In the end, I didn't walk out of my job, because although I like to think that i'm the rebel without a cause, I'm actually not. I think about the consequences of my actions, about my mum and her financial lectures, about how it sucks to be skint and about the lack of freedom it would lend. --------------------------------------------- There's a part of me that i've been hiding from this place, strangely because I don't want to dissapoint a total stranger. My secret is my conscious desire to get so fucked that I don't know how to string a sentence together. It's a lifestyle choice that I'm not proud of, but that I have found is an effective way of temporarily anethetising and forgetting the pain of never being enough and of always being left behind. I'm not the last person they think about at night or their first thought in the morning. I'm not the one who gets their full support, even when it was me who got choked against the refrigerator, me who was seconds away from getting pulled into a strangers car after I ran from an argument that wasn't even my fault. Not my sister the thief, or my step-dad the bully. I'm not even the one who matters the most. I am the lost and the forgotten. I am not my parents child and I haven't been since they moved on. I am the financial, I am the guilt, I am the struggle.