Not written for the public or publication, particularly without monetary recompense.
I wrote and drew as a teen. I accrued many solitary hobbies, including things my younger siblings liked. Truly, I love them so much. That's why it hurts.
Throughout the last recession and my mother's increasing abuse, I protected them. I remember being resentful of the pain inflicted on me as a teen, but resenting more that my siblings would suffer as I had, even if they caused it.
Friends:
None of them speak to me anymore, nearly a decade after all that I had sacrificed and suffered. I haven't spoken to them for years, on and off, and I know they do not know me, or how I think, or how I am. They have been fed lies, and I am cast off as some paranoid rabblerouser.
I took blows. I bled for them.
Matriarch was so often shaking from anger and violent rage, we worried she would survive. Before she beat me, and us.
Before I knew she would readily abandon them to me to live with some man, who was a better parent than she would have ever been, except for our immigration system. But he was taken from us through the "legal" system, and I survived the blows as a parentified child. I even cried, thanking him for caring for us the last time I ever spoke to him. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to the only responsible adult I ever knew.
I ate less.
She likely killed my dogs, who were often the only family I had. She will never face consequences, especially not the ones she forced on me.
I loved them and my siblings more than I ever loved myself.
She took them all away from me with lies and violence.
I loved them with all my heart, and would have gladly given my life for theirs, but I don't think they even remember me most days. I don't think it helps our parents had life-threatening conditions in recent years, unlike me and my suicidal ideation and my parents being indifferent to whether I live or die.
Some even look down on me for being poor, when I loved them with all of my heart and soul.
How do I make sense of this?
I wrote and drew as a teen. I accrued many solitary hobbies, including things my younger siblings liked. Truly, I love them so much. That's why it hurts.
Throughout the last recession and my mother's increasing abuse, I protected them. I remember being resentful of the pain inflicted on me as a teen, but resenting more that my siblings would suffer as I had, even if they caused it.
Friends:
None of them speak to me anymore, nearly a decade after all that I had sacrificed and suffered. I haven't spoken to them for years, on and off, and I know they do not know me, or how I think, or how I am. They have been fed lies, and I am cast off as some paranoid rabblerouser.
I took blows. I bled for them.
Matriarch was so often shaking from anger and violent rage, we worried she would survive. Before she beat me, and us.
Before I knew she would readily abandon them to me to live with some man, who was a better parent than she would have ever been, except for our immigration system. But he was taken from us through the "legal" system, and I survived the blows as a parentified child. I even cried, thanking him for caring for us the last time I ever spoke to him. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to the only responsible adult I ever knew.
I ate less.
She likely killed my dogs, who were often the only family I had. She will never face consequences, especially not the ones she forced on me.
I loved them and my siblings more than I ever loved myself.
She took them all away from me with lies and violence.
I loved them with all my heart, and would have gladly given my life for theirs, but I don't think they even remember me most days. I don't think it helps our parents had life-threatening conditions in recent years, unlike me and my suicidal ideation and my parents being indifferent to whether I live or die.
Some even look down on me for being poor, when I loved them with all of my heart and soul.
How do I make sense of this?