"To the people I love..." Vent book and Why Teens commit suicide

Mom

“Dear mama,
                         I understand that you're under stress because of your work and get upset when my brother throws a tantrum the moment you get home, ruining everybody's mood.

“But, darling mother, is it my fault? Did I throw the tantrum? When you scold one of us, keep it limited to that child. Don't scold both of us because that will be unfair to the innocent one.

“The last time I was this upset, I bit my left wrist, scratched it until there was a visible wound. You didn't notice until a month later. And when you did, I said it was because I accidentally scratched my wrist with my nail.

“Not the first time I've lied to you about self harming, mama. Another time was because I didn't trust you enough to tell you that my friend's friend was toxic and had antagonised me for no reason.

“I bit my hand on the knuckle, dear. The burn mark was real, yes, I burnt my hand whilst lighting the stove for tea. But why was there two marks? I used the burn as a cover up for the bite. I didn't tell you about the burn or the bite.

“I don't tell you when I get hurt, not anymore. I'd tell everyone before I'd let you know. The first wound I hid from you? That was the one time a few years ago when my brother and I were arguing, you got angry while cooking and threw the metal tongs at us.

“Guess what? Perfect shot, mama! You have a great throwing arm! You hit my right foot above the ankle. It bled and bled. I was in pain, scared and my eyes were full of tears. I still have the mark if you look close enough.

“You were angry and I knew it wouldn't help if I told you. After all, an angry parent wouldn't give a fuck about the child they hurt. I wonder sometimes, do you remember as well as I do? You're a wonderful mom and I wouldn't trade you for anything.

“But... Do you even care? Did you even care? Did you throw it on purpose? Of course. But the question is... Did you want it to hurt me?

“… I broke my nail day before yesterday. You noticed how I stumbled with my shoe. You asked what happened and I made the excuse and lied, ‘nothing! My shoe has a pointy part.’

“There's a reason I don't tell you anything any more. I don't share my secrets, my feelings or anything with you.

“…Why?
Because I doubt your care. If you care, you don't show it. You accuse me and my brother of not wanting you home, of torturing you. You accused me of torturing my brother. Well, let's see here…

“How do I "torture" him? Oh yes!
‘There's a bug!’
‘That doesn't matter.’
It matters to him, though, as you said.
But... You make me feel the same. If you paid attention to when I scold my brother, you'd see I use your words.

“I learn from you. You taught me this. What do you call me? "Useless"? Oh, "stupid/idiotic"? "Messy" "unkempt" and the list goes on. But I don't want to ruin my mood and remember those.

“I told you once that I have anxiety. And I do. But you? You said NO. You said that anxiety isn't real. But just a week later you said you were feeling anxious? Hm. Disregard when I feel it but I'm supposed to care when you do.

“Why do you keep saying that I miss my father? I fucking HATE him, you idiot. I despise him and I want to kill him. The only reason I didn't kill him is, again, religion. I'm not keen on burning in hell for eternity. But honestly, the hell you put me through isn't much better.

“What else can I say? It's been an hour and still I'm crying. I cry in silence. I cry when you can't see. I hate crying. I hate how you make me feel.

“You just got new knives. For cutting fruits, vegetables and all… I know. But every time I'm in the kitchen, I fantasize about grabbing the knife and carving out shapes into my arm or, hell, shoving it into my throat.

“I also fantasize about how things would have been if I were mute. Or if I hadn't had vocal cords.

“I can't hurt you because I love you. So, I take out my anger, frustration and stress onto myself.

“I can't really hang myself. But I can jump off the roof. But again, religion. You told me once that if you'd left my father earlier and hadn't had a second child, my young brother, then life would have been easier. But I can't imagine a world without him. How could you say such a terrifying thing, mother dear…?

“Maybe if I disappeared it'd be better, no? My brother would be your only child. Only one child to pay for. But again, no matter how many times I think about it, I can't end it.

“ ‘Go to hell,’ you said. But I don't want to. And that day I cried and cries and cried.

“If I had a penny for each time you made me cry in a week, I'd have enough to end world hunger, to give every human on Earth a home and a few hundreds to spare still.

“I'm in pain. I hate emotional pain but you've made me a masochist and I've started liking physical pain. I scratch my hands and wrists. I bite on them. Anything to drown out the pain inside. Maybe that's what I'm doing. If I cause enough physical pain, I'll drown out the emotional and mental pain.

“I don't want to wake up every morning. I go to sleep and hope to stay asleep in my safe haven of nightmares and dreams. Even though I dream of being chased after by unknown creatures, by demons that have every thousandth eye set on me, that chases me down a narrow hall towards the door only my fictional counterpart can close, I would rather die to those demons than stay awake. I'm tired.

“I want to go home. My home is my dreams, my mind that traps me in my own feelings and thoughts. A place to get away. Where I can cry without pain in my chest from the lack of air. Where I can sob endlessly without getting dehydrated.

“I love you, mother dear. A lot. More than anybody else. I pray the best I can to keep your day bright and happy. I want you to be happy. I truly love you, mama.

Love, Mary.”