Mentally I’m sometime okay and I’m sometimes not and that’s okay. Physically I most always feel not okay but sometimes I’m almost sure I could be a model.
Every since he’s moved in my stress level has increased. How can I possibly relate to someone who has both parents in prison. It was a mistake, I keep telling myself he’s not supposed to be here, it’s not his fault. He asks me “where are my jeans?” “I’m hungry could you make me something to eat?” “Helen, could you go on a walk with me?” and late on Sunday nights after he’s visits his parents The questions cease for a day. But around one am I can hear him in the other room crying his mothers name over and over again. I want to ignore his problems, handle mine then help him. But I can’t help it. I do his laundry, make his lunch, and go on long quiet walks with him. And Monday morning when I come to school with bags under my eyes and a slump in my walk, nobody will understand what it’s like to live with my nine year old cousin.
I’m upset that you’r gone, tired of holding in my emotions and regretting not helping you. I wish I would have said something, came up with a plan. Helped you in some way, because knowing that now you are gone locked up in rehab I feel guilty for missing you. Maybe I’m over dramatic, maybe the mother like responsibilities that my little cousin hangs over my head are finally getting to me. Maybe I’m just sad that you still don’t know how I feel. But how can I move on when you aren’t here to reassure me that my hair looks okay today and my braces are cute and not to worry because things are going to get better.
Self loathing. My body is like a building and my soul is the tiny people running around ringing phones and burning old files. My soul can be stable and quiet, all the little people sitting at their desks filling memory’s and remind me of my responsibilities and when everything is good on this inside most everything is good on the outside. But when I’m walking the halls or called up Infront of the class and dragged to my parents party’s, my little people go wild pressing every nerve and sending signals in all different places at all different times. They call that anxiety. And when I see him, with his green eyes and soft hands, the little people inside me get happy and jittery and quiet. And when I see him my soul screams from the inside out catching fire to every memory he gave me. They call this feelings. But lately, the mirror hasn’t agreed with me, I haven’t felt like a model or a princess and beautiful is a word my ears long to hear again from the little people inside of me. They call this self loathing and for me it’s a new type of torture.
When bad things come in threes, try to remember that good things come in fives.