I shouldn’t be angry at you. What I should be doing now is to be there for you, to check on your condition, to sooth your wounds, to rally you up with words of encouragement. After all, you just tried to kill yourself.

But I am ANGRY at you. I am angry at you for hurting yourself. I am angry at you for making your family go through this hell. You thought life was hell for you? You don’t know hell. You would NEVER understand what they are going through, what they will go through, because your selfish heart could never comprehend that kind of hell.

But most of all I am angry at you for your fucking depression and for pinning the fucking blame on your mother.

You thought your life was fucked up? You’re seventeen, your movements restricted because you lived with your mother who nags you whenever you go home late, who nags you for wearing skimpy clothing, who nags you for maintaining various sims for your various boyfriends, who hits you when you answered back to her nagging. Yeah, that’s just so fucked up. After all, how rosy life would be for your family if you got your death wish? One less mouth to feed, one less mouth who bites the hand that feeds. And then there are hospital bills and funeral costs to settle and that terrible guilt they have to live with – the legacy you left when you said your mother was the one who pushed you over the edge. What’s all that compared to your so-called fucked up life?

But you didn’t get your death wish, did you? Yet except for the funeral costs, your family will still get all that. The hospitals bills need to be settled, the guilt needs to be dealt with. They’re not worrying about that now, though. They were just so happy that you’re alive. And you should be happy, too, now that you got all our attention.

Maybe it’s better that I am this angry. I would rather feel this than to feel sorry for you.