How Dare You.

"How dare you have the audacity to throw up or think about throwing up in this home?
After everything we have done for you.
After nine years of this Kristin..."

In this home?
This home where my cries for help were met with anger and hostility and excuses.

In this home?
Where my dad would pick on me. Not answer my questions. Act like he didn't hear. Look at me with disgust and disapproval when all the while it's he himself he hates.

In this home?
Where I thought I was safe.

In this home?
Where my two role models made cutting remarks at one another. Muffled voices raising louder and louder as I hide under my pillow.

In this home?
Where everything must have a coaster. Don't paint your nails there. You did the vacuuming wrong. You got the wrong bread. It's not what you said it's your tone of voice.

In this home?
Where I'd ask to go on a walk with you and you were too tired. Where I try to introduce you to new movies that you still haven't watched. Where I try to tell you what it's like to be me and what I need help with and I'm met with a blank face.

In this home?
Where I am scared to be myself. I am scared to be anything but fine.

Yes I am that fucked up mom that I can't help but throw up one of the most anxiety causing dinners for all bulimics, overeaters and anorexics plus fucking normal people.

"I don't understand how you can do that."

"Mom, I'm a BULIMIC. I have a MENTAL DISORDER."

"I shouldn't have come home, it's not the  best place for me."

"How dare you say we are not a loving home."

"I didn't say that, it's just in treatment I wouldn't be met with anger, I would be met with understanding."

"I'm just mad you lied about not trying to throw up."

Could you imagine what would happen if I dared tell you the truth?

We calm down. Part ways.

Dad asks me like nothing happened to take out the recycling.

...fuck you.