Hi, I guess. My name is Rachel Haas. And I'm being forced by my therapist to write down everything about my childhood and the events leading up to, well, my therapy. So here goes. I was born on 21 October, 1989 in Boston. My family comprises of my parents and my younger sister. My parents were really into the church and everything, so my earliest memories are of the church. Going to church, singing at the church and eventually, looking forward to getting dressing up to go to the church. Everyone would stare and with time, it became embarrassing for my parents. Mostly for my mother, though. Dad usually doesn't give two shits about stuff till mom goes up to him and fills his ears with shit about me. I guess some jobless women at the church started talking about how girls should be more conservative and how it's the mother's responsibility and all that crap. Even thinking about them bores me.
Anyway, because of the usual shit and paranoia around the house for everything "modern", the rule was that I couldn't wear make-up, tight/short clothes and heels. By the time I was a proper teen, I was told that I wasn't allowed to date. My mother was a total control freak who always made things more difficult than they already were. When you're in high school and want to fit in with everybody, or even want to be popular, her stupid rules would always stand in the way. I always seemed to imagine myself as a red balloon. Like in the cartoons. A beautiful, bright red balloon, swaying in the wind and doing just that. Swaying. Because it's tied to a rock. An ugly grey rock. So this beautiful balloon wants to fly and look at the whole landscape all the way from up in the sky, but can't because it's tied to an ugly grey rock. A grey rock that happens to be it's mother.
Studies were super important in that house. I was to become a doctor because that would be super respectable at the church. My parents had an idea of me. They didn't really know who I was. They just had a list with things they wanted to cross off as I grew up.
Music classes - check.
Church choir - check.
Community service - check.
Good grades - check.
Hell, I was even woken up at 4 a.m every single day for a whole year when I was preparing for my S.A.T's. Apparently that was a good time to study and I would be able to concentrate more. And apparently I had to do this every single day because hard work and consistency were the only ways to success. But I was the student. I was the one who knew what had to be done to get all those good grades that they wanted. And I was capable of doing it on my own without them having to interfere like this. The thing that still pisses me off the most is how none of those fucking rules were applicable to my sister. She mysteriously gets away with everything. It's not like I don't love her or anything. She's an innocent child and a part of my family and all that. But the brat gets away with all of those things that were a big deal when I did them at her age.
"I hate them for it and I will not be able to forgive them for as long as I breathe. "
When she was 4, she came in with her colorful sharpies and drew all over my sheets. When I told mom, the only response I got was, "But she's a little child. That's what little kids do. Grow up, Rachel!". I vividly remember being sent to my room after my colored pens were snatched from me when I did pretty much the same thing when I was her age. Instead of a bed-sheet, I drew on the table cloth.That must be the big difference.
Whenever the little brat dropped food on the floor, it was my "duty as her sister" to clean up after her. I remember being taught at a very young age that I wasn't supposed to spill my food.
She's never forced to get straight A's in school. She's allowed to be average and nothing happens. I used to be terrified to bring my progress card home if I had so much as a single 'B' in there.
I can't understand the deal with all the pampering and the spoiling, and Christ, she's a spoilt kid. Fuck, she even gets to sleep on their bed from time to time. I was never ever allowed to do that. Ever. I still wake up in the middle of the night, surrounded by all my pillows (as that's the only way I can fall asleep), trying to recover from a nightmare. Nobody consoled me when I had nightmares as a kid and wanted to sleep in between my parents. I would clutch my tiny pillow and wait at the door of their bedroom for permission to enter. But mother would send me back to my room immediately. How can I ever forget that, especially when I see their second born getting to sleep in between them?
I wouldn't have loathed them this much had everything been exactly the same for the both of us. I may have even tried to understand them. But this is way beyond my ability to comprehend. What's so different the second time around? What's the excuse? It's not even like the second kid was a boy, if gender was going to make all the difference. It's just plain unfair and cruel. I hate them for it and I will not be able to forgive them for as long as I breathe.
But then, after high school, came my golden opportunity. And I knew would die before I let anything come in the way of my escape. Oh, the happiness!
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