I do. I hate it because I hate the people related to me. I won’t give them the name of family, and I won’t forgive them. I resent them. I resent their silence. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not blood related, and nothing but my mother ties me to them. And their awful silence.
Sitting there at the table, all in our false mockery of thanksgiving, I usually end up just drowning myself in whatever liquid there is around–last year it so happened to be wine. I hate them. I hate them so much I’m miserable. And I hate things that bring me misery.
I hate them. I hate the silence. And I won’t shut up about it. I fucking hate the silence that they give to me, the silent staring and the play. We just sit and play the little game, and I’m laughing my fake laugh, and smiling my hateful smile, and wishing I was anywhere but there.
Sometimes I wish they’d just die.
Usually I wish on the way there we’d get in a car accident. Maybe the impact will kill me or at least keep me far far away from them for a long while.
I feel so trapped and I just wish I could run away. And I’m tired.
