day in, day out.

I was putting away the groceries when I started bawling my eyes out.

My mom pulled me into my room and hugged me.

With one arm.

It's like she couldn't bear to wrap her arms around me and hold me.

Always half supportive.

And I cried and I told her about feeling depressed and how I'm having trigger memories.

Pull me close and I can hear his whispers.

Touch my hand and I can feel his.

She said that I should be over it and that it's been eight years.

I should be over it and onto different things.

That I'm my own person and no one should be able to make me feel depressed.

No one is making me feel depressed.

I'm making myself depressed.

I told her that I couldn't get over it and she told me that I "dealt" with it already.

I could have fucking laughed in her fucking face.

DEALT WITH IT?! I NEVER GOT TO DEAL WITH ANYTHING.

I DID WHAT MOST YOUNG GIRLS WOULD DO, I FUCKING IGNORED IT AND IT ONLY GOT WORSE.

I'm not fucking better.

I'm sorry I can't just get over the fact that I was sexually abused by your boyfriend while you slept in the next room.

I'm sorry I can't just look at the situation and go "oh well" and then look his son, my brother, in the face and smile.

I'm fucking sorry that you have a worthless piece of shit daughter that's not strong enough to get over her step-father making her touch him at night. I'm sorry that it's all too much for me to ever deal with and that I can't bury it down low so you never have to suffer.

The only thing she could think of was if I was doing hard drugs and sometimes I wonder why I don't.