Oh, mum. I have a lot of anger at the moment. You are not helping. I appreciate you’re trying but I’m still so angry at you. I can’t waste any energy on feeling bad about that fact. I need to accept it and you need to respect it. All is not forgiven. I’m sure one day it will be but not right now. Right now, it is a deep, painful, simmering rage at you. YOU. YOU. YOU. Not me. YOU. YOU. YOU. I’m angry at you. You. You.

I’m tired of parenting you. Of teaching you how to parent me, and him. I’m tired of being the adult in this family and being so alone.

You exhaust me.
You abused me. You scared me. You confused me.
You f**d with my head.
You felt better, I felt worse.
Sometimes you apologised, sometimes you didn’t.

Games, games, games.
New versions of old.
Death. Dying. Years. Numbers.
Illness, suddenly.
Corner, coming.

Space, limited.
Feelings, restricted.
No space for me. No space for my feelings. No space for my pain. I’m not allowed to feel pain. I’m not allowed to grow, or change, or challenge.
I’m not allowed me.