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Liz,
When I was growing up, I thought you were the best mom in the world. I thought that you could do no wrong. I thought that you were perfect. Evidently, so did you.
When I was six, we had a fight. I was in my room, crying, and you came up the stairs. You told me to stop crying because you had book club over and I was making you look bad. When I was eight, you started openly favoring my sister. You never yell at her, never make her out to be this horrible daughter.
When I was fifteen, you abandoned me at Disneyland. That was the moment I knew I didn't trust you anymore. When I was sixteen, and now as I turn seventeen, every argument we have turns into a screaming match, which turns into self-harm and, in a few cases, attempts.
You use my autism against me to paint me as a problem, but pretend I don't have it to make yourself look better. You gaslight me to pretend none of the above happened. You turned my sister partially against me. You try to manipulate me even now, but I'm done.
You tell me, 'No one in my life treats me as bad as you do.' You tell me, 'What's wrong with you?!'
You tell me, 'I love you.'
I almost wish I believed you.
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