Help I'm alive.

A Story for Supper - Lydia
She thinks I don't know, but every now and then, when her insecurities overwhelm her, my mother ransacks all my bags and my wardrobe and my boxes. She essentially goes quite Hurricane Jane on my belongings, scraping out every piece of lint I might have residing in the depths of my totes and hobos and clutches.

It's happened enough times for me to conclude that it's her only way of knowing who I am currently, and what I'm doing, and where I go, since I've recently decided to be some gagged up bitch about my life to everyone in the household except Rabani. And if her intentions weren't so clear, I would have found all this heartbreaking. All this unnecessary effort she's making to re-patch whatever that's left of the communication bridge between us. But every time, it just feels like she's looking out for a whole Mt. Fuji of condoms that's hidden in secret pockets, compartments with locks you have to turn a certain way to reveal a lorry-ful of weed, or a tile on my floor that you lift up to see row after row of cigarettes neatly lined up like a squadron.

And it seems like she doesn't even brace herself. Like she knew all along and that this is just part of some sketchy protocol that she hastily structured for herself to dig out enough evidence to confront me with.

I'm not too sure (or maybe I am) how I should react to this or if I should react to it at all. It's so taxing. It's so petty. And I am so so so terribly exhausted of coming up with false justifications about my lack of existence in the house. Because how do I tell them the truth. How do I tell them that they are the largest reason I implore my eyelids not to open until at least 7.30 am and for me to deny myself being in the slightest proximity of my front door until at least 11 pm. How do I tell them that my best days start with me waking up to an empty house. How do I tell them that then, I spend the entire day revelling in its hollowness and as soon as anyone comes home, I slip into a bitterness beyond my control and understanding.

Today, she found a lighter in one of my boxes. She woke me up screaming and yelling about smoking and how I disappointed her and it just went rapidly downhill from there, with her asking me what I've become and why I don't pray anymore and a copious amount of "I don't trust you anymore"s.

And I only used the fucking thing to light the candle in my room.