Child.mature

I am a reminder of my parents mistakes.

I do not blame them however. I let them blame me instead. I'm not bitter. I let themselves be eaten up by bitterness. Not just bitter that I exsist, bitter towards each other.

My mother used me to get money. My father didn't have any to give. I was chucked back and forth from either ones house... this would not have been a problem but every two weeks created difficulties.

This is what taught me not to trust in anyone. Not to believe in myself. Made me emotionally retarded and generally an introvert incapable of coping in social situations.

Like I said, I'm not bitter.

I'm 21 now, living in a tiny council flat, no qualifications, few friends, no contact with my parents, and no one to love in this world. The world is a cold harsh place in my opinion. Opinion... Opinions offend me. Not totally sure why, judemental people scare me. Judgemental people are people with opinions who aren't afraid to openly tell everyone. I was judged alot throughout my life. Teachers would wonder why I wouldn't be at school. I'd get sent to various (useless) school councillors who would sit and look at me like I was pathetic. Which I am. I still am. I left school after my GCSE's, failed every one of them. I used to love art, it didn't feel like a lesson. For my final art piece I drew a picture based on 'Life and Death', I drew a pregnant woman at a funeral for some reason, at the time I thought it was a deep interpretation of the given title... the examiner however didn't think much of my painstaking attempt at art.

Thinking about it now, that art exam was the only thing in life that I really wanted to do well at. Unfortunately I lacked talent in that as I do everything else. Not that I'm bitter.

I like to take walks in the park. There is a particular bench I like to sit on and eat my ham sandwiches on. That particular bench is also a favourite for one of the parks 'bums', George. He is a friendly sort of man and oddly he is the only man I have had any sort of connection with. Everyday at 1.25pm I sit with him, share my sandwiches and talk to him. He's an old man, he comes from London and he tells the funniest of stories. They are less funny when you hear the same ones up to 3 times in one meeting. Sometimes we don't even talk, it's not an awkward silence. A content sort of silence. Although neither of us is slightly content with our life. For the past few weeks however, I have not been joined by George. I think I know what has happened to him. I just don't want to admit it. I just think to myself that he's found a nice hostel somewhere.

When I was 8 I ran away from my mother and father. Someone asked me once why I called them my mother and father instead of mum and dad, they presumed it was out of politeness. It was more out of infamiliarty. I'm not sure that's a word. Anyway, I ran away when I was 8. I was gone for 4 days, I scavenged bins for food when I got desperate and slept in a shoe stores doorstep in town at night. I ran away because I knew I wasn't loved, but that innocent 8 year old half of me hoped and wished that one of my parents would come looking for me. On the 4th night I was cold, hungry and smelt appalling so I went to my mothers. She said I looked a state and asked me where I had been. I told her I had ran away from home for 4 whole days. She barely looked up from the TV to say 'presumed you were at your dads'.

I know there are people in the world far worse off than me. But it's my life that's been f*cked up by the people who brought me into this world. I am bitter. And there's nothing I can do about it now. No-one will give me a second chance, no-one will see past my bare CV, no-one will realise what I really feel. Until they read this.

So when someone finds me, however long that will be... Please could you inform my mother and father that I am no longer a reminder of their mistakes. I guess there are two sides to the story but... They are free. And so am I.