Dear Mom,
I kind of hate you.
At 5, I hated you because you screamed and screamed at me for not understanding a math question. You told me I was stupid. But I still loved you.
At 6, I hated you because you chased after me and hit me until I cried and did what you said. But I still loved you.
At 8, I hated you because you always ignored my tear-stained face and hiccups, and never once wondered what was wrong. But I still loved you.
At 10, I hated you because you told Dad not to comfort me when I cried. He had to sneak into my room and quietly press a tissue in my hand before silently slipping out. I held on tight to that piece of tissue for it was my only comfort. But I still loved you.
At 12, I hated you because you sold my hamster behind my back. But I still loved you.
At 14, I hated you because you kept yelling at me for being too shy. I thought it was my fault and I was sorry for letting you down. Because I still loved you.
At 15, I hated you because you told me to go jump off a bridge and die. But still, I loved you.
At 16, I hated you because you told me to stop clinging on to you that night on the beach. But I must have still loved you because I cried all through the night as the fireworks exploded above us.
At 17, I hated you because I was too nervous to talk to the office lady and you screamed and struck my head with a book. You told me I would never amount to anything. But I guess I still loved you.
At 18, I hated you because you kept telling me I had no friends. I guess it was true, but I also knew then that I didn’t have a friend in you.
At 19, I hate you because you value your friends more than you value me.
At 19, I hate you because you would rather spend your time watching a drama than talking with me.
At 19, I hate you because you never listen to what I have to say. (Because I’m always wrong.)
At 19, I hate you because you make me feel guilty for existing.
At 19, I hate you because you told me I’m a useless piece of trash, and you made me believe it.
At 19, I hate you because you’ve never realized that I’ve been going through the toughest time of my life. You’ve never realized how hard it is for me to wake up every morning. You’ve never realized how much it hurts when you yell at me for not waking up earlier, for not finding a job, for not cleaning my room, for not being considerate enough.
You won’t even listen to me.
Instead, you call me selfish, ungrateful, and hopeless.
At 19, I thought maybe I should go jump off a bridge and die, like you had said all those times.
At 19, I’m a complete mess.
At 19, I don’t really love you any more.
