Mother, Forgive Me.
As much as I’ve said I hate my mother over the years, there’s no doubt in my mind that I love her too much to say it. Everyone says I’m her favourite son, yet I don’t think anyone else has ever disappointed her as much as I have. When I was young she would beat me when I misbehaved, she’d have a cane that she’d use when she didn’t have enough energy to kick me around on the ground, and she’d threaten to spread chili on my tongue if I said anything bad.
By the time I was eight I was tall enough to not worry about her kicking me to the floor anymore, by then I was confident that I could fight back. And so I did. For over ten years I’ve been fighting back, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of having to be someone else when I face my parents. I’m sick of not being appreciated for who I really am. I’m a drifter, it’s just how I am, and if they can’t accept that, then I’m not sure if I should be living with them anymore. I can’t keep fighting like this, because it always ends with me leaving her in tears.
To cut a long story short, my mother thinks I’m a drug addict. She also knows that when my friends come over it’s not just to play Street Fighter IV. The first time she found a packet of weed in my room she confiscated it and showed my younger brother. According to him she seemed frightened more than anything. A few weeks later she found something far worse, something I can’t mention here. I feel like it’s not just my mother I should apologize to, but anyone who’s ever had any faith in me to stay away from hard drugs. I’m so sorry.
To those concerned, I only smoke marijuana now, I’ve learnt from my mistakes. Over the past 2 years my life has been changing so drastically I can imagine why anyone would be worried about where I’d end up. And I really don’t know, in two weeks time I won’t have a job, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to afford the recording costs for the album I want to release with the band. All my dreams are just what they are, they’re fictional, they’re in my head, and they don’t seem like they’ll ever come true.
Why do I do this to myself? Two years ago I wanted to be a software engineer, then I realized I couldn’t be organized. A year later I wanted to be a journalist, so I started a course. Six months ago I dropped out of college, and no, I’m not going back. I don’t know what I want. There, I said it. And I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not meant to amount to anything. God, I feel so fucking depressed right now I want to choke myself and just die right here as I hit the Publish button.
There was a time when I was so sure I was ready to die that I started typing a farewell post, and I thought I had gotten past that. I’m sorry about this post, really, I am. I know it serves no purpose telling you all this, but to be honest, you are the only friends I have. The only people who know me even a little are the ones that read this pathetic excuse for a blog. Whether or not you’ll even care about what happens to me, I don’t know, but it helps that you’re here. Thank you for listening, I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry I exist.