When I was a little girl and I would look up to you, you’d frown. The image of you shaking your head when I put on a miss matched shirt with that skirt still shines the brightest as you say your famous phrase that followed me through my teen years: “I didn’t ask you what you wanted”
Why couldn’t being me be enough?
Why couldn’t silly no fashion sense me go out and do my thing?
Growing up you told me what I couldn’t do. Then when I did it anyway it was another fight. Another yelling match, another moment which you tell me that I want to be yelled at.
You ran when there was trouble, when I was failing classes and on the edge of wanting to die and then trying to push myself off of it, it wasn’t you there holding me letting me recover, it was that phrase again. That no one asked what I wanted. No one did.
No one saw me crying when you told me I looked fat, or that I never would have kids looking like I do. No one saw the look in my eyes when you told me that no daughter of yours was going to wear what I was wearing. Only dad saw when you grabbed me by my hair to force me into pig tails. It was him who stopped you as I cried because you held onto my hair as I tried to get away dropping to the floor.
It wasn’t you who taught me how to do my make-up. It wasn’t you who taught me how to look my best with what I have. It wasn’t you who I could go to about my first crush, second, or third.
Why couldn’t I never be enough for you? Why couldn’t you ask me what I really wanted and then let me spill my heart ache to you, my anxiety, my pain, the moments when I wanted to do more than wonder how you’d felt if you woke up and I wasn’t around?
Mother the things you’ve said to me and the way you treat me still hurts and I have no way to tell you. I have nothing to say that you don’t run away from. I need a mom and what I got was rules and standards I could never live up to. I need someone to talk to about the man I love and the friends I have more than just the shadow of what I talk about. What can I do but sit here?
I wish I could send this to you so you could understand why I hide behind the things I do. I wish you’d try and learn what I struggle with, having the things I do, I don’t think or act like you suspect. I wanted someone to do more than give me pills and hope it goes away. I wanted someone who would believe me when I said I was struggling with school work, even though I should be “smarter” than everyone in my class.
This is to you mom because I could never say this and have you understand. Maybe someday. Maybe never. Only time can tell if I could ever be good enough.