My Family Hate Me

I’m going to rant into the web and see if, somehow, out of the abyss, someone reads my shit and writes back.

About 3 years ago I decided enough was enough. Enough of what you say? I had had, point blank, enough of my shit-bag mother. Yep, I went there. I cut my mum out of my life in a maneuver that turned out to be more like ripping off a leg than a plaster. By that, I mean that it fucking hurt.

Let’s take it back to the fucking Victoria Sponge Cake

Well, she wasn’t just a crappy parent, she was also a pretty crappy person. Narcissistic, manipulative, dishonest, disloyal, spiteful and cruel, would all be accurate words for description.

Growing up I was always treated more as a possession than a child. I remember from a really young age having makeup put on and my hair curled, being talked about but not talked to.

My mum always did things that were spiteful for as long as I can remember. Things were to her own preference and benefit, no matter what the occasion was. For example, I have never liked jam. Every single year I was asked what cake I would like for my birthday and I would ask for a chocolate cake. However, every single year, without fail, I got a fucking Victoria Sponge. Every year I would watch my family sit around the table, stuffing their faces with my birthday cake, whilst I sat there and watched. EVERY. FUCKING. YEAR.

This is the way things shaped up for a long time. This is what the ‘good times’ were like. If you’d like to know what happened when shit really did head south, tune in for my next post.

SPOILER ALERT: my parents divorced, my mum turned into an alcoholic and my family disowned me! SEE YA SOON!


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