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Excuse me.
Can I have a word with you for just a moment?
Oh. You're busy.
No, no, that's fine.
Yet you wonder why I don't talk to you very much.
Oh, don't give me that face;
The face that would usually leave me feeling like a horrible person,
Wanting to die.
No. You stop for a second.
Listen to what I have to say,
And then you'll talk.
Like you've always taught me.
I know that things aren't the best for my oldest sister, Lora;
You aren't happy with how she turned out to be.
You also aren't happy that my other sister, Sarah, isn't Christian.
You don't like how she doesn't like to keep a part-time job for too long.
But now, I'm the only kid left in the house.
I'll be honest; I expected the attention and discipline to crack down when Sarah left for college.
Discipline? Yes. Attention? Not so much at all.
I could be off somewhere for hours,
And yet you don't notice I'm gone until I'm almost home.
When I am, home, and when you do notice,
You throw my problems into my face.
Yes. I know. They're problems. People have them.
I was dealing with them just fine until you butted in.
You begin piling them, giving me that disappointed, disgusted look;
The one that makes me want to die
And then I'm afraid to do anything.
I can't show emotion at home.
If I do, you'll make it worse.
If I do, I might lose the little temper I have left.
Don't you wonder why I'm so involved in school activities?
Why I look for things to do after they end?
I don't like home.
I don't feel safe here.
I don't feel like I can talk to either of you about any problems I'm going through.
You don't believe that the "panzy" stuff I go through is anything more than a "sissy" thought.
And you will make a big deal of it, trying to shove medication down my throat.
Oh, you. I used to be able to talk to at least you.
But you turned around and told even the most trifling of things to him.
Can I not just talk about things to put my mind at ease?
I suppose not.
I wasn't even going to talk to you about this:
The idea didn't occur to me that I could actually talk to you two about something.

You run around the house without pants,
Shoving food into your mouth,
Looking over my shoulder at whatever I'm doing.
You say nothing.
You just stare, judging.
If you even once asked "what'cha up to?"
Maybe I'd be a little warmer.
You try to tell me what to believe in.
You're trying to shape my mind.
Remember?
I used to want to be a police detective, or at least an officer.
But you rubbed it in my face, calling it "childish" and whatnot.
And all passion I had for police was over.
Somewhere, I must've thought that you'd be prouder if I were a lawyer.
Remember?
I played baseball for some six years.
I enjoyed it,
But only for the first three.
You wanted me to be athletic, right?
Seeing as I'm the only son?
You know, I've looked at pictures of you when you were my age.
You and I look a lot alike.
But we're not the same person.
You need to understand that I have free will.
I have my own dreams, my own thoughts, my own methods.
I don't know if you think that you're doing what's best for me,
If you think I grew too fast,
And if you want to get in some last-minute parenting before my mind closes like a steel trap.
I don't know if this is how you were raised,
How you wanted to be raised,
Or anything like that.
I see some logic in your parenting.
Sometimes.
Decreasingly.
Yes, I'm behind in classes.
I'm working at it,
Catching up.
I usually work well under pressure.
As it would seem, I only work well under the heavy pressure I give myself.
Anything on top of that is enough to kill someone.
But comments like that get me patted down,
Suspended,
And hated.
I remember when Sarah was in my shoes.
You'd get on her for having low grades.
Grades like "D"'s.
She'd cry, you'd eventually apologize,
And everything turned out fine.
She's pursuing her own dream, now.
But if I get below 85% on anything,
You cut me off from the one thing that keeps me sane,
The one thing that keeps this body strong and moving forward.
The friends I've come to rely on so much.
I can talk to them.
Not to you.
Is something wrong with that picture?
I'd like to think so.
I'm on the verge of insanity.
That is, unless I'm already insane.
You wouldn't know.
And you wouldn't care.
Because you never figured out how to deal with your own stress,
Anxiety,
Anger.
You, I can't demerit so much.
Your memory is getting worse, probably by no fault of your own.
Maybe you forget that I ask you not to spread my emotional rants to father.
Maybe you've forgotten that I've already finished my assignments.
I can't tell with you.
But you.
You, again.
I saw you on that parenting site,
How you closed out of it, denied it when I stepped into the room and saw the screen.
I know you're trying,
But you can't seem to be able to use logic.
You've tried to psycho-analyze me with the psychology books you've kept from college.
But none of your claims ring true.
Stop following all of these guidelines.
Humans aren't robots that can be reprogrammed.
If you wanted me to be a certain way,
I'd have happily done so,
Had only you told me when I was younger and more impressionable.
Maybe I'd be your perfect child.
I want to be perfect.
But I'm not.
I don't think you're proud of who I am,
My work ethic,
My flamboyant quirks.
But I am.
In fact, thank you for all you've done up until recently.
I think I came out of the mold rather nicely.
From my standpoint, anyhow.
Oh, don't worry, I'm almost done.
I just have one more point to make.
Every time you shoot me that look,
Every time you talk to me in that tone,
And every time I was given the impression that you didn't approve,
I felt like I was being hit.
I want to say that I'm being hit.
So I can further justify the level of unnecessary anger and stress you've given me.
I still feel like I'm being hit now.
Not just when you glare,
Scold,
Or disapprove,
But whenever you walk by me,
Whenever you say something,
Whenever you whistle a tune,
Whenever you eat something,
Whenever you sit there,
Whenever you watch television,
Type on the computer,
Or even place yourself in my line of vision,
My range of hearing or smelling,
(and God, do you smell awful!)
I feel like you're throwing a punch to my face.
Snapping my neck.
Kneeing my gut.
Kicking my jaw,
While I lay on the ground bleeding,
Not even thinking to ask you to stop.
Not until now.