It's Like We're Living In Hell! by Brittany Richards (recommended books to read .TXT) 📖

  You could feel, almost literally, the tension in the air, tension between me and my mother. The constant fighting and stress became the normal. The physical and emotional hurt did too.
“Stop being and ass!” She yelled at me. The only thing I said was that I thought she was taking the germaphobe-thing too far, that it was getting kind of out of hand. It wasn’t like I said it in a mean way; I was only telling her my opinion. I was always told that my opinion counted, but apparently not in this house. “Do you all want us to get fucking sick, do you want your little brother to get sick again”
Tears started to tear up. She always seemed to know the right thing to get to me. And she had the nerves to bring up my little brother! I feel bad for him. Ever since he was born he’s been a “momma’s boy,” and she seems to always have him with her. It’s not like a mother kind of need though. My brother could be with me or his father my step-father, and she still needs my brother with her. I feel bad for him.
My vision started to blur from the tears in my eyes. “No! I just wanted to say what was on my mind!” I yelled. Anger was boiling inside me by now. I finished getting ready for school, and grabbing my stuff, stormed out the door, slamming it behind me. I started to walk to the bus stop, and began crying again.

I came out of my room, my stomach was growling, so I walked to the kitchen. My mother looked up from her chair; she was with my brother as usual. “What are you doing?” she asked as I walked towards the kitchen. I was a smart ass, always have been, and still am. “I’m hungry, I want food. Is that ok with you? ‘Cause if it’s not I won’t eat.” I replied, laughing a little to myself. She didn’t understand my sarcasm. I never understood it for the rest of my family is sarcastic. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” She yelled back. I kept walking towards the kitchen, my stomach still yelling at me to feed it. “Never mind, I was trying to make a joke, that’s all.”I got to the fridge and whispered to myself, ‘God!’ and rolled my eyes. It was like she heard me, for the next thing I knew she was running at me with her hand extended. I flinched but not quickly enough. A hand slammed into my face, making me fly back, almost making me hit my head on the table. I landed on my butt. “Don’t you ever, ever, talk to me in that tone again! You hear me?” I didn’t answer her at first. I was too afraid that I would say the wrong thing. She ran over to me and raised her hand up again as if to hit me, but she didn’t, instead she yelled at me again, “Do you fucking hear me?” This time she yelled it louder. I was shocked I didn’t know that was possible.  I didn’t hesitate this time and nodded my head. My mother slowly lowered her hand, “Good, that’s what I fucking though.” She turned around and started walking back to my brother. “Such a fucking ungrateful worthless thing!” she yelled as she did. Looking back at me she yelled, “Fuck you!” I tried to hold back the tears, but I just wasn’t strong enough to do it. They started running out, almost like a waterfall. Once they started, I couldn’t hold them back. I ran to my room, forgetting about the food, I just didn’t want to be out there anymore. When I got to my room I looked in the mirror. There was a large red handprint across my face when she had hit me. I hurt real badly.

It was time to get ready for school and I decided to sleep in for five minutes. I asked my mother if it was ok before doing so, she said it was. It was only about four minutes later, she came running in screaming at me, “Get the fuck out of bed!” I was suddenly up but wasn’t out of bed yet, when she started pulling me literally out of bed. “You said I could sleep in for five minutes!” I yelled back, still half asleep. “You only have fucking ten minutes to get ready!” she yelled, pointing towards my alarm clock. I looked over at my clock, it read six thirty, giving me fifteen minutes to get ready, not ten. I didn’t understand why she was literally dragging me out of bed though. She pulled me off my bed and on the floor. “Now get ready I’ll be back in ten minutes and if you’re not fucking ready you’re going to school the way you are!” She seemed to like to yell at me for reasons unknown.  I got ready, but I ran out of my mother’s ‘time’ apparently. She came running in, screaming at me like before. “Why the hell aren’t you ready? What the fuck! You are going to fucking school like this!” I didn’t even have a shirt on yet. That was the last thing to do but she didn’t care. She grabbed my arm, hard, and started pulling me towards the door. When she yanked me I fell to the ground my back on the floor. She still had me by one arm. I started screaming and yelling trying to make her let go. I started trying to pull away but she wouldn’t let go. I held onto the doorway for dear life, but she just pulled harder. I was glad that I let go because at the rate she was pulling she would have either dislocated, or even broken, my arm. I kept screaming and yelling for help and for her to let go of my arm but she wouldn’t. Eventually I gave up and let her drag me.  When she was done dragging me I quickly ran into the bathroom when I got the chance too – it only took me like four tries to though – and locked the door. My back hurt really badly so I turned around to look at it in the mirror. I had a huge brush burn all over my back. Once again, like before when she tried this shit before, I started to cry. I crawled into the tub, closing the curtain behind me. I sat in the tub for awhile crying, it just wouldn’t stop. I had my shirt with me so I put it on, but it just made my back hurt worse. It was so bad that it was bleeding, badly. I knew I’d have to come out sometime; I have to go to -. Suddenly there was banging on the door. My eyes started to become watery again. I was scared for my life.

Now I’m not perfect, but my mother had no reasons to do most of the things she did. She eventually sent me to counseling, which was fun; because she thought the problem was me. She was wrong. There were things I have deserved in life, but a lot of it was just because my mother was like that, she still is.  We sat there for an hour, barely speaking a word. Was this supposed to help? What was this for, it wasn’t getting us anywhere? I looked around the room, which was very small. The couch I was sitting on wasn’t very comfortable. You sit across from me, with her pen and notepad. She never really wrote anything down on it, but she had it anyways. There are pictures people drew on the walls, they surround us. I stare out the window to my left and wonder what it is like outside. You say something that gets my attention. “So why do you think this is happening?” I want to say to you, “Because my mother is a psychotic bitch,” but I don’t because I know you would talk to her. Instead I just shrug my shoulders like the millions of times I have before. You ask me another question but I don’t hear it, so I look at you and you get the hint to repeat the question. “So what can we do to fix these problems you guys have?” Again I want to say something like, “Get her the hell out of my life. Save me from this hell,” but I don’t for the same reason as before. So I just shrug my shoulders again  I continued to do this for about a year. It never helped, but my mother had this idea in her head that it did. My mother has never helped me any with my problems, instead she has left me to fend for myself in life. She thinks that she is doing the right thing that she is being a good parent. She says she does these things because she loves me, but I have a hard time believing that.