More specifically I wonder why I even bother with this that and the other. Since moving back in with my parents it would seem that no matter what I do I can’t do anything right any more, not even make a damned cup of tea properly. Would also seem that every Sunday has been ear marked as the day of the week my mother goes out of her way to ridicule me, make my life a misery and remind me that I’m nothing more than a piece of crap on her shoe.

She begs and begs for me to move back home promises that life would be better for me and yet here I am so close to relapsing into cutting myself to shreds again. Something I was sure I had left dead and buried in my past over a decade ago. So shit why did I let myself believe that living at home would be better? Perhaps I’m too much of a sap and clung too tightly to the hope it would be true, that for once I would be treated with respect and not looked down on. I wanted to come home and help look after my dad, instead it would seem that my sole purpose is to be the person who takes the blame for bad stuff happening, even when I am not the one to blame.

Shit would my mother care if I actually cut again and bled out, sure as hell doesn’t feel like she would. She never cared first time around, not even when my form teacher pointed out the goddamned cuts and scars all over my wrists. I am starting to wonder if my little corner of the world would be better off without me and if it would even notice if I was gone. Yes my friends and partner would notice, but how long before I’m forgotten?

Here ends today’s angry rant.