“This is MY house.”
I didn’t ask to be born.
Someone chose to have me born, not knowing me but knowing that as long as I was alive, I would need shelter and all the things that keep bodies going. Neither did I choose that. Indeed, I had the living creature’s state of constant death-threat imposed on me entirely not by my choice. That’s not a complaint, but it’s a point.
It’s a point that formed the millionth time one of my parents tried to use my living in their house at an age where I was too young to survive on my own as a high-and-mighty compeller of all-purpose obedience and unquestioned assumption of the right to inflict sensory pain. I let you live in my house, they implied, and so you have no right to impede anything I might wish to do in this house. After years of heavy-feeling, painful ageism and thoughts forced softly through thick barriers, I respond.
I didn’t ask to need this house’s shelter, so why does making me need you with birth make me indebted to you for providing what you made me need, when you chose to have me need it? Is the person who poisons you and makes you need their antidote entitled to the right to hurt you for their convenience and have you like them for it, merely because they serve their self-imposed sentence of keeping you alive?
Why would they be? Power does not determine rightness in any other situation, but if that’s the level you fall to, then plunge down to it with all haste, but don’t pretend you’re earning the mantle of a saint in doing so and thus deserve my love, affection or at least lack of anger or dislike.
But I wouldn’t dislike you merely for hurting me for your convenience, to some degree. You could negotiate some right to hurt me for your convenience any time you wished, for I am aware that an individual with my sensory issues is not hard to hurt. I would even forgive you for it. But you do not, because you wish to spend my hours without pain or anxiety with the gleeful abandon of some child given a fortune.
You spend them to gratify your ego, you spend them for the most petty of reasons. You even spend them as punishment, in a manner no different to that of a tough, brawny bully slamming a stereotypical nerd up against a wall, only you are armoured in layers of senses that become painful less easily and you lash out with loud music and unjustified, arbitary demands that I pointlessly change arrangements of my room that you rarely see and worse things.
Even that, I might despise less, if you acknowledged your attempted invocation of the cold realities of power and vulnerability that I struggle to process. But, like every parent I’ve heard of who does this, you dress up doing this as your perfectly reasonable and fair right, because you give me what you knowingly made me need. You pull folded layers of choking ageism and arrogance into an illogical justification for the unjustifiable, and you fucked me up.
You fucked me up, and you’re probably the reason that my brain refuses to process the idea of people having power over each other enough that it feels more than half-there. That’s the behind-the-scenes on your ideas of parental rights, for you and the hope-crushing multitudes who mirror them, so take a good look. This is a self-narrating freakshow, so gawk.
This is your fucking education.
So take notes.