316. Parenticide Please

Is it a bad thing that I completely understand parenticide? I mean, honestly, if there was anyone that I would actually kill, it would most likely be my own mother. People always go on these little tangents about how you should be thankful that you parent took care of you and clothed you and fed you. Well, you know what? I didn't fucking choose for her to get knocked up. That had nothing to do with me. As for taking care of me: that's her fucking job. I'm not thankful and bursting with gratitude for a pizza delivery man that shows up with a warm pizza. Why should I be? He's getting paid to do it. He CHOSE to apply for that job. If you don't like it, don't fucking choose to do it.

Now, obviously I don't feel this way for no reason. I have plenty of them. Most recently it involves her going into my room, rummaging through my personal belongings and throwing things out. Not to mention the fact that she doesn't listen to anything I say and I have to constantly repeat myself. She intentionally walks into the room I'm in and brings up something that she knows will upset me. No matter how calm I am, she still ends up, literally, four inches away from my face, screaming at me. Despite how many times she goads me, pushes me, hits me, slams my head into things, scratches me, spits on me or calls me names (ex. ditch pig, whore, etc.) I never hit her back. The worst I've ever done was hold a pocket knife out in self-defense as yanked me by my hair down the street after repeatedly pounding on my back. Why did she do this? Because I was twenty minutes late getting home from a friend's house across the street. Why was I late? Well, you see, I had spilled something on my pants and my friend's mom offered to wash them for me and I wore my friend's pants while that was happening. I phoned my mom a few minutes after I was supposed to be home and, before I could get halfway through explaining, she started yelling and then hung up. She came over and pounded on the door while I was tying up my shoes and I obviously couldn't just jump up and answer the door so I was like "Hey, ______, can you tell her to wait a minute?" Of course ______ had heard my mom over the phone and, being the very sheltered and timid kid she was at the time, just stared at me like I had two heads. I quickly finished tying my shoes and came to the door where the back pounding took place, followed by pulling me along by my hair.

Of course, this isn't the only example. Far from it, in fact. Whether I'm getting my head slammed into the arm of a metal bench or doorknob, having her spit in my face, or having her flip a coffee table at me, I never hit her back, but apparently I'm the abusive one and it's always my fault. She's stressed out? It's my fault. My dad isn't paying child support? My fault. Marcus is getting in trouble at school again? My fault. She's bored? My fault. She's disappointed with her boyfriend? My fault. Mat is moving into his friend's house? My fault (because I don't eat meat!). The list is endless. Honestly, it is.

Now, the real bitch of this situation? No matter what she does to me, I always take her back. I still listen to her complain for HOURS and calmly give her advice on how to deal with situations involving her other two kids, money, her boyfriend, personal growth, stress, etc. (which she never actually follows and then wonders why nothing changes), I take her out to Starbucks and buy her coffee when she's upset, I take her for lunch, I convince her that she's doing a good job even though I'm her permanent scapegoat for every possible situation. I bathe her in undeserved sympathy. When I get sick or when I ruptured a disc in my spine or when I was stressed about having to perform a balancing act with school, two bands, and musical theater, I brought it on myself. It was my own fault. By the way, get a job and move out.