I hate you. I will never forgive you for what you have done to this family. You ruined us all. Your selfishness and immaturity is the reason I am sitting here now. And the worst part is that nobody saw it but me, and that makes it look like I created this mess, like I am the villain. Your actions and ultimatums, your accusations and innuendos- that’s why I had to do it. You were so very crafty, gaslighting me with surgical precision over 2 decades. I almost completely lost myself.But I digress. This isn’t about me; it’s about her.
And so here I sit. Alone except for the awkward and occasional stranger who thinks this is where they will be waiting, too. My tears and snot and anger and muttering and growling soon sends them to safer, saner areas of the floor. The waiting room chairs were bought to match the wallpaper and the light fixtures, not for comfort. Every time I change position, the fabric is stiff and itchy, and the cushions slide. I imagine they looked really nice in the artist’s rendition: soothing earth tones, ample seating, inviting layout. It doesn’t work though. Instead I am just made that much more uncomfortable, irritated and irrational. The lighting is harsh, despite the fancy recessed bulbs. This makes me squint, but I doubt anyone could tell since my face feels swollen and puckered from crying.
My daughter is somewhere behind the heavy, industrial, cherry-wood doors opposite the room I am in. They glide open on hydraulics when someone with a plastic badge hurries past the waiting room doorway. I’m guessing a pocket door for this room might be hidden so people like me could be shut in and away from the public, or more likely kept away from the regular families, the ones who know how to contain their emotions during a crisis. But fuck that! Somewhere in that brightly lit maze of white washed walls, hard tile floors, fluorescent humming and indistinct murmurs is my little girl, with bandages wrapping her arms and legs, an IV dripping into her veins and her cold body piled under warmed blankets. And it’s your fault, and I will never forgive you. Good thing you aren’t here, or you would be back there in your own bed all bandaged and bruised, bleeding and possibly breathing only with assistance.
She said the pain inside is too much. She misses you but you never call or text, not even on holidays. She hates me and my new boyfriend who I had no right to bring into the FAMILY’S house. I went to her room to say hello. She was in the bathtub. There were broken razors and blood and a half empty bottle of FireBall Whiskey… She’s only 16. She was crying, but mostly tired. Now she’s sleeping. And hopefully when she wakes up, I’ll be able to shoulder the responsibility, to find the starting knot in all her tangled emotions and confusion, and will be able to unravel her threads of anger, hate, self doubt, pressure, and pain. This is why I hate you. And I will never forgive you.
(Author’s note: the image is not my own. I found it on another blog about cutters. I tried to find the initial source but have been unsuccessful. The story is a dramatization of actual events.)