Beyond Exhausted. (vent/rant)

My parents hate me. My siblings don't talk to me. I don't understand any of my schoolwork. There is no reprieve. I'm on a hamster wheel leading nowhere fast. I broke up with my boyfriend. I relapsed. My parents hate me.

At least my siblings gave no illusion of high hopes. There was no standard. Me, on the other hand? As a child, I was funny. I was hardworking. And oh, was I brilliant. I was always the smartest. You bet your ass I was the only fourth-grader reading on a twelfth-grade level. Then I got older. I got older and I realized that I was a midsized fish in a very, very small pond. I got older and I realized I was never that bright. I got older, school got harder, and people got meaner. My parents stopped finding wonder in every little thing I did. A's on papers didn't mean much. A twenty-six on my pre-ACT was celebrated for about thirty minutes. I could never excel enough to trump my sibling's failures. I'd be batting a thousand with minimal praise, but my deadbeat sister has no house to raise her children? Chopped liver once again. I do everything right, crickets. They couldn't be more horribly, miserably wrong, and it's game day at fucking Yankee stadium. 

They don't talk to me, and it usually doesn't bother me. Why would I want to hear about my stoner brother's gender crisis? Or my aforementioned deadbeat sister's miraculously ever-missing rent money? I mean, hell, it didn't grow legs and walk away. I say I'm better off. But I'm madder than a hornet that they don't even give me the time of day. 

My schoolwork. My geometry teacher gives me pity points, tailors my assignments to a fifth-grade level ("You were supposed to solve for all of the angles, but I gave you the formula so all you have to do is solve for x, ok?") so I don't throw myself into traffic. She tells me I have nothing to worry about. If that were true, I'd also have a million dollars and a fast car to get me far away from here. I sleep through English class, but my teacher is a sweet little male with a purple-haired wife who couldn't stop me if he wanted to. He couldn't stop any of us, really. He's just that sweet. Only school I give a shit about at this point is my college, but that's for another time.

I broke up with my boyfriend. The boy who used to be mine? He's gone. I threw him away. I broke up with him over a plate of greasy, calorie-filled, vomit-inducing chicken lo mien, and I hid in the bathroom until he left. I regret it. I regret it with every fiber of my being, but as a self-respecting woman, I refuse to go back. I won't go back. I won't go back.

I relapsed. I won't get into it here, because it's none of your business. But I did. I feel so rotten on the inside, and now it's seeping out of my eyes, out of my mouth, out of my ears, and it's running over every inch of me. I'm disgusting on the outside now, too. 

My parents hate me. And that's the only thing we have in common.