It's 8am. I've just come out of the bathroom, after screaming myself hoarse in my confinement. I'd only locked myself in there to avoid another senseless case of physical battery. Because that physical battery would have been from my mother, it probably would have mangled my face, as that is her greatest ambition. And because i'll be leaving to meet wessam's mom in a couple of hours, this is the last thing i'd want to happen.

It was yet another fight, that started logically and spun out of control. Our fights have followed that path ever since they came into existence. All i wanted was to make sure that today, my asshole driver won't be coming to wessam's house and fucking my situation up any more than he already has. He told wessam that he should leave me and get on with his life, cause my parents will otherwise send him to jail. And then, he told the fucking landlord that my mom's daughter is constantly being 'harassed' by him, and he wants him out of my life.

What the fuck. I told her that. I told her he fucking lied to them in arabic, and said things that she wouldnt' understand. I had every right to go outside right then and tell him to stick his head up his ass and get himself out of my fucking business - which is tactful considering how fucking angry i really am. But she replied with a magnitude of stupid reasons. "He's trying to help" or "It's his right to know" (excuse me? His right to know the intimate fucking details of my sex life?) or "He drove you back n forth from the hospital" (his JOB is to drive, not to ask fucking questions!) or "You and your hooker deserve it."

At that i was so angry i could have broken the cup in my hands between my fingers. "Are you done with me yet? I'm going insane! I'm losing my mind! Every day i can feel my rationality thinning! Every day, being awake sucks worse!"

"I'm not doing anything to you! Oh, of course, it's all my fault, all the time!"

Shit. She's doing stuff to me, and then taking away my right to blame her by saying i always blame everybody else. I know i've made mistakes, god damnit! I know i'm fucked up! I feel like shit sometimes, knowing that i've screwed up so bad in the past. But you know what? These fucking marks on my wrists wouldn't fucking be here if she'd just left me alone. She's of no use to me as a mother because she's not a mother. She's selfish, and she's bored. All she adds to my life is obstacles, low self esteem, and stress.

After all the screaming, after she attacked me and i retaliated, and she told me to go get a job n get out of here while she knew very well that what i want is to return to school and have a fresh start (and that's what i'll be doing in the fall) . I told her maybe she should get a fucking job instead of sitting around doing everything she can to fuck me up within the legal limits of child protection, and maybe get some friends too, while she's at it.

When i went upstairs, i knew she would follow me - since i'd gotten the last words, n they were ten times better than anything she came up with. It was years of experience that taught me i should just skip the intro and lock myself in the bathroom before she even arrives.

The screaming was incredible. I almost wanted to laugh at the way we yelled over each other. Damn, this bitch is insane. She's 48, she looks 30, and she acts 12.

"There's a word for people like you, with no qualifications, no job, and no training! There's a job for little brats like you, back in the uk!"

"And there's a name for people like YOU!" i yelled back. "Gold-diggers!"

Considering that she spends her life treating her family like shit and then going out to spend my dad's money on worldly goods for only herself, the term is justified. At least, in my eyes it is. Those who dont see it, just dont understand.

It's taking me a long time to type this. I'm in my bedroom now, wearing nothing but a thin, sleeveless vest and a pair of high-leg panties, and bangles on both wrists. On my right, there's a jade band of pale green  that's been there for years, too small to fit over my hand, and a gold bangle with two giant emeralds. Both are from my mother. And on my left, there's three black bands, two skinny ones, and one thick, elaborate one. Wessam gave me all of them, one day in the summer, from his own wrist of black bands, and they've been there ever since.

That's not all i'm wearing though. I'm wearing my blood too. And it's a masochistic relief, as i type with the less severely slashed left hand, and my right one dangles from the armrest. I'm watching the blood pulse from my wrist, down over the palm of my hands, pooling at every crease, and pooling between my fingers, until it wraps itself in a trail around my marriage finger and patters from the very tip of my fingernail to the floor. Every drop of blood that hits the small puddle around the base of my rotan armchair is breath of relief. I wouldn't care if they walked in now. Maybe it'll make them think a little more deeply on what they're doing to me. Maybe it'll give them an excuse to call me crazy like they do. But it doesnt' matter. I'm about to walk into a destructive situation and it sucks.

I need to take a shower. I need to wash my hair, treat it, make sure it's as silky as can be. I need to exfoliate, get off the dried skin and the tanned skin. I need to carefully apply my make up, avoid screwing it up and making it look too heavy or too fake. I need to pick out exactly the right outfit. I need to use exactly the right perfume, clear any huskiness from my voice.

