you know nothing about. sure, you
ask about it sometimes, ask to read it, but it's only to
see if i'm any good at it. that's why i never let you. you'd rip
apart in an hour what took me years to master. you'd point out
mistakes, inconsistencies, never telling me that i did a good job.
you couldn't write as well as i do, no matter how long you
spend doing it. you're never going to read my stories,
because you'd ridicule something you yourself could never

you know why i like writing? of course you don't; you don't
know anything about me. i like it because i can tell what i
feel without feeling ashamed of it. i'd never be able to
tell you what i write down, because you'd always make me
feel embarrassed about my thoughts.

it's fear, isn't it? you mock my beliefs because they're
different, they scare you because they challenge what you
think. i tell you some of my insights, and you laugh and
tell me that I'm being really weird today. you shrug me

the only reason i have any self-confidence left is because
of my friends - the few i have that you haven't scared away yet. i
can tell them how i feel, and they'll listen without making fun of
me, without telling me i'm being
melodramatic. they're the reason i haven't slitted my
wrists yet. because, really, without them, what, who, would
i live for? certainly not you. i'm just your puppet, your
attempt - and in your eyes, failure - of perfection. no. i
love them. i certainly don't love you, not the way you
treat me. i can laugh with them, talk with them, and be
HONEST, which is more than i've ever accomplished with you.
they don't expect me to be perfect; they expect me to be
me. I'm grateful for that. It's a nice break in my fucked-
up life.

so i ask one simple request. it will probably be ignored,
as all my other requests are, but i'm asking anyway, with a childish
hope that you'll, for once, listen. FUCK OFF. i'm not
perfect, i'm not your puppet, and i hope you all burn in
hell for trying to force me to be.

fuck you. all of you.