What was the reason behind why I left my mom? It goes back to elementary school. My mother was not always there but I thought she was trying. Every year there would be these people to come in and talk about drugs and how they were bad. They were not always the same people, but the message was. So I grew up believing drugs were a bad thing. I still think that today. But i would find facial tissues with weird smelling yellow residue on them and bent paper clips. It always smelled awful. I would find pop cans bent with cuts in them and the cuts blacked out by smoke. Toilet paper rolls with tin foil at the end. And then there was the small metal tube that always smelled the worse.
I would ask myself why she would have this. It smells so bad. Then one day it hit me. My mother was smoking pot. I wanted to help her stop knowing that it was bad. I should know, I leaded about it in elementary school remember? Yeah right. I was in seventh grade at this point and i was in some kind of special ed. I told my special ed teacher about this and I asked that she not confront my mom about this.
Come parent teacher conferences, she did.
My mother told me and my brother to go wait in the car. When she came back, she had tears in her eyes and she looked angry. I and my brother asked what was wrong and she said nothing. When we got home she asked that I stay in the car.
"Why would you do this to me?" she asked me. I didn't know what she meant. Further into the conversation she was throwing words at me like "back stabbing bitch" and "heartless", also "emotionless" was in there for some reason. She said that it was a family matter and that it should be handled by family. I thought not.
She sent me to a counselling. His name was Dan, that's all I can remember from him. She didn't even tell me that she had made planes to take me there. She asked if I wanted to go Rochester and I said "not really". She took me anyways.
She told the counselor that I had been brainwashed by my father, who was actually being more sportive then my mother at the time. She said that I was cutting myself and that I wanted to kill her. Bravo mother. It was true that was cutting myself to relive the tension building inside of me. I have quite and not a single blade has touched my wrist or any other part of my body. Take a look at some of my scares some time, they were never deep, just enough to get the blood flowing.
As for killing my mother, that was not entirely true. Mind you I was thirteen at the time and quick to anger. I had a journal that I would write in everyday. My mother found this and was reading. She said it was the only way to keep track of me. I found this out and was putting things in there to make her stop reading. I would try and move my hiding place, but she would only find it again.
When ever i got angry or frustrated, I would draw. Just draw. And I would put these upset drawings in my journal Like of my running over a mean kid at school, or setting fire to my homework. It would only draw it, but never even think of doing it myself. Well, me being the upset and not thinking thirteen year old that I was, I drew a picture of me shooting my mother. That was a mistake, but that was how I reveled my anger at the time.
My mother took that and showed it to the counselor. Minis the picture of drugs I drew into her hand. She erased that part. Who knows what it would do to her image!
From then on, the relationship with my mother kept getting worse until I could no longer take it. I packed my stuff up and moved in with my dad.
There were more rules there and it was more strict, but I was happy.
That's all I can really say about that matter...
I would ask myself why she would have this. It smells so bad. Then one day it hit me. My mother was smoking pot. I wanted to help her stop knowing that it was bad. I should know, I leaded about it in elementary school remember? Yeah right. I was in seventh grade at this point and i was in some kind of special ed. I told my special ed teacher about this and I asked that she not confront my mom about this.
Come parent teacher conferences, she did.
My mother told me and my brother to go wait in the car. When she came back, she had tears in her eyes and she looked angry. I and my brother asked what was wrong and she said nothing. When we got home she asked that I stay in the car.
"Why would you do this to me?" she asked me. I didn't know what she meant. Further into the conversation she was throwing words at me like "back stabbing bitch" and "heartless", also "emotionless" was in there for some reason. She said that it was a family matter and that it should be handled by family. I thought not.
She sent me to a counselling. His name was Dan, that's all I can remember from him. She didn't even tell me that she had made planes to take me there. She asked if I wanted to go Rochester and I said "not really". She took me anyways.
She told the counselor that I had been brainwashed by my father, who was actually being more sportive then my mother at the time. She said that I was cutting myself and that I wanted to kill her. Bravo mother. It was true that was cutting myself to relive the tension building inside of me. I have quite and not a single blade has touched my wrist or any other part of my body. Take a look at some of my scares some time, they were never deep, just enough to get the blood flowing.
As for killing my mother, that was not entirely true. Mind you I was thirteen at the time and quick to anger. I had a journal that I would write in everyday. My mother found this and was reading. She said it was the only way to keep track of me. I found this out and was putting things in there to make her stop reading. I would try and move my hiding place, but she would only find it again.
When ever i got angry or frustrated, I would draw. Just draw. And I would put these upset drawings in my journal Like of my running over a mean kid at school, or setting fire to my homework. It would only draw it, but never even think of doing it myself. Well, me being the upset and not thinking thirteen year old that I was, I drew a picture of me shooting my mother. That was a mistake, but that was how I reveled my anger at the time.
My mother took that and showed it to the counselor. Minis the picture of drugs I drew into her hand. She erased that part. Who knows what it would do to her image!
From then on, the relationship with my mother kept getting worse until I could no longer take it. I packed my stuff up and moved in with my dad.
There were more rules there and it was more strict, but I was happy.
That's all I can really say about that matter...
