#just....done

So, when I tell her that I was mad that she said it, she immediately went on a tangent about how I’m not the only one that does this and that she does it too and that she doesn’t understand why I would be so upset about her sharing that detail with other people.

Then she called to attention about my hair and tattoos. “Why do you not want to be in the spotlight when you change your hair color and got a tattoo?” 

Because my hair and my skin are things people can physically see and it doesn’t bother me. My bedtime routine is something completely different and you have no right sharing anything about me that I don’t feel comfortable with.

Common fucking sense should tell you that bedtime routines are fucking personal and that my anxiety and depression are NOT for other people to know unless I’m comfortable with sharing it.

“Other people have depression and anxiety too. You just don’t think that other people have problems too and it’s just you.”

No, no, no, no and a thousand times fuck off. Don’t you dare compare my experience with other people because that it NOT helping me what’s so ever. If anything, it hinders my ability to come to terms with my mental health because “other people have it worse” and then I can’t go out and accept help because that tells me “you have nothing to be fucking upset about because x and x never happened to you.”

My boundaries ARE MY BOUNDARIES! Blabbing my personal life and details to other people aren’t helping me, Gran. I get that you never wanted to hurt me, but telling your church friends about what I do at bedtime or what I have in the same bed as me is none of their business.

It’s common fucking sense.

I get that you’re terrified of your surgery and that you’re terrified about losing your arm, but PLEASE for the love of your God, do NOT tell other people about my anxiety and depression and my personal details like they’re yours to share.

I am an adult. I am your granddaughter. I just need you to fucking accept it and not talk about personal details unless I tell them personally or I tell you that it’s okay to tell other people.

Just..stop, okay? Just please, stop. I can’t even talk to you because the conversation always turns to how you’re feeling and once again, I’m swept under the rug. It’s like I’m not important. 

Do you know much I struggled with realizing that I am important? That whenever someone tells me that I was important, I don’t believe them because hey, I’ve been lied to in the past.

Do you realize how much I still struggle with it?

Just......ugh. Telling me that you’re walking on eggshells because ‘everything you say seems to piss me off.’ No, everything you say doesn’t piss me off! Whenever you overstep my boundaries, and I try to tell you that you’re doing that, you scoff and roll your eyes and then start crying because “I’m mad at you.”

Whatthefuckever.

Been trying to get this story out for about a week now and I can’t even write it. All I want is to get it out and move on to my next fic. I get that I’m here to take care of you and I fucking accept that I don’t have any freetime for myself 24/7 because I’m taking care of you.

But, dammit, when I open myself up to you about what happened to me as a child, what I’m feeling now, and your immediate response is “You need to see a therapist.”

I will see a therapist when I’m ready. I’m not ready now because I still haven’t fully accepted that I’m not a functioning adult and that this isn’t something that I can fix by myself.

I am a fucking broken human being and I’m just....