things in my Head.

Untitled Part 8

There's a stain on the ceiling. I stare at it. Need to clean that off. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow sounds nice.

I'm in the best place, in between the Shirt From Last Week and the Potato Chip Bag I Had Last Tuesday. The rug muffles the shouted insult contest just a little, which is a kind thing of it to do, considering I walk on it all the time.

Sister dear reaches a higher shriek than before. Hopefully they're halfway done. How could she fight with someone she loved so much such a short time ago? You trusted your mom for years, why do you suddenly think you have to hate her? And just in time Mom's voice kicks in, low and hard. Great. Now she's so hurt she's pissed and you're gonna stomp to your room like you own it and you're going to be a jerk at breakfast.

The door to her room slams, easily heard through the thin walls. Really need to get that stain off.

I know exactly why everyone's mad. Its all laid out like a map in my head that I can't burn. Mom misses dad and wishes she hadn't divorced him even though he's a cowardly ladies' man, which she hates, although she keeps that well penned up and tries to never take it out on us. Plus she hates hates hates fighting and that makes her really anxious, and too much anxiety makes her snap. She doesn't ever want to hurt people. It's cruel for the world to keep people like her alive for so long.

Sis is a great big confused mess. She's scared and hurt and that, naturally, means she has to be mad at everything. She thinks she's trans and gay and maybe she is. It feels like too big a choice to make so soon, and I'm pretty sure she's just doing what makes mom most upset at her. So now she's got as new name and has a strict curfew. Mom thinks it's a phase, and she's scared it isn't. I wouldn't be surprised if one of these days she runs away to her boyfriend's house.

I don't know what to think or say or do anymore. I can't tell up from down or right from wrong. I want to hide in my closet, eat polysaturated-with-fat shit and stop loving these messed up people. They hurt too much. I want to resign from life.

Mom's crying at our dining table that's cluttered with medical bills. My medical bills, because for whatever reason my genes threw a fit when they were put together and decided to give me COPD so now I can't breathe without an inhaler, and my life in spring is a synonym for hell. I should go down and comfort her. At least I should study for that test in AP History.

I get up, drag  my chair over, unstick my glow-in-the-dark "constellations of the northern sky" poster from the ceiling from its place over the stain, and begin cleaning off the stain with something damp off the floor.