Mumford & Son's album, Sigh No More, has been the soundtrack to my life as of late. It plays during long drives in my car, while I'm painting all night with Lindsay, in my bedroom as background noise as I'm playing the Sims. And it's playing right now, while I'm tightly clenching my fists. I can't punch any walls or chainsmoke on my windowsill because I've got company tonight.
Today my mother and I had another fight. Last night, there was a little blow-out too. But because my family from out-of-town has been with us for the past week or so, she wouldn't hit me. I wish she did. I wish she could just do it so everyone would know and so that I could stop pretending that everything isn't always so fucking perfect all the time. I'm tired of always looking like the suspect here. I'm not perfect, but this isn't fair either. I hate that I am 20 years old and still treated like a child. I'm never bestowed a single amount of trust and I hate it. My little 16 year old cousin is allowed more than I. She's already started driving, and she's got a job, and she's always done really well at school, and she's landed a cute British boyfriend, and she's going to the East Coast all by herself in a few weeks. My mother tells her that she's proud of her, but I could see from the corner of my eye the disappointment she has in me that lies deep in her heart. Because I am nothing and that's how I've always been to her. Nothing, or not enough. I'm her 20 year old clumsy, outspoken, gay, fuck-up child who wants to be an artist. I don't have a job. I don't do all that well in school. I invest time and effort into things she will not believe in. But for some reason, she still holds on to that little sliver of hope that I will change my mind and turn around and be that daughter that she's always wanted. I wanted so badly to scream in her face to tell her to just let me go already, but instead I picked up my bags and dove under the covers. Last night, I fought back my desire to stand up for myself. I was choking on tears as I locked myself in the guest bathroom. Defeated, again, in a battle I never had a single chance at winning. And I fooled no one in doing so, because when I walked out with red, swollen eyes, everyone came to comfort me, hug me, tell me they were sorry. I didn't mean to act the way I did. I should've just taken it instead of "given attitude", and believe me, I know I was wrong. Believe me, when I finally leave from here, you won't have to deal with my attitude again.
mkp.
Today my mother and I had another fight. Last night, there was a little blow-out too. But because my family from out-of-town has been with us for the past week or so, she wouldn't hit me. I wish she did. I wish she could just do it so everyone would know and so that I could stop pretending that everything isn't always so fucking perfect all the time. I'm tired of always looking like the suspect here. I'm not perfect, but this isn't fair either. I hate that I am 20 years old and still treated like a child. I'm never bestowed a single amount of trust and I hate it. My little 16 year old cousin is allowed more than I. She's already started driving, and she's got a job, and she's always done really well at school, and she's landed a cute British boyfriend, and she's going to the East Coast all by herself in a few weeks. My mother tells her that she's proud of her, but I could see from the corner of my eye the disappointment she has in me that lies deep in her heart. Because I am nothing and that's how I've always been to her. Nothing, or not enough. I'm her 20 year old clumsy, outspoken, gay, fuck-up child who wants to be an artist. I don't have a job. I don't do all that well in school. I invest time and effort into things she will not believe in. But for some reason, she still holds on to that little sliver of hope that I will change my mind and turn around and be that daughter that she's always wanted. I wanted so badly to scream in her face to tell her to just let me go already, but instead I picked up my bags and dove under the covers. Last night, I fought back my desire to stand up for myself. I was choking on tears as I locked myself in the guest bathroom. Defeated, again, in a battle I never had a single chance at winning. And I fooled no one in doing so, because when I walked out with red, swollen eyes, everyone came to comfort me, hug me, tell me they were sorry. I didn't mean to act the way I did. I should've just taken it instead of "given attitude", and believe me, I know I was wrong. Believe me, when I finally leave from here, you won't have to deal with my attitude again.
mkp.
