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My dog hates balloons, and my dad and I tied it to him. He sat and refused to move. I painted this for him for Christmas.
Years ago, you told me to stop crying. You told me to get over it, stop letting the small things get to you. I used to cry watching the 9/11 documentaries 6 years after it happened. I remember crying over glass breaking, furniture smashing, the blood (which I oh so fucking clearly remember).
I saw psychologists. I stopped writing journals. My grades dropped.
All that matters is that I stopped crying.
More cynicism. Yelling. Blank stares and blank voices. You throw things at my head and I laugh when you miss.
I genuinely smiled when you announced your sobriety. The doctor told you it was killing you, so you stopped. I fucking giggled my way to class the next day. Your sobriety lasted four days.
Now you have stage IV cancer, and I can’t bring myself to fucking care as I watch you drink yourself to death out of self-pity.
What happened to me? I hate myself.