I never thought i'd be meeting wessam's mom so  soon. But now, after all the bullshit that's happened, it had to come to that.

My mom called the police on wessam. I know it's my mother because two policemen came to his house while he was at college on sunday, around noon. They asked for him. There was no paper and no charge - and that was right after my mom had discovered that there was nothing left she could do to screw me over, without fabricating yet another reason.

I had a panic attack, a surge of rage, and a crying fit all at the same time when he told me. I was so angry i could have smashed the windows. I was so shocked i couldn't breathe. And i felt so powerless over my own life and loved ones that all i could do to worsen the panic attack was cry. Yet another fall in my levels of sanity.

My dad came in and denied it all. He went to speak to my mom about it, and came back to deny it all. My mom wound up staying in her bed and calling wessam's mom about the police situation, and it turned into a long, fucked up conversation about wessam and i. We wound up having to go and meet them both on thursday at 11. She asked wessam's mom to make us into nothing more than 'friends.'

Can you physically and mentally percieve that? I definitely couldnt. From all the corners of my mind, i couldn't imagine the possibility, and neither could wessam. "i'm with you, i'm with you," he kept saying to me, but i had cracked open, and they had divided me in two. I pulled the sleeves of my cashmere sweater over my already deep red wrists and stormed into that woman's room.

"We don't give a shit what you want or what you say," i said to her, "but wessam is here to stay, and we would be fucking insane to give each other up for you." the blood trailed down the palm of my hand, dripped from my fingertips onto the wood of her bedroom floor. If she noticed, she didnt say anything.

She denied that she did it. She was like "i asked them to figure out what's going on with the police, and then tell me if it reports back to me."

Now that was just a little too sly. If it's not that that prooves she did it, it's the way she's reacted to me ever since then. That night, she didnt come into my room to slap me up for 'falsely' accusing her. She didnt even come in once, she just called wessam's mom. And when i came in to scream at her and declare that wessam and i were together, despite everything, she looked almost scared of me.

She often does stupid things to fuck people up and then avoids the result afterwards, either by asking to keep it all a secret, or by just denying it and staying locked up in her room. And right then, it seemed like one of those times - she had to send my dad in to speak to me, because she wouldn't want to see the intensity of my reaction to such a fucking disgusting and idle and life-ruining act. She wouldn't want to see what she's reduced me to, and she wouldn't want to get exactly what she deserves, whether it was from the stare i gave her, so hateful it should have burned, or the things i may have thrown at her in that state of senseless rage, or the things i would have called her with the vicious yells of a strong singer. She sent my dad to do it instead, because she knew i wouldn't find his head and chew it up.

It's so easy for her to organize a punishment for wessam, through someone as high and mighty as the police chief, without her name or any reason for the punishment to ever come out into the open. She is the fucking bitch who did it.

Damn, i really have to go. It took me an hour to write this and the trail of blood still wraps around my finger, this time moistening the crusting layer of dried blood that's constantly thickening. I have to take a shower, i have to wash my hair, i have to make up my face in a way that won't result in her saying to her sisters "she's so ugly! i wont let him marry her and wake up to her face every morning!" like her sisters always do. She would be the only woman in the world with that opinion, but right now it's her opinion that matters the most. Damn, i'm so nervous i'm shaking up.

Maybe it'll be good - but as long as my mom's there she'll fuck it up for me. I can tell, even from right now.

You know, I had a stepmother very much like the woman you've described. I hated her with every fiber of my being. When she died, I was glad; I was glad that she could no longer cause harm. I'm sorry that you have to go through so much pain too, Lynn. Maybe some day, your father will realize and accept the reality of your life with her...

Holly, you just gave me a gift. You are one of the few people who can understand exactly what she is, and know that she causes harm and she's wrong - even when you yourself are a mother and you know everything that's happened to me (miscarriage, expulsion, etc) to give my parents inconveniences. You know all that and you can put yourself in her place because you too have children, and yet you can still see how screwed up she is. The only other adult woman who's given me that gift is my best friend's mother, and despite the rules i have broken, especially considering she's a devout muslim, she too can see it's wrong.
I hope every day that my dad will see she's a monster instead of following her every move, just to stop her from leaving. He tells me that i'll wind up a mother one day and i'll see the sense in what she's done. But, i assume what you learned from your stepmother is how not to be a parent. It shows me what i really need from a mother, and it shows me what i should give my children. I'm sure it's helped you when it comes to being a mother, the same way i hope it will help me. Did your dad every realize what she really was and do something about it? Thank you again for being one of the few people who understands :)