The truth is, I don’t blame you for my depression. It’s chemical, physical; it’s not something you can control. But I do blame you for the years of emotional and verbal abuse. I do blame you for the delight on your face when someone else digs into me. I do blame you for the fact that when I’m away at school, we never speak. I do blame you for my low self-esteem and the problems it causes me. I do blame you for refusing to acknowledge that I and my sister, your daughters, have a serious problem. I do blame you for the fact that when my friends tell me how their mothers are their best friends, how they miss them so much, how they’re amazing role models, I sit in silence.
The truth is, being around you is toxic. It drains me of my tenuous grasp on happiness. It reminds me of how much I hate where I came from, how much I hate our entire way of life. No, you don’t hit me with a belt or drink all the time, but that doesn’t automatically make you a good parent.
The truth is, I don’t want to be a part of this family, and for that, I do blame you.
The truth is, I refuse to let myself be a victim anymore. I refuse to sit passively by and listen to you constantly tear me down. If I rarely call, maybe you should begin to blame yourself.