Goodmorning.

Being yelled at before being awake. I throw this on the list of reasons why I can't live here anymore. If it happened once a month or less, I think I could deal with it, but its happened twice in two days.

Lying in bed this morning, not wanting to move, I remembered leaving in the mornings to catch the schoolbus. Some mornings I would leave the house crying, actually crying, and have to tell myself to stop before I got to the bus stop and had to go to school. Crying for being yelled at.

Lately its been yelling just before I go to sleep. The last thing I'll hear before I turn out the lights at 12:00am, 1:00am. Last month, one time she yelled so much I couldn't breathe properly. Then she yelled at me for being too much like a 3 year old and crying for attention.

Yelling in the background right now as I write this. Adrienne Rich, this is my politics of location. This is where I come from. A house full of angry noise in the mornings and at night. Where throughout the day I am afraid to be yelled at, and where I am made to feel guilty for not wanting to be here.

I don't know how many people come from a place like this. I should probably not be writing this at all, but its been stewing in the pit of my stomach for weeks.

Quality time means I have to sit infront of the television with my mom. Sit and watch tv. I don't have time to waste on CSI or Criminal Minds or the most recent episode of Grey's Anatomy. I watch them anyways, because if I go into my room and do what I want to do, its being antisocial. Writing, making things, my mom doesn't get it.

I'll admit to liking some of these shows. But, after most of them, I feel like a vacuum was shoved into the side of my head and sucked out something important. I never watch them and have an idea afterwards. Never. We have DVR and everytime I miss and episode of the week, I'll try to watch them on my own time.

I realize I just don't care. I tried to watch three shows in the early afternoon a few days ago, and I couldn't make myself care. The television played in the background while I wrote something down. After some times of absent-mindedly scanning the familiar faces between stanzas, the television prompted me to either delete or don't delete.

Deleted because I don't care enough to watch it again, or to try to.

And I think to myself, there's got to be more than this. There's got to be more than this house, than this life. I don't mind working more to live without this. Yelling again. So much fucking yelling.

It's not a terrible life. I'm probably complaining more than I ought to, but I can't feel okay here. Unsettled, and anxious. And its a beautiful day.

(my brother texted this to me a few weeks ago)