I feel like I just came out to my parents. I think everyone does in different ways throughout their lives. The first time you get caught in a big lie. The first time they find out you’ve actually been drunk before–or the first time they piece together that you’ve had sex. You change in their eyes. You grow up.
So now I’m this grown up, living in the same house as my parents for the next six weeks, knowing fully well that they don’t see me the same way they used to. I’m not really sure how they see me now, but it’s different.
For one, every day they ask me “how are you doing?”
And not in the way that’s like, “hey! how’s it going?”
But in the way where they pick up the phone and call, which is very different than how it used to be. Or, because I’m home now, they’ll knock delicately and come in and kiss me on the head or something and ask me how I’ve been.
But they can’t really expect me to be honest.
I think that’s still the hardest part–I can’t be fully honest with them. You can’t tell the people who made you and raised you into who you are today that you hate yourself. You can’t tell them something like that and ask them not to take it personally.
You can’t tell your parents that you’ve looked at a razor longingly before and still insist that you’ve never hurt yourself. Or that you’ve never thought about killing yourself. Because once it comes out that you’ve kept a secret for so long, they realize you can do it again. And no matter how much I insist that my thoughts have never been that dark, I can’t prove it.
But how am I? Well, I’m fighting with everyone about everything. I’m still sleeping to put off responsibilities. I haven’t been able to write a blog post in days because they all eventually take a nasty and dramatic turn and I end up saving them for my journal. Oh and the dog’s been following me around all day. You know how animals always know when something’s up and are drawn to sick people or people who need to be comforted? Well I just walked from the basement to my room, back to the kitchen because I forgot something, then to Sarah’s room, and then my own (stopping at each place to do something) and Izzy hasn’t left my side.
So you tell me how you think I’m doing.
I know I shouldn’t complain, but it’s hard. I’ve felt so pathetic and weak since I’ve come home, and I can’t remember why I was so excited to be here in the first place.