I can no longer endure my overly dramatic preacher mother, perched ever so formidably on that high horse of hers. Pretending to be powerful, wise and distinguished while simultaneously crumbling and weeping over her belief that I am ruining my life. Overly hysterical and convinced I (apparently) started off favourably but now am a pathetic and weak disgrace. Oh woe is her, woe is her indeed. To have such a wicked child, withdrawing from the conventional life and choosing to do “nothing” worthy. Woe, woe, woe! She dances as if she is the protagonist in the story that is my life, her main role fixated on exaggerating frailty and despair and unabashedly weeping from sunrise to sunset.
Plaguing me with extreme guilt and making me question every choice I’ve made thus far.
I’m sick of it.
This is my life and I refuse to apologise. And I am sorry but you have no right to sit there and cry for me when you are in a position to actually help me. And yet you choose to wail and suffer over my financial misgivings. It doesn’t make a shred of sense. If my life was just so despicable and sending you to an early grave then surely you’d help? If not for my benefit than yours alone? No? And stop adding to salt to fresh wounds with empty promises of assistance on the proviso I succeed first. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me thrice shame on me. Offering to aid once I’ve miraculously scraped what remains of myself off this dirty ground. That is ludicrous! You lend a helping hand to a person when they need it, when they’re at their most vulnerable; battered and bruised. Not when they are seemingly flourishing.
You give to someone in real need.
Then again our society is structured that way, isn’t it; the rich getting richer, the poor getting poorer.