Dear mother.

OH mother. Let’s think about something. Next time you want to call me a lazy hoe bag why don’t you consider this… You don;t have a job, while my father supports my two sisters and I, working so much that he hasn’t been home in daylight in a few years now. You refuse to drive me anywhere but dance classes, but you bitch and complain every time. You treat me like shit, and wonder why I don’t talk to you. You expect me to be perfect in school and tell me I’m not good enough, meanwhile I’m in honors classes and don’t have a grade below an 85. Anytime I ask you for advice, you tell me I’m just looking for pity. You tell me I’m pathetic and weak, while i’ve been suicidal for the past two years (you being the reason) and IM STILL ALIVE, with good grades, a boyfriend who treats me better than you ever have or ever will, and a principal role in the Nutcracker. WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME IM NOT GOOD ENOUGH. 

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