Don’t Sleep at the Helm.

August 2017

It doesn't matter anymore, I guess, what we have going on here. I guess everyone felt it coming: Judgement Day. The Day of Reckoning. The Day When She'd Go Off Because She Is Sick of His Shit.

You know, she wants me to apologize to you. Say something along the lines of... "I lost my temper, which was completely inappropriate, and I said things that I didn't mean and I'm sorry." But what does that mean? "I'm sorry." At this point, I'd say it means nothing.

You've never apologized to me for anything. For all of the years you wasted time and energy on me, giving me the false hope that, deep down, you have faith in me. But all of that time just went to ridiculing me. Letting me sink into a dark place of hatred towards myself. Falling deeper and deeper, sirens singing, and just allowing me to live in despair. You've gotta see that this was meant to happen. After all of the hurtful things you've said; the ridicule, the torment, the fear for my life.

I meant exactly what I said, so there's no apology that matters. Maybe I should apologize for being disrespectful and violating that relationship between adults and children. But I'm not a child. I'm sixteen years old and, let's be clear; next year, I'll be a senior in high school, ready to leave for college.

So, Judgement Day. I remember exactly what I said. "That's illegal. You can't do that. You told me to go kill myself. So no, I'm not doing that. No, I don't understand. I am sick of you treating me like this. Like a plague. I'm done being mistreated."

Now I have to apologize for being honest after all of these years of passiveness. Fuck that.