Saturday, June 3

playing house

When I was young, I often played "house" with my friends. One would be the father, one would be the mother, a doll or something would be the baby, and then we'd just play-pretend to be the perfect family, the way it should be. My mother, my father and I did that yesterday, as he was picking up Laura. We sat around the table, with cookies and milk, and my dad actually asked me; "How are you doing?"
It was nice, cosy, but as when I was young, I knew the game would end soon. Both my mother and my father were like the kids in the kindergarden who never got their way when you discussed what game you wanted to play. They both looked like they'd rather play Monopoly or football or anything but 'house'. I wanted it just as less as them. Yet, we all continued to play.
The game ended soon. My mother brought up the subject of who was going to pay for the psychologist. I was thinking, while they talked. A funeral can cost up to 13.000,-
10 hours with the psychologist: 7500,-
I wanted to give them the figures, just so that they could compare the prices and decide whether or not they would be more optimistic about giving away money to save my freaking life.
My mum actually had the nerve to later say, "The worst is already over, isn't it?"
The little me inside my head was jumping up and down, grapping her hair and just screaming, kicking and crying. I still feel as bad as I did 3 days, 3 weeks and 3 months ago. The only difference is, I no longer cut myself. I cut myself to get attention! To make people realise that I FUCKING hurt! And she has the nerve to say it's passed, just because I no longer do the cutting? Well, I'd be more than delighted to take that knife and jam it down my arm if she wants it written in blood. I cry on the inside, I do it a lot, and I do it all the time. Even when I'm laughing on the outside, when I have pure wrists with no scars, when I can dance around my room, when I sleep with Christian. I hurt. I still cannot believe she could say that to me.

The game ended soon, and we could go back to ignoring each other. The attention that I wanted somehow seems useless. I don't lake the fake attention I've been given. It's not fair. It's really not fair. It's like showing me how things could've been, if only people had cared for me more.

Fuck you Andreas, fuck you. It hurts so bad you love it, and it hurts even more knowing that you don't care.

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